Where Would You Be?

We do not go into the desert to escape people but to learn how to find them; we do not leave them in order to have nothing more to do with them, but to find out the way to do them the most good. But this is only a secondary end. The one end that includes all others is the love of God.

----Thomas Merton New Seeds of Contemplation, Learn to Be Alone

Soup Stone and Aaron's House

Aaron loved stories. Every night was a "two story" night. The typical request was one "good boy" story and one "bad boy" story. Attempts to turn two into more were often, especially if both weren't good enough.

This is a picture of Aaron doing the story telling. We used it for a Christmas card one year, probably 1995. Those are "babies" in Patrick's lap--two babies.

A story Aaron enjoyed was the story of The Soup Stone. If you haven't heard a version, here's a link to one that closely resembles the way I told it to the boys: http://brothercadfry.tsmj.org/soupstones/soupstone.html

As I watch Aaron's House grow, I can't help but recall The Soup Stone story. Aaron's House is the result of a story of a good boy, challenges, and hope.

Good Soup.

Tom

In the Presence of Angels

Summer 2005 is forever away and distant. Maybe it was July or early August when I broke. I remember it was a sunny, warm Sunday. Where I was coming from I don't recall but I know the time was near 5:30 PM and I was traveling east on the beltline. East toward home.

Driving to home was an emotionally breaking down time. I usually drove through the sobs. Not wise, but I did. This particular day my emotions overwhelmed my judgment. Anger could no longer be supressed. Violence isn't the answer, I had been told and on this day I responded "It depends on the question." Revenge was my intention.

First I talked to my brother-in-law Dave. He had experience with losing a son. Dave walked this road of anguish before me. His advice was wise. I wasn't. Next I received a call from my AA sponsor. He suggested I take a moment to stop at an AA meeting on my way to collecting atonement. I agreed.

The meeting place is on Northport Drive in Madison. December 23rd, 2004 was the first time I visited this address. It was Aaron's words that sent me on my way that December day. It was Aaron's death that I was mourning that led me back there seven months later. I walked in to a room with more than a half dozen long tables and chairs enough for 80 people. There sat one person. One--and he didn't appear interested.

I sat down a safe distance from the One. He had long reddish hair. At my table I picked up a book and began reading. The One at the table continued doing what he was doing and that was ringing metal circles together to form a sort of metal blanket. The piece he was making looked to be 2 feet by 3 feet. One ring at a time he looped together to make this art object.

After a few minutes, the One asked "What're ya reading?" His accent was Bostonian. He didn't stop or look up from his circles. I was reading from a book called Daily Reflections. The page I read I don't recall. The One asked me what was troubling me. I shared my story of losing my son and my anger and my desire for revenge. This is what the One with the red hair told me in response:

I'm forty years old and never married. I don't have children. I have two dogs and if one of them were to die I would be lost, so I can't imagine your pain. One day I was asked to be a speaker at a meeting. I was to tell my story of being an alcoholic. The day came, I spoke and did a terrible job. My thoughts were jumbled and nothing I said made sense. Afterwards I was so frustrated with myself that I sat and sulked, feeling sorry for myself. Sitting next to me were two men I didn't know. They were talking about resentment. One said to the other, "Resentment is taking poison and expecting the other person to die." What the hell did that mean? I wondered. Whatever they were talking about, I didn't get it...until now. After hearing you talk, Tom, I understand what they were saying. In addition, I now know that the reason I was the guest speaker that night wasn't for me to speak, but instead for me to hear. I was there that night to hear this message to carry to you today "Resentment is taking poison and expecting the other person to die."

When the One with the red hair began telling his story, my sponsor and another fellow arrived. The four of us finished the meeting together. My sponsor has been in the program for nearly 30 years and frequents meetings all over Madison. He later told me he had never met the One with the red hair before or since. The only day he has ever seen this person with the red hair, Bostonian accent, and silver metal cirlces was that Sunday evening in the basement of the building.

Jenna and Patrick have each had dreams where Aaron describes heaven as "Circles". You never know when you are in the presence of angels.

Hearing this story Aaron would have asked, "Is that a true story Dad? Did that really happen?" True story, son.

Remembering Aaron,
Tom

Seeds

More words I wish I wrote:

We live in the time of no room, which is the time of the end. The time when everyone is obsessed with lack of time, lack of space, with saving time, conquering space, projecting into time and space the anguish produced within them by the technological furies of size, volume, quantity, speed, number, price, power and acceleration.

The primordial blessing, "increase and multiply," has suddenly become a hemorrhage of terror. We are numbered in billions, and massed together, marshalled, numbered, marched here and there, taxed, drilled, armed, worked to point of insensibility, dazed by information, drugged by entertainment, surfeited with everything, nauseated with the human race and with ourselves, nauseated with life.

As the end approaches, there is no room for nature. The cities crowed it off the face of the earth.

Thomas Merton, Raids on the Unspeakable, 1966

The anguish we find...belongs to the disorder of our desires which looks for a greater reality in the object of our desire than is acutally there: a greater fulfillment than any created thing is capable of giving. Instead of worshipping God through His creation we are always trying to worship ourselves by means of creatures.

Thomas Merton, New Seeds of Contemplation, 1972

In the anguish of mourning the furies of the day are transparent. We see the cold steel fist covered in a soft glove of illusion. Everything I desired was to give praise to my time on earth. How high could I raise myself? On top of how much of my own creations could I stand above God's creatures? For all who live, God grants a window into reality where we can see our dependence on identity. Our altitude is meaningless to acquire the view. Merciful God leads those in mourning to the glass. When given the choice to gaze out for a while or back forever, I'm grateful to have leaned my forehead on the pane and seen truth.

The things I really need come only as gifts and I am open to receive them as gifts, and the ability to be open is God's gift.


Aaron and Patrick's Dad
12/18/06

The Road Less Traveled

Yesterday I spoke with a Mom who was reading this blog and crying. Her son was 17 for the last day she told me. Today he turned 18. Addiction and the chaos which defines it is inflicting terrible trauma on her son and family. This mom could not be sure that her son had another day and that fear breaks her heart.

I remember those days and am grateful for having had the opportunity to hear her pain. My recollection of what happened three years ago could fade into pale images until my view of our actions is distorted unless I hear and see the pain. Sometimes I forget and begin to wonder if I was wrong to send Aaron away for a year and then I am reminded of the hate, anger, recklessness, carelessness, ugliness, sickness, fear, and helplessness. Then I see reality and know the action was a relevant choice.

When the son or daughter is gripped by the claws of the drug culture, we don't see our son or daughter; we see what they have had to become to survive. This isn't their choice, it is their necessity. I could hear this Mother's broken heart sobbing. She stood on the door step to her birth-date for her oldest child. Eighteen years ago, she prepared to give birth to her son. Only images of beautiful times ahead could have filled her days. A joyous day that December 13th, followed by happy birthdays for year after year after year...until now.

Standing at the road with no future my friend was watching her son contemplate his destiny. The road is well traveled and unkind. A person can turn around, or get off the road, but they can not take this road to anywhere beyond the dead end.

At 18 a son or daughter can choose to leave home. At 18, a Mother and Father don't stop acheing for the safety of their children. Under the mask of being what they have to be to live in the drug culture, is the son and daughter with the happy soul. How can they be set free and live?


Today I heard from an AODA counselor who told me a heart warming story of a young man in recovery. This college age young man opened a savings account for "Rent to Aaron's House". His plan for recovery includes being one of the first residents at Aaron's House and that is a motivation for him. I call that, in Aaron's words "RESPONSIBILITY!"

I will pray that the son who turned 18 today discovers a fork in the road and chooses the road less traveled soon.

Peace
Tom

Time the Culprit

A year ago I was in a fog where I could not and did not want to see or feel reality of the present. Participating in the world at the speed of life was impossible and undesireable.

Time does not heal all wounds. Time is a parasite to healthy work done by survivors. It gets all the credit and does none of the agonizing work.

I'm feeling a loss of thoughts or at least the ability to articulate them. I blame time.

Tom

Mourn With Those Who Mourn

In early days of 2005 I met Susan and Chuck through work. Susan and I were in the same business. Chuck, Susan's husband, is a wealth of information and opinion; he's forgotten more people than I could ever know, and he's not on the fence on any topic. I enjoy his company.

In February of '05 Susan was in the office when Aaron came by for a visit. I should always remember the conversation. I was so proud of Aaron. He always handled himself well with adults. His confidence and humilty were apparent in their conversation.

Susan and Chuck were new friends the day Aaron died. I remember them coming to our house to sit and listen to me cry. I recall thinking how unfortunate for them to become have these "new friends" and be thrust in the middle of this anguish. They kept in touch and didn't vanish. One day Cathy and I were pulling together the expenses related to the funeral and we were some funds short of the bill. Chuck and Susan, sensing there might be a need, appeared with a check covering the difference and then some.

Chuck and Susan travel some in the summer as Chuck is an avid tournament golfer and a daughter plays for a college. It was not surprising to me that we had not had much contact since the spring. This morning I saw a mutual friend. She informed me that Susan's son had died in a plane crash in South America--sometime in September. I almost fell down at the news. Somewhere along the way, Susan was advised that it might not be good to talk to Cathy and I for fear of opening an old wound. What good is the pain of living the agony if you don't use what you learned? God's healing grace is a gift to be shared.

I talked to Susan this morning. We will all get together tomorrow.

Praying for another person's pain.

Tom

A Special Share from a Reader

"Grief ebbs but grief never ends. Death ends a life but death does not end a relationship. If we allow ourselves to be still and if we take responsibility for our grief, the grief becomes as polished and luminous and mysterious as death itself. When it does, we learn to love anew, not only the one who has died. We learn to love anew those who yet live."

--Julius Lester

This quote was sent to me by a reader of this Blog. Cathy, Patrick and I can attest to this truth.

Tom

Take My Hand

Thanksgiving has passed and I'm feeling aggitated. Maybe that's not the right word. What I feel is not overwhelming; it's constant. It's an ache that is physical, mental, and deep in my chest. What I want to do is reach out and pull Aaron into our world. He seems so close and I can't touch him, hear him, or see him. My jaw is tight and my brain can't grasp what I can't change. He's here and he's not here. I can live and I can't live. I can see what I want to see and I'm blind. I'm grateful and I'm angry and hurt.

I don't have a clear recollection of the dark and foggy Holiday season last year. This one is identifiable-- It's a blues song.

I'm struggling to be at peace. It's within my control but I am choosing to let some things bother me. All I have to do is turn my head and look to the things that I can change and peace will come to me. Maybe I don't want peace and instead I want turmoil. That's hard to say. I can't change what other people do so I have to change myself and accept some things as they are.

A paragraph which I grappled with to get exactly right was just deleted. The words were selected to make a point of how I feel about the rebuilding of a deadly object. The actions of some person is something I am allowing to fuel my aggitation. At my left hand are two books by Thomas Merton. I knew my writing was not God's work so I picked up the books and looked for something to lead me away from anger. I found it immediately. A summary I wrote of a thought:
Faith in God could mean to accept circumstances as they are, believing the experience is part of the journey of life; an opportunity to testify for God. Is this an opportunity to be led by the spirit when the flesh desires to testify for the self?

If I could reach through to the other side I could grab Aaron by his hand, which I can almost feel, and pull him back. The rescue seems so easy. I'm sure Aaron's on the other side of visible.

Tom

To Patrick

In the shade of an oak tree an acorn rests and contemplates its future.
The oak casts a giant shadow.
An acorn in the darkness of the oak avoids harsh light and pouring rain.
The shadow is a safe and comfortable place.

When the oak is felled, the acorn is challenged.
Exposed to the elements, dynamic reactions break the shell.
Out of the shadow, into the light with God given ability the seed extends roots.
Firmly grounded, an acorn has all it needs to become a mighty oak.

Sun. Rain. Dirt. Warmth. Cold. Wind.
Strength to bend and not break require measures of each.
Neither an acorn or a boy grows to potential in the shade.
I see an acorn using all God has given him to become a man of integrity-- in the light.

Love
Dad

November

Three years ago this week I flew to Redmond, OR to check out Mount Bachelor Academy. November 17th I boarded the plane in Madison to make the first of what would become many trips across the country. The situation at home was desperate. Losing Aaron was, in my mind, a matter of time.

Detach! Detach! Cathy would shout to me when my confrontations with Aaron would escalate. A week before November 17th, I did more than detach--I gave up. I couldn't even see my son in Aaron's skin. What I didn't know then was the destructive capability of today's potent marijuana. As one writer said to me--"This is not your grandma's pot."

Thanksgiving was a week away and our home was in turmoil in November 2003. I had given up...but only for a few days. Cathy was holding on. She was willing to try anything to save her son. Patrick's love of his brother was never in doubt. "I just want my brother to not hate me!", Patrick cried one night. Once we had a plan, I was eager to get on with the mission---Dad's always want to fix things and I was a "fixer" -- of other people, not so much of myself. But, that's another story for another time.

Three years ago we had our last Thanksgiving together as a family of four. Aaron didn't know what was in store for him. He had no idea that he was just weeks away from leaving home. He was the only one at the table that day who didn't know what was coming down. None of us knew what to expect.

Cathy, Patrick, and I know there are families who are living the experience we encountered in 2003. Giving thanks on a day when your child or sibling is under the intense influence of addiction is a challenge. The celebration goes on magnifies your inability to have a healthy family experience. Humiliation, yes. Humility, no.

This year we are thankful for Aaron's recovery and his healthy 17 months. We expected more. We want another day. We accept what we had. We miss Aaron.

Three years ago I flew to Redmond, OR to start the journey to save Aaron.

Treasure Chest

AJ The Winner in '91

The toys last longer than the boys. On a day no different than the other 4,320 before, a Mom picks up the toys, loads them in the toy box, closes the lid and without knowing it, she turns a page; a new chapter. The toys rest in darkness and the boy shines in the light of a new day; a day without the instruments of childhood.

That toy box in the corner of the basement holds memories and magic. My five year old nephew Noah discovered the buried treasure yesterday. Once the lid was lifted, the magic was let loose and I was pulled 15 years back in time. Out came the orange Ninja head band, the wooden sword and shield, the black cape, nerf guns, footballs galore, helicopters, plastic cars, Batman stuff, broken everything, and The Boxing Gloves. How many Dads bought their sons boxing gloves before the son turned four??? I did.

The two pair (father and son set)of red and white gloves have been reduced by Doc to 1-1/2 pair. Three gloves. Aaron had big hands as a little guy so his choppers didn't fit inside the little gloves. Good for me because Aaron could pack a punch and I took a pounding even with him swinging the big gloves. I'm sure Patrick and Aaron did their share of championship bouts in our basement. Aaron let Patrick win no more than a few rounds; just enough to keep him interested enough to come back for more of a whoopin'.

Noah and I dug through the box like kids who knew the really good stuff was going to be at the bottom. Oh, we liked what was on top...the same way a 5 year old likes the first Christmas present of the morning; "That's neat, what's this?!?!" First we mended the wooden shield. The sword was held together by teenage roofing nails. Long ago the sword was repaired more than once to fight another day. Now the shield was healed. The set was a favorite of Aaron's and Noah claimed it as his. I got the usual "Branded" style sword--broken and short.

After slicing me to pieces, Noah pulled out the Boxing Gloves. He got them on in a split second. I was just getting up off of the floor and back to my knees...that's as high as you should get when doing battle with a little person who doesn't swing much more than 3 feet above your's. I should have seen it coming. I fought the kids cousin in '91. This one's got the same style--fast and relentless. The right hook was followed by a left-right-left-right combination. All five punches scored and I was down. There was no letting up from the aggressor. I knew what to do; I'm a child of the nuclear '60's--I ducked and covered.

My first thought while being counted out was one of da-ja-vu. How long had it been since I lost my last title fight? Too long. I want to turn the pages back to the beginning. The ache in my heart hurt more than the stinging in my head.

Noah went home today. We had lunch at DQ in Portage. Noah and I talked about the fun he had with Patrick. They built on their special bond. We talked about his big buddy Aaron. Noah told me he was glad the crying was over. He said it hurt his ears. I told him I agreed--it hurts my ears, and the rest of my body, too.

We left the toys scattered on the floor for Patrick to pick up--the basement is his space now.

Taking a standing eight count,
Tom

World of Magic and Imagination

The elderly man was bent over at the waist. His crooked left arm held the inside of the door he had just opened to the two strangers. His left hand kept the door open and himself upright. Standing a foot above us, straining his neck, the man was able to look us in the eyes. I'd guess his age to be 86 to 100.

Pheasant hunting was the reason for our visit. The topic of discussion became harvesting corn, broke down machinery, and a then the man's son. The son was 65 when he died last year. After eight years "...four more than doctors had given him" the son died of the disease and the father grew older. At the first mention of the son, the father dropped his head, his hand shook, and his voice quivered. When he raised his head again, watery eyes looked back at us. "Tired?" was my only word. In a way another sad Dad might relate, I felt what I was seeing and the word just came out--Tired. Tired of crying. Tired of trying. Tired of missing. Tired of hurting. Tired of being without his son.

The sequel to Peter Pan was recently written. A story that seemed to not need "TO BE CONTENUED" would be an important read for Aaron today. The Air Bear was Peter Pan's biggest fan in the late 80's early '90's. He watched more than one version of the classic story. Aaron played Hook, Pan, the Lost Boys ---all of them, John...and Cathy was Wendy or Tinkerbell. Home with the boys, Cathy did more takes than Mary Martin or Mary Margin as Aaron called the actress. My role was always Hook. Patrick likely had many roles under Aaron's direction.Pixie Dust was in abundant supply in Aaron's imagination.

The story of Neverland is about magic, heros, bad guys, family, temptation, danger, love, bonding with guys, overcoming evil, and the virtue of happy thoughts... surely there's more. In the mind of a Peter Pan person, anything is possible and tragedy is improbable.

As I understand the sequel, Peter Pan grows up, gets married, and wishes to return to Neverland. I saw Aaron as the boy who didn't want to grow up. Neverland is full of life and adventure. Aaron as Pan had an imagination that would wear out his Mom. I don't know if the crock always got Hook in the end of Aaron's Pan adventures. I will guess Aaron had his own version of how the story should end. Playing Pan would eventually tire out our little Aaron. I arrived home often to find a tired Aaron sleeping sound on the couch. With an eye patch and a Cutlass nearby--his work of saving the lost boys, Wendy, and Tinkerbell was done.

The new book would have been an ideal Christmas gift for Aaron.

Rural Iowa has few blacktop roads. It's a world of thousands of miles of crushed limestone and dirt. Lots of white dust. None of it Pixie.

Where's the magic?

Tom

Who Are You?

Maybe six or seven years ago Aaron was making some CD's for himself and he and Patrick made a CD of some of my favorite songs for me. That was a good use of technology.

Somewhere along the line, must have been when Tipper Gore was in charge of the Vice Presidency and much was being made of the music our kids listened to, I listened to the music in Aaron's CD case. The hub-bub was the old "Rock and Roll has got to go" rhetoric, but with a little more self righteousness. I recall laughing along with Aaron at a comic bit by Chris Rock as he put the music and violence connection into perspective: "What are the kids listening to???" He shouted in dismay. "What I wanna know is what was in Hitler's CD case!" That made sense to me. So, I took a look and a listen to Aaron's music. Today I don't recall any of the artists or songs. They weren't bad lyrics as much as I could tell--but neither was Louie, Louie...I remember I didn't like the sound. But that was all to change.


Three years ago this month I was a mess with Aaron. The music in his CD case was angry, violent, and mean. I found myself in agreement with Tipper Gore AND Chris Rock -- Blame the music and the person. The sound's I didn't care for changed into lyrics I wanted banned. Hate. Death. Resentment. Destruction. Violence. Disrespect. Where did this come from?

I read the pamphlets, listen to the Public Awareness ads, and hear people speak about watching for signs of drug use in teens. Having lived through it, I respect what is being written and said, but I know the changes are suttle. Almost too suttle to notice. Rather than night and day, it is more like watching a tree grow: As the changes occur, you know something is different but you can't differentiate between what is normal and what is not. You almost don't remember the way things were, so compare and contrast aren't as easy as looking at a picture of before and after. You become accustomed to reality and you change too. Loss of sleep, confidence, hair, weight, security, smiles, health, happiness--those are real changes family members of abusers go through, not just the user.

I may have written about this in '05, but it's important to me to share again. When Aaron died, his car was impounded while an investigation was conducted. Patrick and I were able to see the car during the crash expert's analysis of the vehicle. Patrick took a wire cutter and a small crow-bar to remove the radio and CD player. Back at home, with a determined attitude, the hand of a surgeon, and the tools of a carpenter, Patrick extracted the CD from the player. Ever so careful not to scratch, dent, or crack the space age plastic disc Patrick announced "I got it".

Aaron's was listening to a CD he had made, maybe in the last day or so. The songs were favorites of his and mine. Eighteen Songs by 12 artists.

Bad Moon Rising - Credence Clearwater Revival (CCR)
Put a Candle in the Window - CCR
Traveling Band - CCR
Fortunate Son - CCR
Looking Out My Door - CCR
We Won't get Fooled again - The WHO
Going Up to the Country - Canned Heat
Hallelujal - Five Blind Boys of Alabama
Well Well Well - Five Blind...
Sitting on the Dock of the Bay - Otis Redding
Peace Frog - The Doors
Who Are You - The Who
Homeward Bound - Simon and Garfunkel
Don't Fear the Reaper - Blue Oyster Cult (I need more Cow Bell)
I'm Your Pusher Man - Curtis Mayfield
Domino - Van Morrison
Midnight Rider - Allman Brothers
If I Could - Jack Johnson

If music does tell us something about the person, then listening to these songs tells me plenty about my son. Where he was and where he was going were part of his character. Where he was on the last day of his life was where he wanted to be--Home.

Peace
Tom

October Skies

The first sounds on the marsh, not caused by the wind, are the wing beats of small birds. Chirps signal an end to the evening of silence at 45 minutes before sunrise. Ducks flutter in a little too soon. They don't stay long. A quick look and the ducks conclude their new friends aren't looking back.

A half hour before sunrise, the marsh is as beautiful as any place I've ever been. A steely-crisp moon, black water, gray or brightly speckled skies, pinkish yellow slivers of sky preceding the sun, and shadowy tree lines. If I were in the city, the atmosphere would be frightening. With steam rising from the coffee there is a peace in the morning.

Wet and comfortable in my canoe I thank God for the invitation to participate in His world. Starting my day this way is good for perspective. Aaron used to sleep in the bow of that canoe on the marsh. Snuggled in a warm and very soft jacket, arms wrapped around a shotgun, Aaron was as comfy there as he was in his bed--but Aaron could sleep anywhere. When the ducks began to work around our decoys, I'd whisper "Aaron. Ducks." He'd barely open one eye and ask "Where?"

Patrick took his place in the canoe this year. He ate snacks, snuggled in for some shut-eye, and plucked ducks. My boys know how to relax.

October nights are cold.

Learn to Dance

Saturday night Cathy and I attended a wedding reception. The young lady getting married is the big sister to two of Aaron's childhood friends. Carolyn was one of Aaron's favorite girls. Seven years older, she was the big sister to all of the kids in that group. To Aaron she was all of the big sister and surely there was a time he had a little crush on Carolyn.

I will always remember Carolyn for being the girl who taught Aaron how to dance. I saw Aaron dance with his Mom, his cousin, his Grandma at a wedding, but I never saw him dance with a girl-friend. One of those things I surely took for granted days past.

Saturday night, Carolyn was the most beautiful bride I had ever seen. Her siblings, Aaron's friends, Erik and Abbey moved me with their youthful poise. The exuberance of life in them magnified the one dimensional fact of death. Aaron's friends are growing, laughing, living, changing. That's what young adults do. They're real people with hopes and dreams; plans and emotions. These friends also keep Aaron close to their hearts. Aaron is a memory and photographs. He doesn't change and I miss him. Jenna found a picture of Aaron in her purse that day. While looking for a tissue during the wedding, she pulled a photo of Aaron out. A picture she didn't know she had. Aaron had written her a note on the back "To my sister..."

When the bridal party came into the room, I felt the wave of emotions come over me. For so long, Erik and Aaron were close friends and always together. Seeing Erik without Aaron is still not right. Crying is good and sobbing is better. A wedding reception is not the right place to sob, so I held it in as best I could. That's a good way to get a headache and aching, burning eyes. I did.

Cathy and I left shortly after dinner. We know when to say when to our emotions. Leaving the hall, we came face to face with the bride, Carolyn. We wished her well and said thank you for all she had done for Aaron. Carolyn said "Don't leave before the dance!" Of course, Carolyn must dance.

Much peace,
Tom

Johnny and Tommy

Tommy John and Aaron Johnny

Aaron played an exciting adventure he called "Johnny". A raspy fall day like today where the wind blew leaves from the trees and snow from the gray skies was a perfect Johnny Day. Off the bus, in the house, change of clothes, a quick snack and off to the world of Aaron's imagination.

Jumping, tumbling, running, yelling, Johnny was saving everyone in trouble. When the bad guys got the upper hand and Johnny was in serious danger, his trusty side kick came to Johnny's rescue---"Tommy". Except for one day when Patrick was invited to play the role, Tommy was only seen in Aaron's mind.

On the ground in obvious pain and distress, Johnny would call out "Tommy. Tommy. Help me Tommy!" I'm sure Tommy had the skill of the 1960's backyard-army-medic who healed every wounded Antigo east sider kid with a quick "fix-fix-fix". Tommy never left Johnny down. He arrived under the most threatening conditions and did his job. Once rescued, Aar...I mean Johnny would be up and running again, with sword in hand, always attacking, never retreating...Arrrgghhh!!! Into the dark of the early evening, the action was intense...and fun to watch from the corner of the windows--just out of view from Aaron's ocassional looks to see if he was being observed.

I think Johnny hung up his sword and gear a few years before Aaron wanted to put Johnny on the shelf. Aaron might have played Johnny for the last time at age 14. "Shauwt UP!" He'd laugh when I told people of his early teen year adventures.

I always wanted Aaron to write some of his Johnny and Tommy adventures. The stories would have made a great adventure book for little guys. The last time I told the story of Johnny and Tommy in Aaron's presence was in April, 2005. Aaron's real life friend Tommy was visiting. I thought it was fitting that Aaron JOHNNY had a good friend TOMMY.

Dream Works

From A Mount Bachelor Academy Classmate of Aaron

Hey Cathy!

How have you been? I wanted to tell you about a dream I had the other night.

I recently started reading the book "For One More Day" by Mitch Albom. If you're not familiar with it, it's about a man who has a near death experience and gets to spend one more day with his mother who had passed away. While reading it, I was thinking of my grandpa.

However, one night after reading I had a dream that I was in school and for one of my classes I had to try skiing down a mountain by myself. I was terrified, but right as I put my skis on and was looking down the mountain, Aaron appeared beside me. He told me it was okay to go down the mountain and that he'd go with me so I wasn't alone. He held my hand the whole way, talking to me, with a big smile on his face that he always had, saying it was fine. I asked him how it was that I could be seeing him and touching him after he had died. He told me not to worry about it and to just know that he's okay and he'll help me with whatever I need.

At the end of my dream, Aaron and I sat at the bottom of this mountain and talked. He told me to never be scared and know that he's with me. I may not see him but i just have to think of him and he's there. Then Aaron disapeared, but I felt much more calm and at peace.

It was a short dream but filled with so much meaning. I thought you'd like to know. Have a good day. And feel free to share with whomever you want. Take care.


Meghan

Aaron always had plans to travel the US and see the country and his friends. We are glad to read that he is getting around! Not surprised that he is out and about after everyone is asleep; Aaron was a night owl. We are grateful for this beautiful share.

Aaron's Dad

Wisdom to Know the Difference

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I can not change;
the courage to change the things I can;
and the wisdom to know the difference.

The serenity prayer. It flows beautifully... when presented to some other person regarding their troubles, and hard to practice when it needs to be applied to personal challenges. But I trust that third line is key to life -- wisdom to know what can and can not be changed.

"You can do anything if you put your mind to it." "You don't know what you can or can't do until you try." "Never give up." These are three mantras tatooed to my mind. They sound good. They sound very American. Who could disagree with persistence? I can today. I sleep much better leaving some of life's challenges to people more capable.

Admitting such people existed at all was a big step for me. I don't know how I could have ever gotten to this understanding without being broken. When I could not stand on my own, I had to lean on God and people. When I was able to stand again, I started to let go of the crutches in my life. When I let go I am without anxiety and never without God or right people.

To me, the things I ask for to accept with serenity are things about other people. I spent lots of energy trying to change people--that energy was wasted. Changes I made in myself were not always for the good, but I would'nt accept so little from other people.

Courage to change the things I can is primarily courage to change me. Maybe the biggest change I see is a willingness to not be every person's problem solver. It's OK for me to say: that job is too big for me, or to let someone else be the solution. Today it is OK for me to admit my limitation, step aside, tinker with non-essentials, and be a non important person.

Wisdom to know the difference is trusting God. Walking away from trying to save a person from a threat to their life would be cowardly and selfish. By trusting God, I am using what I have paid a high price to acquire and being aware of the motives behind my actions. If the motives are pride and ego, I am best to let go. Oh, believe me, I am far from perfect. Better than I was, but fully human and definitely with frailties.

Tonight I will sleep peacefully. In the morning I will awake and remember Aaron is gone. I know I can't change that fact, and then I will ask the question I ask myself every day--- So this is as it is, now what about me?

Peace
Tom

Thomas Merton - Spirit in Bondage

Self-realization...is then less an awareness of ourselves than an awareness of the God to whom we are drawn in the depths of our own being.

The New Man. Thomas Merton. 1961

Merton wrote over 40 books. I'm on the third and fourth now. I sense the author and I walked some of the same roads. He was there before me and went further into the spiritual discovery quest than I could ever venture. The synopsis of his life says Merton is one of the leading spiritual thinkers of the twentieth century. Loved and despised for his social criticism in the 50's and 60's, Aaron would have been fond of Merton. I hope Patrick picks up these books one day.

Common advice to the person in grief from well meaning care giver authors is "Keep busy -- Get back to work -- Get on with life -- Take a trip -- Come here -- Go there ...." No one is comfortable with despair and no good person wants a to see someone they care about in despair. "despair is precisely the specter we would like to keep buried in oblivion by our ceaseless activity" according to Merton. Buried in oblivion I love that description; its definite, strong and permanent.

"Rationalizing and excusing...,camouflaging its own defects and magnifying the sins of others..., the pshyce of man struggles in a thousand ways to silence the secret voice of anxiety." Anxiety breeds in all God-excluded actions. Actions to discover "self" exclude God. Actions to discover God in ourselves lead to honest discovery of self.

In all action where I could post the sign "No God Allowed" I discover anxiety when the dust settles at the end of the day. The tyranny of passion, as Merton wrote, when we chase the wind is man without God. I experience the goodness of God in the moments of uncluttered, non-disturbed, non-distracted peace. When I am true to my feelings-- alone or not, I am close to God. But wonderfully, also, in the deep sorrow of despair, it is God I find. Despair looms as verboten as the Hotel California. No man who fears checking in without ever leaving, will enter.

In despair the distractions of the life of the flesh are not important. Anxiety is a choice. Evil is a choice. But evil and anxiety are not present in despair. God is there. Only God and we. When we reject God in despair it is only we and we are not God. Serenity and despair are the houses of God.

This I accept as true.

Tom

Marathon Mom - An Athlete in Action

A few minutes before 3:00 PM on May 10, 2005, Aaron and Patrick's Mom was to hear devastating news about her first born. Cathy was sitting at a computer and I knelt down to tell her that there was an accident and Aaron had died. Just keying this makes my heart race and I feel a reawakening of the evil hurt--my shoulders actually ache remembering that moment.

Cathy was an avid walker and got the most out of our health club membership. Aaron, Patrick, and I, the self proclaimed athletes of the family, did little to justify the monthly fee. Aaron was becoming an ocassional participant in pick-up games of any sport, and Patrick, the boy who was the soccer, baseball, basketball dynamic kid had cut down to basketball only. My days of athletic endeavors ended years ago unless we can count sitting in a duck blind or walking behind a pointing dog in pursuit of pheasants. While "the boys" were persistently becoming ex-jocks, Cathy was diligently becoming the leader in physical fitness. She'd come a long way from the day in 1977 when I made the brilliant statement while trying to teach Cathy to play tennis: "You are not an athlete."

Aaron's death was a bomb exploding in the midst of our family. We all were wounded in the carnage. Physically, mentally, and emotionally, the wounds were critical. Unlike a broken bone or torn flesh, no person other than the victim can heal the injuries. Unlike Doctors who have no choice but to use their ability to heal, the victim can choose to decline to heal.

I don't know what it is to be a Mother and lose a son. But knowing the relationship Cathy has with her boys, my guess is it would be easier for her to get up and walk again had she lost both of her legs instead of one of her sons. The work Cathy has done in 17 months is inspiring. Her strength is in her ability to grieve. Cathy hides her pain from people who can't face it, and shares her sorrow with those who get it. The pain is borne every day, every minute and it overwhelms her at times.

In acknowledging the sorrow, Cathy is able to press on. Not as she did before, but as she can today. Two summers have passed and I don't think her heart is in to the gardening the same as it was. I wonder if some of her nurturing spirit has been zapped? Or maybe having lost one of her creations she isn't as interested in helping God grow his.

In the spring we gave up the health club membership, but the streets of the neighborhood are free and Cathy got back on track. Her walking pace is quick...too quick for us boys who all have legs much longer than Cathy's. Her route was six miles. But not anymore.

This summer Cathy decided to prepare for a 26.2 mile marathon in Appleton. A little by little, Cathy increased her distance to 13 miles. She was usually accompanied by our Chesapeake-- Doc Marley, for 5 or 6 miles and then Cathy was on her own for the rest of the way. Cathy wore out two pair of shoes this year.

On Sunday, Cathy made it the distance--- all 26.2 miles! She covered the Marathon distance in six hours. (I don't think I could lounge on the couch for six hours.) Aaron was surely there to encourage her on. She made it. Cathy pressed on when the pain was greatest and quitting was easiest. She added a giant medal to her collection of distance running and walking medals --- she was also the first in our family to earn a medal at the Kris Greening 5 K run in Ripon. (Aaron and Patrick earned their medals in Rippon too. I never did.)

Life is a marathon we are told. By our actions we show who we are. Cathy is a Marathon Mom and the real athlete in our house.

Impressed and Inspired,

Love
Tom

Change

Three years ago this month, maybe even this week, my relationship with Aaron was coming undone in a hurry. If I was holding on to the end of my rope, my grip was weaker than my will. The fears and suspicions of the summer were about to become the reality of the fall. Either a pessimist or a realist, by winter I projected, all hell would come down on Aaron.

The pictures of September '03 show what friends and family saw in Aaron -- a typical sixteen year old, high school junior, with some angst. When he showed his face, Aaron showed what he neeeded to show. I won't speak for Cathy and Patrick, but to me, my son was gone. Aaron's weakening body was overtaken by a power greater than him or me.

I didn't know better back then. When we don't know a better way, we go with what we know. Good advice wasn't what I was capable of accepting. Instead I envied the Dads who could boast "My son wouldn't do anything like that, 'cause he knows I'd kick his ass." Aaron had already proven to me that any "ass kicking" would not be coming from me. The fear of retaliation was not a mutual deterrent because for that to work, the arms have to be equal and both sides need to believe the other is capable of unleashing their power. I was the only one with that belief. But, that did not stop me from wanting to regain the power and authority.

My efforts were put into going with what I knew: Attack the person to fix the problem. Attack with whatever arms were available to me. The result of that strategy was to drive Aaron and me further apart and both of us further into self destruction.

For some reason God allowed just enough clarity for Cathy and me to make one rational decision just as I had given up. Aaron needed to be in a safe place, surrounded by professionals with experience we did not have. Maybe at this time Angels actually did pluck Aaron out of harms way and placed him in a place where people doing God's work could help him help himself.

Aaron learned a better way to cope and respond. Only Aaron could change Aaron. He learned that lesson before me. A year later I was still believing that I was changing Aaron by changing his environment. "Aaron needs to change, not me" was my mantra. With one more blessing, if not a miracle itself, Aaron used his new knowledge to point me in a new direction. With one unanticipated, matter of fact rebuke from "my son", Aaron sent me to a different environment. That day, at 17 1/2 Aaron had emotional maturity to a level any Dad would envy for himself.

I've prayed that I never forget that moment. It occured in our family-room in exactly the same spot where I first tried and failed at "ass kicking" parenting. The dent in the drywall was still visible that day. What had changed was Aaron. What was about to change was me. Within minutes, I joined Aaron doing my work on me.

For four months and 16 days Aaron and I experienced a beginning of a life of mutual respect. We both knew we each had changes to make -- and now we would work on our own changes instead of trying to change eachother. Aaron died a better man, doing right things. Before he died, I had just enough change and was surrounded by better people just enough to survive.

When I hear familiar stories of Fathers and Sons using assured-mutual-destruction strategies, I wish Aaron and I could sit down with father and son. Dad's don't hate their sons; they fear what took their sons from them. Sons don't hate their Dads; they fear becoming their Dads. When we look at ourselves, we can see what the other sees, and that's the view that makes the difference.

Aaron would say- Peace

"I don't care what you do or where you go, but you have to go somewhere and do something, because you're killing (people)"

Look Away

Some days I just have to look away. Daily obligation of life demand some momentum. Grief breaks the flow. From time to time I am able to jog; I wouldn't say run, definitely not sprinting, but jogging through a day is accurate. I'm content with jogging. The pace feels good.

In years past I would run and sprint. In fact, I ran downhill. Imagine a person running downhill-envision the arms wildly flailing, hands grabbing at air for balance, feet stepping on who knows what, and legs dangerously close to serious injury. Eyes bouncing out of focus never seeing the view, impervious to obstacles. That was me. No time for serious consideration to anything worth doing, just impacting. I like jogging.

Jogging through life enables one to accept help from others. "My way or the highway" as Aaron used to interpret my demands has no place in a life of jogging. Jogging allows time for reflection and contemplation. Part of grief work has been to learn to live differently and accept living differently as a better way. If I tried to go back to a down-hill-sprint attitude to life, nothing would fit and the conflicts would be mind bending.

A reality though is even at the pace of a slow jog, I have to look away some days. I have to look away from pictures of my son Aaron. I love him but when I see his face somedays I just lose my composure. Oh, not all of the time, but you never know. It happens to all of us. The shocking truth that he's gone when his picture looks so fresh and the desire to feel his presence is so powerful, is heartbreaking. Always will be I am told. I understand.

So I jog through life and am learning to enjoy the view. Some days I look at the pictures, the memories, the dreams,... and some days I look away.

Peace
Tom

Saving Grace

Molly is now 14 years old. Her hunting days ended before her desire. I think her last good upland bird hunt was April 2, 2005 with Aaron. She could still hear a whistle. Her nose is strong, her body is not.

I took Molly out for an afternoon of bird hunting today. She joined Doc and me for a day afield on land owned by a young man who is engaged to Aaron's childhood "sister" Jenna. We had nearly 40 acres of cut wheat field bordered by a couple hundred acres of standing corn. Nothing is more problematic for a pointing dog than standing corn on a windy day, unless of course the dog can't hear. That's a problem and a half.

Doc and Molly romped near me for most of an hour. Wherever Molly ran, Doc ran right along. Wherever Doc ran, Molly tried to run the opposite direction. Doc LOVES Molly. Molly DESPISES Doc. If not for his youthful vigor, than for his uninvited intrusion into her sanctuary of our home. All was well until I decided to walk from one end of the field toward the car--which I had foolishly parked next to the corn field. Once there, Molly was off on scent of a wild bird, Doc was along side and they were gone.

Birds began to scatter from the field. Three to the east, two to the west, and a couple more right at me. The sound of the shotgun brought Doc. No Molly. The last I heard her bell was the moment she vanished in the corn. Too much wind and rustling of corn stalk leaves.

Forty minutes later, after walking the edge of the field and hearing nothing I feared the worst. If she was going to go, hunting would be the way but Cathy and Patrick might not understand. Doc and I loaded up to begin a search of the other side of the field which included a road--Hwy K. A half mile away from the field I spotted a white dog walking west on the blacktop. There she is-Molly. Aaron and Patrick's dog. Birddog.

Molly, instead of returning to the place where she started into the field, traveled South and then West. Eventually emerging from the corn maze at the edge of a sink hole. Being the veteran duck hunting setter that she is, Molly took to the water and swam across. Her trail was visible in the duck weed. Once out of the water, Molly was on her way home to Windsor. Trotting with her head up, Molly was pointing toward home. I pulled up along side of her and Molly was more than happy to jump in for a lift. She likely knew she was a fish out of water. At home Patrick gave Molly a bath, dried her off, fed her and I found her at home sleeping on the couch. Tired, sore, and probably not humbled.

At 9:30 this evening I pulled the roaster out of its basement storage spot. I'm cooking a pile of hot dogs for a Sunday event. Behind the roaster, I found a block of wood I recognized by its shape. Fourteen years ago Molly went on her first hunt and brought home a partridge--ruffed grouse for you Madisonians. Aaron was probably five almost six. With my help we sketched a partridge on the block of wood. Aaron colored it in with his markers. No dull brown, off white and gray for Aaron. Green, red, purple, orange where the colors he selected. I wonder if little kids see things in excitement where we who take for granted see in drab and white?

The art work was saved for a reason I suppose. Some things just should be kept to give to the children of our children. When the child artist dies before the child is a parent, the value of the art work changes. The piece is no longer for giving, it's for remembering what was and what should be.

To my left is a picture of a smiling Aaron, January 2005. In his face I see Cathy, PT, me, our families, our ancestors, yet Aaron is gone and that can't be. My heart thumps in my chest because I am forgetting his presence. I can still recall the feel of the size and stickyness of his hands and the width and thickness of his shoulders.

God we saved so much why couldn't we save Aaron?

Tom

Book Marks

My book shelf is filled with books I've tried to absorb. If a yellow highlighter could be the syringe to draw the thoughts and wisdom great writers have inked into pages, mine would be filled with liquid gold. Instead, the tracks left by the dispenser run over words I want and thoughts I can't remember. But there they are. Opening a book and reading the highlights, I recognize the brilliance and remember why it was meaningful to me.

Tonight I took this book off of my shelf--Transcending Loss, Understanding the Lifelong Impact of Grief and How to Make it Meaningful. Ashley Davis Prend, A.C.S.W. Red lines, circles, black ink, yellow highlights, notations, reflections, memories all in my hand writing. Nothing recent though. My book marks were from the fall of 1999. I recognized the grief from a different time, a time when I was struggling with the loss of my sister and brother-in-law's son Kristopher. Aaron and Patrick were young boys. The seeds for my growth in understanding grief were planted from this book. Here are some passages and some of my notations. The authors words are in intalics. My notations are not:

The mystery is not that we die, but that we live at all.

What are you going to do about that fact (that your life has changed)? Will the change be for better or for worse?

People are hungry to remember and to dialogue and our country needs to offer outlets for this communication. Angel Inn

Eventually you rebuild your life from the ground up.

You have been forced to embark on this journey and there is no turning back.

A miracle of God is that during the toughest grief we are able to walk where we used to run, to sit when we want to fall, and live when we wish to die.

Take a break FROM PAIN

Whatever feels right to you--whether it's to cry hysterically, or to be alone and stare at the wall, or to be surrounded by friends-- then do it.

...stoicism is the antithesis of true healing.

When a loved one dies,... a part of us dies too and life will never, ever be the same again.

And the fact that humans can be broken and become stronger at the broken places is also one of the most profound and touching of all miracles. GOD

When you stand in the midst of turmoil, stand by God.

To die young is of no concern to me. To wait to be old to live is to great a risk & not for me. 11/20/99.

In the front of the book is a message from my sister Carol. She gave the book to me on September 18, 1999. I see by a notation I made that I re-read the book in February 2006. The note tells me the yellow highlights are from the post Aaron's death reading.

I don't remember reading this book in February, but I do remember the book planted the seeds to my grief beliefs those years ago. Today the book is nourishing the growth.

Tom

Dream Aaron

Cathy and I visited with a young Mother yesterday. The Mom held her infant daughter on her lap. Another daughter, maybe 5, came down from upstairs playing a pink hand-held game. A typical Saturday afternoon; except this Mom and Cathy were discussing the anxiety surrounding the act of dismantling their deceased son's bedrooms. To do the job soon after the death or later. Quickly in a day, or slowly over years. However the job gets done there is no way to avoid taking the shirts he hung off of the hangers, and undoing the "decorating" so uniquely him. When every moment of your days ache for another touch of his person, to undo his space is to self-inflict a wound to your own heart, soul, and mind. You can't put things back. A rolled up sleeve on a shirt hung where he hung it, or a half drunk bottle of water resting where he placed it can't be moved without tearing fabric of the heart.

We left the house and went about taking care of things on our to-do list. A drive into DeForest would take us past Aaron's accident site. I asked Cathy if it was OK to go down that road as opposed to going a mile out of the way. I looked over at her as we approached the grim reminder. Cathy had her head back, the sun was on her face, and tears welled in the corners of her eyes. I can't imagine being a Mom.

The conflict of absurdity of caring on in a world which keeps spinning was maybe a trigger for my middle of the night dream this morning; a dream where I was losing control. In my dream, I was angry about religion, God, and losing Aaron. My dream rant was emotional enough to wake Cathy but not before Aaron appeared. In the dream, Cathy and I were in our room and I saw Aaron standing in the doorway, just as he had appeared many times at night when he came to our room for one reason or another. We could clearly see his shadowy outline.

The dream Aaron came into our room and layed down on the bed. Cathy hugged him and I hovered over looking at his face. Every bit of the dream Aaron was every bit Aaron--ears, eyebrows, lips, nose, haircut, and voice inflection. Dream Aaron assured us he was doing well and didn't want to come home. Dream Aaron said he would be there if Patrick needed him, but otherwise, "no offense but..." he wanted to stay where he was.

Cathy and I were hugging Dream Aaron, Cathy was holding on to never let him go, when we heard little-boy Patrick's voice on the porch. Dream Patrick was crying "help me Momma" in his voice of 3-4 years old. We left Aaron and rushed to the door. Dream Patrick came in with his friends Amanda and Jackson. Not the little boy of the sound of his voice, dream Patrick was his current six feet tall, with a baseball cap, crying huge tears. Dream Amanda told us Dream Patrick started crying uncontrollably and they rushed him home.

That was a rough night. There's been a string of smoother days. I'll cry more today.

Tom

16 Year------- 6 Months---- 17 Months

Grief blurs reality. It's just so big, sometimes I can't see behind or beyond grief. Tuesday morning the grief fog must have lifted enough for me to see something about Aaron's life. I'm clearly a visual and simplistic person. A simple line, a time-line, cleared the haze. This is what I drew and what I saw:

_____________________ ___________
Sixteen years of being a typical boy - 6 Mo.of chaos - 17 Mo. Safe Recovery & Peace

The line is not to scale. It's the best I can do in a pinch. The six months were a short time with a gigantic impact.

As a Froshman in High School Aaron ran varsity track. His first meet was an indoor event in Oshkosh. Aaron qualifed for the finals by placing in his heat. Standing at the finish line were Kathy, Dave, and Amanda Greening, Patrick, Cathy, and me. Aaron ran well in a fast race. At six feet tall, he did not have the control of his limbs that he would have a year later, but there was an awkward grace of hurdler-to-be apparent. Going over the last hurdle, Aaron caught his foot on the hurdle and stumbled. I hurt for him at that instant. Never one to sulk about his athletic results, Aaron scrambled to cross the finish line. His hand might have touched the ground, I don't remember. Aaron scored points for his team with that effort.

In the track race and in life Aaron sprinted, hurdled, stumbled, regained his balance, and finished with his head up. Determination. Grace. Strength. Responsibility.

Sixteen years and seventeen months are not overshadowed by six months. What had felt like a lifetime of conflict is in its proper perspective for me for the first time.

Peace tonight.
Tom

Time Slipping Into the Future

Eleven days have passed since my last post. Days have been different as if a page was turned again. Not sure what caused it, but I went from feeling twisted about Aaron's death to feeling at peace. It wasn't an overnight thing, more like a violent late winter storm followed by cold, crisp, quiet.

When I was a little kid, the quietest place I knew was in the big snow drifts on the edge of a giant potato field. I could see for miles. The only break in the view were a few sticks of trees and an old, orange brick farm house. The late afternoon sky in January was gray-orange with streaks of clouds. No noise. No wind. When I think of peace, that image comes to mind. A snow-mobile suit, stocking cap, choppers,and Sorrels kept me toasty warm. Eleven years old; Total peace.

Today I focus on keeping clear of the turmoil. A moth to a flame is the way I see the dangers of getting caught up again in the temptations of life. Never again do I want to think I am more than what I am. Never do I want to throw caution to the wind or extend myself beyond what I know are my capabilities.

There was a time in my adult life where I disagreed with contemporary attitudes about limitations. I was forming an idea that the only person who can truly know my capabilities is myself. "Recognize your comfort areas and be honest about your abilities", I told myself... Then I gave way to a more "fighter" attitude. "Go where others fear to go! Drive for success! Never quit!" These mantras where more in line with champion thinking. Somewhere along the road, how things looked became more important than how things were. There is not alot of peace in that life.

Life's lessons taught me the difference between being a Warrior and a Fighter. To me the Warrior has virtues of prudence, self honesty, humility. The Fighter is ignorant to reality. Denial and resentment fuel the fighter. Aaron was a Warrior in the end. I think we both were fighters for a time---that didn't work well for us. I hope to be a Warrior like my son.

With respect for my son,

Tom

Time is Smug

Entering Pic n Save this evening I met one of the Dad's to a boy from Aaron's class. It was good to hear how well Joe's son is doing playing baseball in the South. This young man of 19-- Luke, was a little boy with Aaron playing youth football in DeForest not so long ago. His Dad tells me he is now 6-4 and 240 lbs. I remember being impressed by Luke when they were in fourth grade. They were all good boys. They were surely better boys than I was a coach. I do miss those days.

The speed of time from little kid to adult is lightning fast. To me, I was 9 and 10 forever. I don't recall childhoods going by so quickly in the 60's. Everything is faster today.

Listening to Joe remember the youth football days and seeing how proud he was of his son gave me a good feeling. I like to hear about the guy's becoming young men and experiencing accomplishments. Definitely my heart feels the void of not having Aaron. I can't speak for all Dads, but it seems to me that Dads mature with their sons as natural as hair turns grey; one day we're crawling around on the ground playing monster to their hero, and next we're sharing ideas and suggestions for the better or eachother.

When I was 16 my Dad died suddenly and I'm sure my growth into being a young man was retarded by the loss. Now when I would prefer to be a Dad to a 19 year old young man, I'm sort of out of the game again. My feeling is not one of being cheated, but instead there is a pain that could be maddening. To be certain, my constant pain is for my son. The salt in the wound is the collartoral damage injuries.

Oh I know I am supposed to trust that Aaron is in a better place with God, but one should understand that logically that suggestion doesn't add up. God made life on earth and if God did not want us to value and protect our life on earth, would God have made life on earth? Less philosophically, because we value life, we can not turn around and say "Life is good, but loss of life is better". To change the order of values is common. To change to value the negative opposite of one thing is unusual at best. How can one continue to value life and at the same time value death? Can I value Peace and Violence at the same time? I suppose I can value rain and sunshine, but neither of those is evil.

I trust in God. I know God did not kill Aaron. I am working diligently to grow. No one ever knows the extent of a person's personal growth work. That's why from the outside it looks like "time heals". It's just an old cliche which cheapens a person's agonizing work. The Good Work a person does over time is what heals. The person does all the work, and TIME gets all the credit without bearing any of the pain. For what it's worth, a person hurt by the death of a child could use the same amount of time and turn themselves into an angry, bitter, cruel, resentful person. Intoxicated or addicted for that matter. Time is a greedy bastard; always too slow or too fast. Never on our side. Time runs out on us. We get in trouble for not being on time, but do we ever get rewarded for being ON-tim? And then Time gets all the credit for healing. I think Time is smug. It takes all the credit and says nothing. No humility.

I want my son Aaron to grow with us; the same as his friends. How empty it is to not have a story to tell about Aaron. The story of Aaron's life ends where stories told by other Dads begin.

The train has left the station. Everyone's son who was coming home got off. Everyone's son who was going somewhere got on. I'm standing at the depot trying to hold my head up and the tears back. I'm hanging on to Patrick and Cathy.

Thanks for the suggestions Aaron. You're my hero.

Keepin' on--
Dad

Long Distance Please

Aaron was gone for 13 months to MBA and we could only talk when he was permitted to call-usually once a week for ten minutes on a Thursday night and a couple of times a month for an hour conference. For several months prior to going away, our relationship was not one of pleasant conversations. An exchange was rarely more than guarded-both ways.

In the few months Aaron was home before he died--God that hurts to write, our conversations were mostly fun and caring. Anything else was just as typical for Dad's and sons. Aaron would check in on me during the day, and I'd check in on him in the evenings. Example: Me- "AJ, how's it goin'?" Him- "Great Dad. Just watching a movie (playing a video, etc...)we ordered a pizza and then I'll be home. Nothin' to worry about." Me- "Good. I always worry about you until you walk in the door. Be home by midnight OK?" Him- "Sure thing. Glad you worry about me, Dad. I'll be home on time."

I still reach for my cell phone when I have something I want to share with Aaron. Probably happens several times a week. I just hate the thought of the world changing and not being able to hear Aaron's point of view. I want to tell him about so many things. Every time I think of something that I want to share, if the phone is near, my hand moves toward it. But there is no number to heaven. Aaron's number is still programmed into my phone AJ 772-1529. It doesn't get answered.

My phone is the same old one I had on May 10, 2005 when the deputy coroner called me. I hate that phone. Someday I will smash it. Maybe on the exit to Seminole Highway where the world ended.

Tom

Wondering

A Broken Heart Still Beats, by Anne McCracken and Mary Semel, a collection of writings by people who live the loss of a child, was found on my sister Kathy's book shelf at the Angel Inn, in Green Lake. Anne and Mary each lost a child and share their emotions in the book. I "borrowed" the book, and may return it one day.

Writing about my experience is one way to "talk". Only yesterday I was wondering to myself if anyone is still reading my talking. This morning I got the answer--someone wrote to me. The writer was not sure if it was OK to read along. Very sweet. Yes, it is OK. This evening a friend stopped by and mentioned that the stories are good.

I'm grateful to know that the vibrations of the universe transmit clearer signals than cell phones. All I did was wonder and I got my answer.

Next Monday, the 21st, is one year for the DeForest area families who lost boys in the crash on the interstate. They are all on my mind today. I don't know how they feel, but I do know the first anniversary brings its own kind of confusion and grief.

Tonight I'm tired and empty.

Tom

Aaron Throws Patrick a Strike From Heaven

Patrick was hard playing, baseball lovin' little boy. "Play coaches pitch Mom!" was his daily request from the time he started to talk. Unlike Aaron, Patrick was a student of the game and quick on the field. A left handed batter, PT was set up to be a hot pick in the little league "draft".

Aaron played little league for fun and could have cared less if his team won. As long as he had fun, it was all good. A healthy attitude for a kid. His first at-bat he was beaned. I would guess he was one of the most beaned players in his time. Getting beaned didn't hurt Aaron.

A half hour before Patrick's Little League tryout, his baseball career ended. Looking out to our back yard, I saw Patrick throw his glove down, and heard him yelling something at Aaron. Apparently Aaron gave Patrick a preliminary taste of a fastball. The sting of the hardball struck Patrick the same way it stopped his Dad's Little League career--in it's tracks. PT came into the house and announced his retirement through tears and sobs. Aaron's explanation was he was letting his brother know what he was going to experience. I called the Director and Patrick never played baseball again. The Ken Griffey Jr left handed baseball glove is about as good as new.

A friend of Patrick's, Trevor, sells corn behind home plate at the Mallard's games. Trevor gave PT two passes to the Warner Park Duck Pond to see a game of his choice. The last regular season home game was last night. Cathy dropped Patrick and his friend Amanda at the game. I went down later to catch a few innings and give them a ride home. I had standing room only and spent most of the night standing near an area where Patrick and Aaron would scramble with other kids to retrieve foul balls at games played by other minor league teams in years gone by. The game last night was good and the experience for Patrick and Amanda before the game was the best.

PT and Amanda found some seats in the stands along the first base side. The pitcher warming up is number 15 (aaron's high school football number). The first base coach wore number 29 (aaron's youth football number). Aaron's passwords and codes always included the numbers 15 and 29. (His cell phone was 772-1529).

Before the start of the first inning the first base coach picked up a ball and made a motion to throw it into the stands. That got the fans all hustling for position. At the next moment, the coach turned, and Amanda is convinced he looked directly at them. Amanda told PT to "stand up, he's going to throw it to us." As he rose, the coach threw the ball. Patrick put his hands out and caught the baseball in his bare hand! Even though the throw had some steam on it, the ball didn't hurt according to Patrick. Everyone sat down. Still standing a few rows in front of PT and Amanda was a boy with a shirt bearing a name. The name read "AARON".

I think the ball was thrown from Heaven to Home with an assist from the first base coach. Grateful that my boys can still play catch.

Safe at home.
Tom

Shattered

My memory of the day is just slivers of moments. Someone was with me, but I don't recall who. From the front porch where I just finished a cup of coffee, I walked up to a tree, an oak, with the purple mug in my right hand. In a quick swing the cup shattered into shards and chunks. My heart was broken. I cried. May 11, 2005

Today, walking in the yard, a purple chip, the size of a paper clip, caught my eye. The oak tree has a diameter of 19 inches. It slants slightly to the south--probably bent, but not broken, by the northeast winds that blew when the hill was surrounded by corn and not these houses. At the base lies two shards of the purple mug. One piece is impressed into the ground by an 1/8 of an inch. Its depth showed me some time had passed. I tugged it out with my finger tip. The chip resisted. I left it.

How deep will the chunk bury itself in the dirt? Will a future occupant of this home find it? Just a shard of purple ceramic clay to the finder? Maybe he'll wonder how the sliver came to rest at the base of the oak tree -- seven steps from the front porch. A broken heart. I miss my son.

Peace
Tom

Is this the way it's supposed to be?

Fourteen months of work on living with the death of Aaron.

I look at the world differently. Mostly, I don't feel a part of the world as it is. I see traffic moving and people hustling, days turn to night and back to day. I'm a witness to the anxiety of life and less of a participant.

At the same time I feel a responsibility to use with humility, the talents God gave me. That's a different perspective for me. It's healthy.

Football season is coming. This was forever Aaron and Dad time. The fun is gone; now football is just salt on the wound. I find it more than ironic that the last two Packer first round draft picks were Aarons--Aaron Rogers in '05 and and AJ even in Aaron (AJ) Hawk in '06.

Is this the way it's supposed to be?

Tom

Aaron's Voice

Fourteen months have passed. Two nights ago I heard Aaron's voice. Aaron had recorded an answering message on a cell phone of a friend of his. My recollection of the story is the recording was made post MBA, probably in February, March, April or May '05. We don't have videos from '05 so that little recording is the best available for hearing Aaron's personality.

The personality is what struck me Saturday night more than the sound. Pictures might tell a thousand words...or however that goes. Seeing pictures but not hearing the sound of Aaron's voice, I'm sure the tone and inflection of a voice is a picture of a personality. Dang.

Tom

The Note Book

From a Notebook we had in our kitchen...

Aaron-
Went for a walk. 2:30. Be back around 3:50.
Mom
-have my phone



AJ
Went to Middleton. I have my cell phone. call me.
Love Mom


Come on up 2 me room
I am playin Final Fantasy.
(Patrick to Aaron)

In Aaron's hand writing:

This is for the garage door
Steve dropped it off.

Compendium of all my knwlege
Manefesto

Hair Cut
6:30

Mocking Book

Random notes
trivial activities
inconsequential days.

Oblique thoughts
expanding a mind
for future reference.

Simple remnants
innocent times
mocking our pain.


Tom

Donor Services

Within very few hours of Aaron's death Cathy and I were responding to questions related to autopsy and organ donation. It was at the time of day when we might well have been asking Aaron if he was going to be home for dinner. Instead we were grasping for rational answers to what we knew were important but horrifying notions.
Aaron is our boy and this was not real. He'd be walking in the front door soon and asking in his fading Northwest accent "Whuts goin' awn?" We looked to friends and family for advice and settled on agreeing to organ donations.

Donor Services, www.rtidonorservices.org, is located in Madison. I think they are as kind as people can be. Within days of Aaron's funeral we received an inspirational letter telling us that Aaron's corneas were used and had given sight to more than one person. Two days ago the latest letter arrived. The efforts Donor Services makes to keep families informed is an act of mercy and no small task I suppose.

Between a 17 year old woman in California to a 75 year old woman in Colorado, there include a 36 year old in Indiana, a 35 year old in Tennessee, a 59 year old in South Carolina and 15 more people scattered around the US, Aaron's bone, heart valve, and tendons, are helping others. Thirty three bone tissues and tendons are still awaiting transplant. Skin can be used as a temporary covering for burned patients awaiting grafting procedures. Aaron's gift of skin is still waiting transplant.

Considering Aaron had friends from everywhere USA, and he was going to go live with many of them sometime after high school, it is appropriate that Aaron's adventure of life continues.

Tom

Pup Tent and A Horse With No Name

Doc spent a few weeks at summer camp with the breeder doing hunter training. On a sizzling hot weekend I made the trip over to retrieve our now slimmed down pal-Rockets Doc Marley. He's a reddish brown, curley haired Chesapeake Bay Retriever. Doc is a son of Gunners Lakeshore Rocket and Lakeshores Swamp Fox V. (His pedigree is superior to that of Patrick and Aaron.) Bob Budnik is the Breeder and terrific guy.

Knowing I would spend a full day with Bob working with Doc and other Chesies, I planned an overnight stay at Point Beach. I would need a tent and not much else. The tent caused me to pause for more than some few hours. For a week I contemplated taking our tent; the tent Cathy and I used before children. The tent I took Aaron camping for his first camp out and his next and his next. The same tent that Aaron and his friend Ted last used in about 2002. The same tent that Aaron had packed up and put away where it has stayed for four summers. I knew the tent would have remnants of an innocent time because until 2004, Aaron never left a campsite or room cleaner than he found it.

A trip to Gander Mountain to buy the least expensive tent I could find ended with me at the check-out with a box of $34.00 worth of escape. I knew I didn't need a brand new tent but I was trying to avoid an emotion I didn't want to feel. With $19.00 remaining on a Christmas Gift Card, I turned west and walked the tent back to the shelf. I left the store with $17.45 remaining on my card and four new, yellow plastic stakes to hold my old tent in place.

Driving to Manitowoc I contemplated my options: Sleep in the jeep or open the tent. I chose to open the tent and ride the emotions. The first thing I noticed was the aroma of a tent put away maybe a little damp. The second was the Pringles top that fell out of the interior. Rolled back, the foil seal was a sure indicator that Aaron had been there. The stakes were set and the tent went up easier than I remembered. I unzipped the opening and looked inside. If Aaron was Hansel of Hansel and Grettle, his trail would have been marked by candy wrappers and not bread. The tent was littered with Jolly Rancher wrappers, bitten off on one end, and Blow Pop wrappers. Letting the air quietly and slowly leave my lungs, I turned another page from happy, innocent days to the present. I picked up the wrappers and tucked them safely in the Jeep to take home to Cathy and Patrick. They're on the counter in a neat little pile. Some litter can't be thrown away.

The time alone was spent reviewing many Aaron memories. For a little boy, Aaron had a big imagination and reality rarely lived up to expectations. The first camping adventure was to Devil's Lake. He loved my story about Devil's Lake: The lake was formed when an enraged creatures hurled massive boulders at the earth. The crushing blows to the surface pulverized the rock and piled the crushed stones in heaps. The crater was filled with crystal clear ice water which fell from the clouds after the dust blocked out the sun and froze the earth. After that, the experience was never just right. Hotdogs on a stick must not have looked the way he expected and something else was bugging Aaron, but I never figured it out.

I drove home from Manitowoc with Doc in the crate and Aaron still on my mind. Now the memory shifted to August 2004. We were in Oregon visiting Aaron. In his room Aaron was showing us what he had learned on the guitar. I don't recall the song he was playing but I remember asking "Aaron, can you learn 'A Horse with No Name?'" "Dude! I just started to learn that one!!" was his reply.

Station 93.1 FM, The Lake, was on my radio and as I came down Egre road near home I asked Aaron to have that song play next to let me know he was with me. The next song was something else. Ahhhhhh.

Two hours later I jumped in our other car and headed into Madison to buy some dog training tools. A couple miles down the road, I realized the station tuned in was not one I normally listened to. I switched to 93.1. The song playing:

America--A Horse With No Name

On the first part of the journey
I was looking at all the life
There were plants and birds and rocks and things
There was sand and hills and rings
The first thing I met was a fly with a buzz
And the sky with no clouds
The heat was hot and the ground was dry
But the air was full of sound

Ive been through the desert on a horse with no name
It felt good to be out of the rain
In the desert you can remember your name
cause there aint no one for to give you no pain
La, la ...

After two days in the desert sun
My skin began to turn red
After three days in the desert fun
I was looking at a river bed
And the story it told of a river that flowed
Made me sad to think it was dead

You see Ive been through the desert on a horse with no name
It felt good to be out of the rain
In the desert you can remember your name
cause there aint no one for to give you no pain
La, la ...

After nine days I let the horse run free
cause the desert had turned to sea
There were plants and birds and rocks and things
There was sand and hills and rings
The ocean is a desert with its life underground
And a perfect disguise above
Under the cities lies a heart made of ground
But the humans will give no love

You see Ive been through the desert on a horse with no name
It felt good to be out of the rain
In the desert you can remember your name
cause there aint no one for to give you no pain
La, la, la, la, la, la...

It felt good to hear from my son...
Love
Dad

Passive Aggressive or Just a JackAss

My path crossed three times in my life with a persons who's behavior is so offensive I became physically ill from interacting. Subtle insults, absurd statements and opinions, paranoia, rejection of good intentions, mental abuse, and self-sabotaging neglect all displace healthy air the same way so much garbage overwhelms a landfill; eventually there's toxic gas.

I remember Aaron coming home from Mount Bachelor with a knack for analysis and quick labeling of all of my negative character traits. "Passive Aggressive! or You're projecting!" He would announce to Cathy, Patrick and me. Asking to have the ketchup passed was as likely to get a character label as was saying "no" to Aaron's request to stay out all night. It was fun for a while until I realized he was able to stop me in my tracks leaving me with a very small arsenal of weapons for parenting. Was I really a basket case for psycho analysis or was I an average Dad with a limited ability to corral my son??

I looked up Passive-Aggressive on www.wikipedia.org and here's what I found on the subject:

Passive-aggressive behavior refers to passive, sometimes obstructionist resistance to authoritative instructions in interpersonal or occupational situations. Sometimes a method of dealing with stress or frustration, it results in the person attacking other people in subtle, indirect, and seemingly passive ways.

Someone who is passive-aggressive will typically not confront others directly about problems, but instead will attempt to undermine their confidence or their success through comments and actions which, if challenged, can be explained away innocently so as not to place blame on the passive-aggressive person.

In some instances the passive-aggressive person will solicit the confidence of others as to their ability to perform duties, and then purposely sabotage those duties through procrastination or mishandling responsibility. Subsequent demands for performance are laid aside with claims of interference by the demanding parties or some other condition outside the control of the passive-aggressive's influence, when in fact the delays and poor performance are due to the passive-aggressive's internal perception that to perform the task at another's demand is a demeaning insult to them. The omission of performance leaves the passive-aggressive person in control of the situation, and allows that person to continue the aggressive behavior toward others. These behaviors can persist even if it means personal loss to the passive-aggressive person, i.e. job loss or loss of esteem by others.

These individuals feel that expressing their anger through passive-aggressive behavior is morally favorable to direct confrontation.

The lack of repercussions resulting from passive-aggressive behavior can lead to an unchecked continual attack, albeit passive, on one's acquaintances. The treatment of this disorder can be difficult, mostly because efforts to convince the person that they have this problem are met with resistance, and the passive-aggressive will frequently leave a treatment regimen claiming that it did no good.

On www.straightdope.com the writer concludes that loosely defined, a diagnosis of the population of earth would find 100% of humanity "Passive-Aggressive".

I suppose it's not my place to label anyone with a medically recognized psychological disorder. In my neighborhood growing up in the '60's, we were unscientific kids. Our Dad's were blue collar guys; no doctors, a couple of high school teachers, a football coach and a few military men. We learned from them. Diagnosis of social dysfunctions was quick and painless. Act like a victim, sling insults, hurt people and deny responsibility: You're aJackAss The diagnosis was free.

The Budhist tells us even the person who insults us is worthy of our gratitude for teaching us. Similar to the Christian suggestion of "turn the other cheek".

Trying to honor you Aaron, with better behavior by practicing assertiveness over aggression,

Tom

Continuing Bonds on the Fourth of July

July 4th memories of Aaron are as abundant as the fireworks lighting the sky from ocean to ocean across our country tonight. Aaron loved the day; he loved everything about the fireworks. So much excitement. The celebration continues and Aaron's gone. I'm not ready to participate in the festivities without Aaron.

What I am excited about is the mission of The Aaron Meyer Foundation-opening Aaron's House. You can read more about that on Through Aaron's House, I feel a tangible continuation of my bond with my son. I've written this before: it's not enough to say I don't want my son forgotten, I want my son to make healthy waves, or vibes, in the world while I am still in the world. I feel a little less alone from Aaron when his name and his idea is in the community.

The impetus for being open to a way to continue our bond came from the book "Continuing Bonds" by Dennis Klass, Phyllis Silverman, and Steven Nickman. The book was suggested to Cathy, Patrick, and me by Mike Byrd and Maggie Felker last summer. Mike and Maggie lost their son a few years ago when he vanished while traveling South America. Mike and Maggie continue their bond with their son by following his footsteps and helping young people in the land he explored.

Mike, a UW professor, had done some teaching at Horizon High School while Aaron was there. Logic was his subject, and Mike tells us Aaron was eager for complex logic questions. I know Aaron loved having his brain twisted. I do miss Aaron's unique take on challenging thoughts, and of course his own many questions including his most common "Dad, is that a true story?"

I'm grateful for Mike and Maggie suggesting Continuing Bonds to us.

Happy Fourth of July-Peace
Tom

Aaron's Closet

Yesterday Cathy found herself in Aaron's closet starting a painful task: organizing.
As a Mom, how many times do you pick up after the kids--even when they are young adults, and wonder when they will pick up after themselves?

In late April, '05 I walked into the house and heard the loudest music coming from Aaron's room. The shower was running, pieces of debris left in Aaron and Patrick's wake were scattered where they had moved through the rooms of the house. I so clearly recall the thought "Ahh, I'm glad the boys are still home".

In the afternoon Cathy was at the start of probably the last picking up after Aaron--13+ months after he died. When I saw her at 6:00 PM, she was a sorrow filled Mom. At 9:15 she was still in pain. We talked about what hurt. "The sleeves of a shirt Aaron had worn were still rolled up and the shirt was hung where he put it. Seeing a shirt that we had purchased together on our last shopping spree. Recalling a memory I thought would never forget--but I had."

Cathy and the boys shop well together. I've been on those excursions and it's not for me, but Cathy and Aaron especially seem to enjoy that shopping thing. Same with Aaron and Patrick; they had their favorite trips too. So, a shirt to me is a shirt but to Cathy it's a story of an adventure; an memory of a bond.

Aaron's tie, the one he picked out in September of '04 and wore to important events, is still tied and hung over his "Bunny Bugs" stand. His knot is still tight. Aaron's suit coat--the pants didn't come back from Mount Bachelor, hangs around his one dress shirt. Inside the pocket I found a brochure from December 2004 Mount Bachelor Graduation. The front cover reads: Live as if you will die tomorrow, and dream as if you will live forever.

Sunday midday I saw Cathy standing in the middle of a garden Aaron had rung with landscape brick. She was watering her plants with tears. Kay Vincent brought us an incredible strawberry-cream cheese pie. We ate it all that day. Patrick had a piece.

This morning I delivered Patrick to Driver Education. This is not a comfortable time for Cathy and me. I don't want him to drive or ride. I parked and walked to the cemetary. Three grave sites I wanted to visit. Kyle Goldensoph, Shane O'Donnell, and Kyle Reigstad. Each grave is sparsely covered with thin blades of grass. I think the nature refuses to grow grass where nature rests a soul to soon.

A bottle of Aaron's favorite snapple sits atop his dresser, right where he left it.

I've been in two other bedrooms of boys who died recently. Their clothes make the same sounds of absolute quiet. I noticed in both of their rooms a book mark from Aaron's funeral. So many clothes. So much quiet and order. Too many graves.

Last night Patrick and I talked into the night by our pond and stream--our project. We love that spot. Patrick put his heart into his part. It's peaceful. I'd like to add a flame in the ground. We could see it from our house, flickering in the night. Leaving a light on for Aaron.

Contented
Tom

Uplifting Shares

Last Monday night I wrote about "The Aaron House" and included a request for interested people to make contributions. Tuesday morning a friend who read the blog Monday night brought in a check for $100.00! She seemed inspired by the mission and wanted to plant a seed. We are grateful.

Today, while working on the pond and stream, I saw a van coming around the corner. I recognized the driver as Emery, a Dad to a boy in Aaron's class and another in Patrick Class. They were not intending to stop but when we recognized eachother, Emery pulled right over and jumped out to say how sorry he was that Aaron had died. He's a few years older than me and we share a common interest in wanting our sons to be healthy. Emery had an important memory to share with me and he made my good day great by telling me about Aaron and his son Ty.

In 2003, Aaron was practicing football as a Junior on the varsity; his eighth year of organized football. Ty also a Junior was playing on a team for the first time ever. Remembering plays was not the easiest thing for Aaron. Catching the ball was as natural to him as falling down, but not remembering plays. I'm sure, no, I know Aaron was ridden hard by more coaches than me for running the wrong routes or missing a block. He knew the hurt of ridicule in front of peers. Emery shared that Ty told him "Aaron was the one guy who welcomed me to the team and told me what to do when I didn't know what to do on a play."

Ty didn't become a big contributor to the team but I do remember a sad night when Aaron was reaching the depths of his struggle. With the game well in hand, just minutes remaining and the coaches finally substituting, the benches was being cleared. Player after player was running in for a minute under the lights of the varsity football game. Aaron, who always stood with his helmet strapped on, ready to go in, was left standing on the sidelines. Ty went in. Aaron stood. His heart was probably in his throat. My blood was boiling.

Aaron came home after the game. He walked up to me, needing a hug. Aaron cried in my arms in the middle of the kitchen. I held back tears; today I would cry with a son in that kind of pain.

One day Aaron came home from Mt. Bachelor for a week long visit. We went to the Homecoming football game as a family. Aaron sat between Cathy and me. Patrick was with his friends in the stands. An adult asked Aaron if he missed being on the team. Aaron said "I'd rather be sitting here than standing on that sideline again." We all laughed. Later at home, Aaron went down to his room. I feared he would be crying. I had tears in my eyes when I went down to see him.

Aaron came out of his room holding some football shorts and practice shirts. "What's wrong Dad?" He asked. "I thought you were upset." I answered. He laughed and gave me the biggest hug. "No, I'm fine." I apologized to him for not keeping him safe. Aaron told me "Don't think you could have done anything. I made the wrong choices." I cried in his arms, I felt so bad that he was missing his senior season, his friends, his home. "Dad, I've got this lighter that I used to use to smoke pot. All of this is behind me. Let's go burn it together." We went out to our fire pit in the back yard.

The remains of a very dangerous past experience went up in smoke. We burned the pot lighter too.

Tom