Traditions

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

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

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

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

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

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

Peace on Earth. Violence in our actions.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Christmas Letters and The Writer Strike

Supposedly writers are on strike in Hollywood. I suspect they just took a break to write Christmas letters.

This is a beautiful time of year. I'm grateful to still be on the Christmas letter lists of a few people. Desperate Housewives, Smallville, Heroes, Brothers and Sisters, Somebody's Anatomy, they're all there in the mail box. Amazing children. Talented athletes. Why doesn't anybody write about the kid who got an F? "Bobby had a subpar year adjusting to seventh grade. Except for Gym, Bobby had all F's on his report card. We'll use the his interest in kickball to build on the Incomplete."

If I didn't have a child of my own, I couldn't fully comprehend the disturbing news parents around the country receive from orthodontists. "Our little princess got braces this year. The orthodontist says she will need to wear them for 18 months. This has totally ruined her life." How does one recover from that? Avoid the orthodontist. Is it possible that braces are a status symbol or are children ingesting something hazardous to their teeth? In 1972 only children of doctors and lawyers had teeth bad enough to require braces.

On a typical hospital show people survive burst arteries, heart transplants with a butter knife and a Bic pen, operations to seperate cojoined body parts, and your average missle impalement. Watching these miracles in high definition on a 42 inch screen of millions of tiny mirrors, makes it hard for me to muster up any empathy for letter writer's plantar warts, braces, caps, acne rashes, exotic fish stings, vacation sunburns, weight gains, intestinal blockage, bum knees... I'm emotionally drained from Keeping Up With the Kardashians. If that sex tape gets back on the internet, God knows what will happen to Kim's budding career and gargantuan ass.

Drama Drama. But few dramas compare to the sadness and depresion caused by a child leaving for college. Unless this child is going to the Universtiy of Heaven, the College of War in Afghanistan, or Iraq, there is a road, a plane, or a train running to the campus community. Telephones and internet allow immediate communications. I'm not a fan of the show "My Kid Went to College and I'm Sad." Where's the remote?

Why do we write Christmas letters? And who created the boiler plate? (Job. Travel. Aches and Pains/Bodily Functions. Kid accomplishments. My possessions.People who pissed me off.) I wish I would have kept all the letters we've received in the last 25 years. What I think we would see is this: The little angels, geniuses, and super athletes would grow up to be average folks. (But their offspring would be the second coming of Christ) The aches and pains would be overcome, or not. Overbites would be corrected without lingering long term mental health trouble. Amazing jobs would be left and new amazing jobs secured. College, like Kindergarten and high school, would be adjusted to and finished, if not completed.

If writers had an editor in the family the letter might be reduced to:

Merry Christmas. Peace on Earth. Goodwill to All. But what kind of message would that be?

In The Presence of Angels Nineteen Years Ago

Lambeau Field, December 11, 1988. Tim Kritter and I had a once in a lifetime opportunity handed to us by a Jenny Schienle---Two sideline passes to a Packer Game at Lambeau Field. The catch, pick up highlight film from a Green Bay TV station and deliver it to Madison in time for a 10:35 PM post game show. Jenny and her sister Jill had handled this chore all season and the cold weather, not the Packer's 2 wins and 12 losses, broke their spirit for one more mission. Two decades later I still can't believe we had such a gift. The photos are our proof that the dream was real.

Yesterday Cathy discovered the long misplaced photos. They were safe and sound in the bottom of a chest of photos and keepsakes. While watching the 2007 version of the Green Bay Packers, I flipped through the two dozen pictures. What I noticed in one picture didn't shock me. I felt the brush of angel wings on my neck.

John Blaha is the House Mentor at The Aaron House. I met John in January 2005. I took a seat next to him and noticed a huge diamond filled Green Bay Packer Super Bowl XXXI ring on his finger. "Who is this guy?" I wondered. Definitely a fan, possibly an office worker, certainly not a player. He wouldn't pass for even a kicker. The opportunity to ask about the ring didn't present itself until several weeks later. Before I knew the story Aaron was home and his path crossed with John's. Aaron noticed the diamond G and we pondered what the story might be. Aaron never spoke to John, but he did see him. I eventually asked about the ring

From 1976 through 1996, John was a volunteer, assistant equipment manager with the Green Bay Packers. Folding towels, cleaning lockers, and retrieving the kick-off tee were some of John's chores. He had an inside view of the Green Bay Packers from the lowest days of their history to the top of the football world. John has a more impressive background outside of his "service work" for the Packers. His career made John the perfect person for the House Mentor position. We are blessed to have his gentle spirit leading the student-residents.

On December 11, 1988, John was on the sidelines at Lambeau Field. Wearing a Packer stocking cap, a Packer jacket, green pants, and white shoes, John walked in to the view finder behind Tim Kritter just as I snapped the picture to commemorate our dream come true. Tim is a great friend to me, to our family, to Aaron, and a special supporter of the Aaron House project. Here we were in the most unlikely of places, two decades ago, for an instant just feet apart. Today we are connected through Aaron's life sharing our insights to make The Aaron House work for some people who, like Aaron, were little boys in 1988.

God connects people in fascinating ways. You never know when you are in the presence of angels.

Changing Conditions

If we did not feel there was something wrong, we would do nothing to change our condition.

Suffering, writes Thomas Merton in Opening The Bible, is an incentive to change. The change needed, he asserts, is to unify with God. Get our affairs in order. Become centered. Get out of selfishness, and be be our true self. The problem we have as humans is that we try to avoid suffering, or we try to get rid of suffering. We maintain our ego, and division from God and our true self.

At the time of my greatest suffering, I felt closest to God and furthest from the entrapments of life. I rejected the false life and felt true suffering. In suffering I struggled and clung to some spiritual understandings and searched for more. What mattered most had nothing to do with life of labor and mindless entertainment. I wanted only to rest in the sunlight, feel the breeze, dig in the dirt, be with nature, and cry.

What if I had just kept busy? What if I had distracted my mind, avoided suffering or "got rid of suffering" with medication, self prescribed or professionally? Where would I be today? What if I knew the answers to those questions? I faced the fire and walked in. I know where I stand today and it is preferred to where I might have ended had I run.

Last night in a dream a yellow taxi cab pulled into our driveway. The garage door opened. We all shouted, "It's Aaron! He's home!" We ran to the door, the garage door continued to open. The taxi pulled in. All we could see of Aaron in the back seat were his legs dressed in brown courdoroy pants. I woke up with tears in my eyes.

As I slip back into the world of living I may be losing some of my suffering. At the same time I am noticing the balancing between disbelief that Aaron could be gone and astonishment that I once had another living son. His photographs are appearing slightly foreign to me. I'm beginning to see an image out of place. I'm becoming used to seeing Cathy, Patrick, and Tom. The fourth person in the old pictures takes up a lot of space. He's out of place. I can't hear his voice.

The conditions are changing. I've been avoiding suffering. Keeping busy is to stack up unattended sorrows.

December 2, 2003 -- So Far Away

So much turbulence, heartache, hope, travel, work, promise. I remember how hopeless I felt in the late fall '03. My son had lost me as a dad and I had lost him as a son. It was that bad. Maybe I didn't have hope at 4:20 AM on that Tuesday morning on December 2, 2003. The off duty deputies had arrived to escort Aaron to MBA in Prineville, OR. I showed them to where Aaron was sleeping. I can still see him curled up in a blanket. Aaron later told me he was more passed out than asleep. When Aaron was gone, I may have still been hopeless, but I was confident he was in a safe place, in the hands of people who were experienced. Cathy was broken. Patrick was scared. I slept better. The house was incredibly quiet.

Four years have passed since that day. Was it right to send Aaron away? I don't give time to that question anymore. At the time it was an option more favorable than others. In the spring of 2005, I was grateful for all that the MBA experience had done for Aaron. He was home. He had some wonderful skills, an outlook to admire, and a plan that made sense. If I have regrets today about sending Aaron so far away for so long, it's because he's not here today to love and share the moment. I won't contemplate what those 13 months would have wrought had Aaron not been in a safe place with people who were capable.

I would like to have those 13 months back. I'd like to have all of the years back. This month the Aaron House has a student-resident graduating from the UW. His parents must have some sense of peace. I'm grateful for not turning sorrow into anger and resentment. I can appreciate Aaron's House because I'm not trying to rewrite the past. Looking at the past is OK, but I'm not going to live there.

21

Aaron's friends are turning twenty one left and right. Erik left and Zach right were friends of Aaron's from the earliest school days. They're young men in their third year of college now. Aaron is still barely 18.

I saw one of Aaron's classmates last week. A fellow Aaron played with from age 5. Neighborhood buddies. Saying hello is more of a sizing up exercise. I'm happy to see these guys, and I take the opportunity to take in all that I can about them to help imagine what Aaron might be like today. The clothes, hair styles, jobs, interests, where they've been. Where would Aaron be, what would he say, how would he look? I grasp for something in Aaron's friends to give me a glimpse of what should have been.

Thanksgiving weekend is over. The college aged children of our friends are going back to school. That's the way it's supposed to be.

The Genius is the Most Indebted

Essays and Poems by Ralph Waldo Emerson is a book from which I read. There's a place for this book in the book shelf, but the writing is so pleasing I keep it close. To read a book for me means to read from one of several books until one by one they're finished or eliminated. Sort of like flicking channels. (Some people say flipping, switching, or changing channels. I say flicking.)

I like books. If I want to know how a book ends, there's no waiting. There was a day when I couldn't give enough attention to reading a page of a book. Those days were high school, college, and many years after. Paxil changed my reading skills in 1998.
Where was that magic in 1974? Maybe at 50 I'll go back to school.

I wonder if instead of one course exploring the books of great authors, we had a school system based on the thoughts written by great thinkers, would our culture benefit? Are we better off if we become a nation of computer programmers, scientists, mathematicians, geologists, or philosophers? Are we better to know what science says about the universe or are there no new thoughts of value. Do we need to know if global warming is real or is it enough to live by giving more than taking, leave something for the future, nothing lasts forever? We own nothing and are loaned everything.

Emerson in writing about Shakespeare says no great men are original. When we think about the impressive creations/inventions or our time, we connect them to perceived great men or women. Genius is a crown we give to football coaches who devise "new" ways to move a football down a field at least 10 yards at a time in no more than 4 tries. We also have a genius who gave us rockets to send satellite robots into space to better take advantage of the laws of physics so we can have computerized voice give us directions to the grocery store from our home, or deliver a live warhead with pinpoint accuracy to an unsuspecting bad guy.

Emerson wrote, The greatest genius is the most indebted man. An indebted man who knows he owes acknowledgements, is humble. The wisdom of Emerson's observation is worth acquiring today.

Hard to Imagine

The more time passes the harder it is to recall your voice and mannerisms. I saw your boss, Matt yesterday and he was sporting that square jaw, tight lip look you picked up from him. Windsor Lawn trucks always cause my heart to flip and a tear to drip.

When we were together on this day in August '04 I thought we were on our way to a life of good times for all of us. We were looking to the future. Time was not on our side. We never thought that would be your last August. Another August has passed and we are slipping into winter. I dread winter. You loved snow. To me it's just cold and slow.

Time is not my friend. Time does not heal. Time steals our memories. Time dulls our senses. Time laughs at our pain and drags us further into the abyss. Time is brazen. Without shame, time swaggers in praise for healing, but the two-faced creep pushes dementia as a cure.

Air Bear, we're getting by and holding on.

What's He Doing In This Picture?

The shirt, the sweater-shirt, the braided wrist band are all here. The clothes hang in a closet and keep their stories to themselves. "I'll tell you later, I don't want to talk about it right now", was a typical answer from Aaron when pressed to elaborate on these MBA Intervention pictures. We know the date was October, 2004 and Aaron, a summer Intervention MVP, was invited to be a student leader at the fall Intervention. Boys became men at Intervention.

Johnny Cash is the music of Intervention: Don't Take Your Guns to Town, Drive On, Me and Paul, I Still Miss Someone, Folsom Prison Blues. It's OK for men to cry. Anger is only one emotion of a man. A real man has a spiritual side. Real men fall down, get up, and move on. Real men respect others. Johnny Cash and Intervention have special meaning to Aaron.

The watch continues to slip time. It's in a drawer. I look at it. Time keeps on slipping into the future. Time is not my friend. It's a bandit, a thief in the night. Time heals nothing. Time's a killer. Aaron didn't like time. Time made him wait. Aaron couldn't, wouldn't wait. To Be Continued.. were three words he couldn't read at age four but he knew exactly what they meant: You, Aaron Meyer, have to wait! "NOOOOO!!! TO BE ConTENyoud!!" Oh, Air Bear. What you didn't understand made you what we love.

If his ears made the first impression on me the moment Aaron was born, his fingers and hands were a close second. "A piano player" was the doctor's observation as they weighed the new born. In church I had Aaron's hand on one side of me and Patrick's on the other. I remember those little boy hands. Patricks held on to mine. They were little boy soft. Aaron's were not damp, but a little sticky. Just right for catching footballs. Those long fingers eventually glided the strings of a guitar. A real man explores his artistic side.

Smoke from the fire is Unchained. Captured in a photograph but gone forever. If I press my face into the sweater, maybe a hint of smoke is twisted in the fabric. Drive On.

Intervention is roughing-it I understand. The grief journey is a rough and rocky road. The leaves are falling, and I'll always miss my son. I see those eyes and those arms. I'm sorry our life ended when it had just begun. I wonder what you could have told me about this picture?

You're Always On My Mind.

Mourn With Those Who Mourn

There are no words to ease the pain of another's suffering and that's the way it should be.

Cathy and I visited today with a family mourning the death of their 20 year old son, brother, nephew, grandson. Cathy noted that we can add nothing to ease their pain and because we have been where we have been, she would like to spare this family from what may be ahead. Better to say less and listen more is what Cathy knows.

If anyone could produce the words to ease the pain that person would be more than human, god-like I suppose. In mourning, I believe I grew when I let God into my life. Growth, not to be confused with "getting better" includes turning energy toward compassion instead of resentment. Growth is having room for another person's trouble rather than self centeredness. Growth is knowing to walk away from poison people and toxic situations. Growth is knowing what I have is enough and sacrficing what I have for hopes of more is to have a lack of gratitude and dangerous to my peace.

Today I know having compassion for another person does not include taking on their pain nor does it consist of giving advice or healing their sorrow. I'm grateful to be welcomed into the lives of people who mourn so we can mourn with them. I want to follow the words of God.

In the house of sorrow resides wisdom and mercy. There are no greater gifts than wisdom to know good from evil and mercy toward others. My prayers are never for less than wisdom and mercy. The prayer is always answered, I don't always accept the gift as I sometimes choose self reliance because I'm human.When I do accept the answer to my prayers, it makes all the difference. Maybe I will remember now that I have seen evil and mercy again.

The Aaron House in October

Friday night and I'm relaxing at The Aaron House. Quiet night here. One of the guys is in Spring Green working on a film crew for a movie. He spent the summer in California doing an internship and appears to be on his way with a career. Another student-resident came home all excited tonight. The young man just returned from Kentucky where he watched his younger brother graduate from basic training. The experience was clearly moving. Sounds like we will have a young man move from Aaron's House to the US Army in February.

The Aaron House experience is a pleasure. We have an opening for one person and two days ago I received a call from a young man asking if he could apply. Tonight he called back to say his application was ready and he has his first interview scheduled. I'm glad we have an opening. The hope in this person's voice is special.

The picture above is my friend Tim and his son Charlie. Charlie is my God-son and our hunting days go back many years already. Charlie and Aaron were six or seven years apart but they had a nice bond. Aaron liked Charlie. The last time they saw eachother was on a pheasant hunt, 4/2/05. "Nice mop" was the way Aaron greeted Charlie that day. The last image Aaron had of Charlie was watching Charlie on the side of a road trying to make a rooster pheasant fly. Aaron and I sat in our truck laughing at Charlie's animated antics.

Tim sent the picture above to me along with a few others from a hunt we did together a few weeks ago. The three of us and my dog Doc on a little pond a short drive from my house. I am grateful for the time with Charlie even though I feel the loss of Aaron deeply on these outings. I should have my son too. Sure, Aaron would likely be away from home, but there would be some opportunity to be complete again sharing a father-son day afield with friends. We should be able to have these days for years.

This link might take you to a slide show of Tim and his brother Dave with their sons.



The road winds without end.
Lives pause and excellerate.
Families arrive at destinations.
I left the road with Aaron.
A nod to complete families,
their moments are shared memories.

I miss the moments which should be pictures.

Boys Adrift

This blog began in 2005 as primarily a book and idea review. When my life changed so did the blog. I'm grateful that I am able to read. Had I been such a reader in college....never mind. I wasn't a reader back then. I had no attention or retention.

Boys Adrift is written by Leonard Sax, MD, Ph.D. he's the author of Why Gender Matters. These are two books any parent should read. The science of gender differences is relatively new. The findings reported by Dr. Sax tell the story of Aaron's life as I see it. Cathy doesn't agree, but she hasn't read the books.

In Boys Adrift, Dr. Sax identifies five factors driving the decline of boys:

Video Games -- Disengage boys from real world pursuits
Teaching methods-- Changes in teaching have turned boys off on education
Prescription Drugs -- Overuse of meds for ADHD may be damaging motivational centers in the brain
Endocrine Disruptors -- Environmental estrogens may be lowering boys testosterone levels
Devaluation of Masculinity -- Shifts in popular culture have transformed the role models of manhood

If you are a parent of a young boy, you may want to add to your list of favorite sites www.boysadrift.com

As the author states, this book isn't the final say, but it does provide some help for parents to be informed when talking about your child with educators and doctors. The book is $25.00 at Borders. The web site is free.

Another Pheasant Opener

I passed on the pheasant season opener this year. Years ago when Molly was young, Aaron and I began what I thought would grow into a life long father and sons tradition. October 2001 was our last traditional opener.

Today I drove past the place where I hunted the 02 opener without Aaron and the 01 with him. I have fond memories of that day he asked to go without me. Just moments before loading up to go out for the traditional hunt, Aaron took a call from his employer, Matt. Matt was inviting Aaron to join him and some guys (20 somethings) for their opening day hunt. Without reservation, I conceded to release my hold on my young son. Sure, he could go with the boys. I guess that is what a Dad prepares his son to do. I was glad Aaron was ready. Off he went, gun, ammo and gear bag.

I hunted with my friend Trey that day. We had one flush over point. The two of us got off shots and the bird flew away safely. I returned home without the pheasant dinner I had promised Cathy. Later Aaron arrived home. In his hands a goose and a wood duck. The kid out hunted the old man. A good day.

In the spring of 05, just weeks before the end, Aaron told Patrick "You're hunting with us this year." Patrick's response was phrased in the way a 14 year old tells his big brother maybe yes, maybe no.

Traditions make for hard memories. The field where Aaron and I once hunted was empty this morning. I drove by quickly. Saturday youth football was in full swing when I passed the football field at ten thirty this morning. I saw us walking all of the fields of memores, side by side today. Saturdays in the fall.

I don't feel the pain at all
Unless you count when tear drops fall.
It only hurts me when I cry.
I only cry in the sunshine and the rain.
--- Dwight Yoakum

Levaing Solo Alone

New experiences are part of grief recovery and I'm just now seeing that I am ready. New experiences are new reference points in life. To accept new references I have to be ready to let other memories fade or blur from exact to my best recall. A drawing on a blackboard rubbed out by an eraser. Some residue of chalk leaves a dusty image of what was once sharp.

For some parts of life with Aaron, I am not ready to smudge with new experiences. A few weeks ago two of the mentors at Mount Bachelor Academy called to invite me to participate in the October Intervention. They have located Aaron's solo site and now use it as a solo site for one hand picked young man to occupy at each intervention. The interventions are held 2 times a year. Intervention is a 10 day experience on a ranch in the hills outside of Prineville. The boys selected for intervention learn to be men by being men. Aaron shined in the experience. He was selected MVP of intervention in April '04 and chosen to be a student leader in Ocotober '04.

Aaron shared his intervention experience with me on April 23, '04. To walk the grounds and hear him talk was to watch my son tell a story of his life from confusion to manhood. The photos we received from his October intervention leadership week a pictures of the man. From child to man Aaron made the stride with the help of men who showed by example. Aaron did the work. He used his smarts, his wit, and his physical strength. That ranch is sacred ground. I'm a witness, not a participant.

I cried alot of tears contemplating making the trip in two weeks. Body shaking emotion overwhelmed me. Fear is certainly part of the overwhelming emotions. I fear I would lose my clear recollection of what I saw and heard from Aaron. Do I dare step foot where we once walked together? Do I look at his solo site without him and confuse today with yesterday? I'm not ready to lose Aaron the way I have him in my mind. Are the intervention grounds best left undisturbed by me and the image of Aaron not confused with my appearance? I think so. Few people, I am told, ever took on Intervention in the way Aaron challenged the week. His courage and strength are part of the legend. That's OK with me. I make it a point to do my best to tell Aaron's story in truth. Leave him be no more or less than he was in life. If the memories of others have Aaron as bigger than life in comparison to others who walked the walk, then I would like to leave that image alone.

With a twist of irony, as I was in the midst of trying to come to terms with this decision, I was offered a chance to stay at the Aaron House on the same day as the intervention in October. I know where I should be creating new memories, instead of dust.

Aaron's solo site is probably not a place for me to return to in the near future. I know his ashes need to go there. Someday I will do my work to take Aaron to his home. For today, I'm leaving the place alone.

Collage above includes pictures of Aaron's view from his site. The grinning Aaron holding the steer hide is Aaron where he slept. The hide, he had ripped off of the skull which served to guard his site. The pictures were taken a couple of weeks after his solo. I took that picture. The poem was written by Aaron on his solo. The collage was made by Jason Vincent, Aaron's friend.

It's Going to be OK

A panel of grief experts addressed a Hospice grief counseling audience today and Cathy and I were wowed by their insight. The panel of four included a 15 and 17 year old brother and sister who lost their father on April 17, 2005. The other two were Patrick and his friend Amanda. They spoke from the perspective of a sibling who lost a brother and a friend who lost a friend. I may not have asked God to prove that Patrick was going to survive, but his well being is a daily prayer. God gave us a little peek at an answer to our prayers. We didn't know the other family before today, but I'm sure their Mom has been reassured. Amanda's parents can rest well knowing their daughter is growing from her walk with us.

With a dry wit, PT presented his take on grief recovery with honesty and humor. A dark subject like the death of a brother and traumatized parents doesn't appear to have much humor but when some situations from the past two years are related by a 16 year old remembering events from the eyes of a 14 year old, the view is a little less glum. Patrick told how he started on his path to Hospice group counseling by going to see the Hospice Counselor at school "because he was in detention and it seemed to be better than sitting alone in a small room".

These are four articulate young men and women. They gave the audience exceptional value for their time because they spoke from their hearts and said what matters. We heard them say, "Don't tell us the situation is terrible, or sad, We KNOW that. We want to know it will be all right some day." Gosh, that's so simple yet I missed it two years ago. Of course, in shock, I didn't know it would be OK. I certainly didn't feel like I could assure anyone of anything.

The experts also said, "Don't ask me 'how does that make you feel?' I'm SAD! just because I'm not crying doesn't mean I don't hurt. I'm not crying because I don't want to make my parents cry. I'm not crying because I don't know how you will react." Patrick said he wants to talk about his brother and when he gets a hint of an indication that the topic is not comfortable with the other person, he backs off for fear of causing discomfort. This is a tough topic, and I see it with people too. If I get teary eyed, the other person can be assured, they didn't make me cry, it just happened. It happens alot. I'll be OK, in fact I'll be better for having felt my feelings. The tears and runny nose are part of life.

Good things don't come from bad experiences. Smart work and good people helping enable people to grow from bad experiences. Without the work and other people, more death and heartache is assured. I thanked God as I sat in the back of the room today. I said thank you for giving Patrick wisdom and grace when there was a time the future was in doubt.

Patrick is going to be OK. Thank you God.

Violent Evil and Our Part

A guy Cathy and I know from grade school and high school, Ed Smith, lost his 20 year old son Aaron last Sunday. The Smiths live in Crandon, WI. Vengence unleashed evil without mercy.

Media makes hay in the darkness by disecting the motives of violent people. "Why? What was he thinking? Who's to blame? What went wrong?" The questions presume finding the answer does not include use of a mirror. Experts have volumes of profiles compiled to classify, qualify, and quantify the mind of killers. Answers must rest in the brain matter, or maybe we look too hard at the actor to avoid looking at ourselves.

When my Aaron was at his peak frustration with me he could break my heart with, "I hate you. I never want to be like you. No one likes you." Those were arrows through my heart. Only recently have I come to understand what Aaron meant. A sixteen year old in utter confusion has few skills to express himself in a manner understandable to the average parent. Being an adult with no humility, I was even less likely to understand. What Aaron meant was, "You have me so confused. You say one thing and do another. You expect me to live to standards you set and you can't attain. You have double standards. You stand for nothing that I value." The hate was with the confusion. Because he was a good young man, Aaron did not want to be like me and that was exactly what I would have wanted had I been able to look at myself at the time. His choices to differntiate himself from my world were wrong, but his reasons were sound. I wonder how much of the violent evil we see in youth has its roots in frustration with conflicting messages we older generations project.

I started to look at myself just in time to make a difference in Aaorn's life and well in time for Patrick. In my little part of the world, I learned that I may not be to blame for everything that goes wrong, but I can be part of the solution by changing myself. In Crandon and in the US, the questions of the day pertain to getting on with some "normalcy". What's normal is what has to be analyzed. When violence rules the day, blame is not the answer. Self assessment may be the better exercise.

What is my part in the problem? I like this question best: Now that this has happened, what am I going to do about me?

Images of Brothers

Video cameras were big and a bid deal when Aaron was born in '87. Cathy and I had one. It was about the size used by the news crews. The control was on the side with a hand grip and the butt end rested on your shoulder. We have VHS of boys when they were young. There is one of Aaron running away with a suitcase which carried the words "Going to Grandmas" on the side. There's Aaron walking away from the house, looking back and shouting, "And turn that camera off!!"

As the boys grew up the cameras grew smaller. We have a box full of video we expected to watch for years with the boys and their girl friends and future families. Two and a half years now and I can not bring myself to see anything with Aaron walking and talking. The first time I saw a deceased relative on tape the experience was odd. The person was a grandparent. Hearing the voice was a good feeling. A grandparent passing is understandable and in the right order. Having their image and voice with us to relive memories was OK. That was just the way it was supposed to be.

The desire to see and hear Aaron does not include seeing and hearing him on a recording. I fear that image will confuse my memory. I already am off balance with recalling the last days of Aaron because the images of those days are few. Most images are from months, nearly a year, before he died. I also fear the moving pictures and sound will put me down and back. Missing a person does not seem to get easier as time goes on. I can function in the day but I miss my son more. There is much for me to share with him and much I want to hear him tell.

Patrick's friend Amanda sent this picture to me today. Aaron is playing a guitar and superimposed over Aaron is Patrick playing Aaron's guitar. Patrick was the best little brother Aaron could have. In spite of enormous reasons to turn his back, Patrick never quit pulling for Aaron.

It's ironic that the morning after Patrick was born, a four year old Aaron was up early expecting to find his new brother in his crib. I heard Aaron bopping into the baby room and then come busting into the bedroom shouting to me, "Where is my brother?!? I want my brother!!" Aaron didn't understand that Patrick wasn't going to be born one day and be playing Superman and Dark Wing Duck the next day. His patience with Patrick wore thin when little PT had to spend an extra week in an incubator to grow a lung. Good lord Aaron was not impressed with this brother.

Aaron had little use for a baby who couldn't be a sidekick. As he gained self mobility, Patrick earned some parts in Aaron's imaginary life. Patrick's turn to wish for the brother he always wanted came when Aaron started to grow away from his family. No matter how much Aaron struggled, Patrick loved him. Oh, Patrick's patience was tested. Often Patrick would get his hopes up and have them dashed by Aaron's stumbles. I don't believe PT gave up on Aaron at any time, but he did protect himself from dissapointment as best he could at 11 and 12. A kid can gain wisdom and compassion by being tested in the fires of chaos if he doesn't give in to the temptation of fighting dissapointment with resentment.

We too had big visions for Aaron and Patrick. Like a little boy, I had expectations that didn't include the reality of life's possible detours. Things can go wrong but the real disasters happen to other people.

Every day I feel that shocking sensation in my heart and head telling me Aaron is gone. I grit my teeth and groan. I suppose everyday Patrick would like to shout the words little Aaron said in January 1991, "Where's my brother?!?! I want my brother!"

Aaron is proud of Patrick. Patrick carries what he knows was best about Aaron as a light in his soul. He shares that spark with the world in the way he lives his life. Patrick was Aaron's teacher and Aaron was and still is Patrick's mentor.

What To Do About Me?

Four years ago this month when the bottom was falling out with Aaron I had no clue of what right actions to take. Over the course of the preceding eight weeks I tried many actions and committed to none. The chaos grew and I waged a battle against the invisible evil. Aaron took the brunt of my frustration. He and I were pitted against eachother. Aaron was consumed by the cunning, baffling, and powerful drug and I was consumed with anger. Anger at Aaron, his collection of users and pushers who slinked in and out under the cover of darkness or hidden by two-faced masks. And anger at powerlessness.

Dads fix things. Bikes, balls, toys. Sometimes Dads can fix broken hearts. But Dads can't fix their children. They can fix themselves. That, I found, is enough.

Parents sometimes look to me for advice with their children in trouble with addiction or consumption. My advice is always the same: (1) Call a professional to counsel with you and your child. (2) Get yourself into support counseling such as Al-Anon. (3) Encourage other family members to do the same and the best encouragement is getting yourself there (4) If you use alcohol or other drugs, quit. I self medicated and tried to tell my son he was wrong and my actions were right--wrong!(5) Love your child, hate the desease and never confuse the two.

I asked myself and others "What am I going to do about Aaron?" The question I should have asked is "What can I do about me?" When I finally found my way into answering that question it made all of the difference. I was late but not too late. For that I am grateful.

Tangled Up in Blues

 

Andy Taylor and Opie had the best father and son conversations at their favorite fishing hole on Meyer's Lake. Throwing a line, sharing wisdom and wonder, watching bobbers, and catching fish. That's the way I imagined life would be for my sons and me. As a little guy, I spent a good amount of time doing exactly that with my dad. I forgot that he spent most of his time fishing with me not fishing, but untangling my line. "Now how did you do that??" I can hear my dad's bewilderment at the spider web mess dangling from the end of my rod. Twenty five years later I was just as bewildered seeing the tip of a son's rod and tangled web inches from my face.

Duck hunting and fishing have tangled lines in common. No matter how careful I am to wrap the anchor lines before returning the decoys to the bag, I find the lines snarled at 5:00 AM in the dark marsh. To love hunting and fishing you have to take tangles and snarls in stride. I suppose as a younger dad I was more eager than wise. The inevitable rat's nest of lines was a major inconvenience to me. I had my vision of what the day should be, Aaron and Patrick surely had their's and I know mine didn't include spending the day untwisting, cutting, re-tieing, re-peating.

Fall is my time. Thursday I left for a weekend of hunting where I grew up. I don't get excited about things the way I did before, but I still look to the northern area duck season opener with anticipation. Going north to hunt or fish to me means going to the Wolf River, or as I called it The Root Beer River. Lots of memories there going back to when I was six, on to when Aaron and Patrick were young, and in the last three seasons alone with memories and time to contemplate.

The early morning moments on the water are special. The images are without detail but crisp and sounds are clear. Few guys hunt alone. Alot of fellas are out with their sons or daughters. In a canoe or boat the silouettes are distinctly father and child. The voices are big and small. The conversations are entertaining, sometimes funny, and sometimes a tear trickles down. On Sunday morning I heard a dad say to his son, "Joey, Dixie is my dog when she hunts well and she's your dog when she needs to be fed." Joey's answer was too quiet for me to hear but they asked Dixie to decide.

My canoe is a two man craft. Aaron was with me when we picked it out. He owned the bow. There he could sit or sleep comfortably. The little boat looks so long without my buddy snuggled up in the dark. Patrick took the position for one day last year. I believe he would agree the canoe is a good sleeper.

This weekend it occured to me that I don't get too concerned about tangles and snarls. The time I spent with my tangled messes was time remembering watching my dad do magic and being watched by my boys as I tried to perform the same tricks. I think I cut the line more often than my line was cut.

I'm grateful my emotions aren't dominated by anger. Blues, as I feel blues, are not despair. Blues are sad. Despair is physical, emotional, and mental hell.

The picture above is a painting by David Macri. The dog is Molly remembering.


We never met or talked. We exchanged some emails and he read the early days of this blog. Notice the silouette of the Dad and son. I love this painting and I see more of my life in it every year. Sometimes the image is my dad and me. Then it's Aaron and me or Patrick and me. Today the hunters are people I don't know, never saw, and barely heard.

Jenna Is Married

September 2004, Homecoming. Jenna and friends came by to see Aaron before going out for the evening. The girls were going to homecoming dinner and dance boy-less. Aaron was home from MBA for one more night. He was glad to see everyone and he was getting himself mentally ready to return to Mount Bachelor. The girls all had their pictures taken with Aaron. Moms came by to get in on the photo opportunity. The kids were 17 and 18 three years ago, almost to the day. How precious the day would be we did not know.

I knew the day would come when Aaron's friends would begin getting married. Living day to day it's healthy to not project into the future but of course I always did. "What is it going to be like in 4 or 5 years when the kids are getting married? Will we fall apart all over again? God, it'll be sad to see everyone without Aaron."

Cathy and I grew up in Antigo. We didn't have a community swimming pool, we had The Mud Hole. There was sand on the edge and mud beyond the rope. A diving board was a hundred or so feet above the water in an area with a concrete wall and wire fence. You couldn't, or in my case didn't have to, jump off of the diving board until you swam across the pond, beyond the rope, where you couldn't touch bottom and wouldn't want to. I watched kids take the challenge. They slipped into the water on the east side, swam behind the boat while the rowing life guard used the paddles to splash water at the swimmer and the guard in the back of the boat berrated the swimmer with taunts about drowning. That's the way it looked to me from the shore. The stories told by the big kids convinced me that I was seeing what I heard.

I never went into the mud hole without testing the water with my toes. Everyone of my friends would race down the hill, jump off of their bikes, drop their towels and sprint into the water. I did all of that except at the edge, I tested the water. At best I could do a quick wade. Sometimes, I would back-up and run in lifting my feet out of the water as if I could prevent getting into the cold pond by running on top of the water.

There was no reason to ever jump off of the 10 story board. Some guys could do amazing dives. I can still see them motoring down to the end, bouncing, springing into the air, the board would go BA-RROOOMROOOOMROOOOOOMROOOMRooooomm, and the kid would summersault and splash head first into the water. Cool. As we got older and more of my friends made the swim, fewer of us were left watching at the fence. I never left the fence.

I was probably 12 or 13 when I jumped off of the diving board. Sleep-outs were the best way to explore the city as a pre-teen. We went everywhere after midnight. With six years of preparation, in the middle of a summer night, I jumped feet first off of the board. I was swimming to the surface before I hit the water. I don't know if I touched the bottom, but I did reach the surface and made it to shore. It wasn't that bad. The board was closer to the water than I thought. The Mud-Hole was filled in long ago.

The wedding was beautiful. I enjoyed seeing the kids having fun and being dressed up for real. Their lives go on and that's a good thing. I'm grateful that Aaron's friends are living life.

I'm Going to Aaron's House...

With courage to accept things I cannot change, I happily told Cathy "Hey, I'm going to spend the night at Aaron's house." I like the way that sounded. ...going to Aaron's house. As if our Aaron was "kickin' it" at his own place and I'm going over for a little father/son time. Cool. If he would remember that I was coming I suspect Aaron would even clean up the place--a little.

We would have pizza delivered because going out for dinner would take too long..."But, Dad if you wanna go out, that's cool. We can do that. It's up to you. Whatever you wanna do. Should we order pizza?"

The Gorham St. house is sure a comfortable place. Wonderfully serene. The colors are perfect. Finishes are terrific. We have a boiler heat system. Late Wisconsin weather changes from 90 degrees two weeks ago to 33 tonight. The boiler isn't fired up yet. I hope the 33 stays outside.

Cathy and I have been talking about being open to feeling Aaron's presence. I've been feeling a connection. What I do is project thoughts to Aaron in the way I would talk to him in the matter of fact way we talk to people we expect to see tomorrow and forever. I see Aaron as being content and present. He's gone but not out of my life. I know he's gone. That's not OK. I feel as if I have moved to a differnt place with Aaron---not life and not death. Not half-way, but somewhere in the vast void where not life and not death exists. I'm here. He's there. We are right where we should be.

Aaron's House exists, not because Aaron died, but because Aaron lived.

Meaning to Take Action

Somewhere back in the early days of this Blog are references to Viktor Frankl's book Man's Search For Meaning. In a dark time Mr. Frankl gave me perspective. Outlined in red and highlighted in yellow, it was read more than once, on page 85 is this direction: We need to stop asking about the meaning of life, and instead to ghink of ourselves as those who were being questioned by life--daily and hourly. Our answer must consist, not in talk and mdeitation, but in right action and in right conduct. Life ultimately means taking the responsibility to find the right answer to its problems and to fulfill the tasks which it constantly sets for each individual. In six words: "What do I mean to life?"

Cathy and I were invited to attend a one year memorial celebration to the life of a young man we never met, but probably know. Dr. John Jung. A forever 28 year old UW Madison graduate who in his too short life acquired an MBA, became a Doctor, and gave the UW the All Campus Party. John was a young man of immense talent who valued sober fun and sewed the seeds of goodness from here to New York City. Those seeds are growing into something of gigantic goodness because of what John meant to life. In the same way that we feel Aaron making vibes in the world by continuing his idea in Aaron's House, John's family and friends feel his presence in the world by continuing their special bond. They are taking action to give what they know.

Cathy and Patrick are taking right actions to live above their circumstances. I see Patrick rising above himself, growing beyond himself at a young age, and turning a personal tragedy into a triumph. Patrick is surviving the unthinkable and developing a healthy compassion to go along with a hard earned insight into life. Cathy is able to be the Mother Patrick needs because she refused to be taken--in life and in spirit--from her surviving son. Friends gave her the safety to grieve and they were there when she was ready to laugh. She's modified her concept of what she means to life after having life violently obliterate what Cathy thought life was about. Cathy questioned herself. Doubted herself as a person and a mother. With the help of exceptional grief therapists and serious soul searching, Cathy is right where she should be. Confident in her ability, humble, and full of grace.

Depression, aggression, and addiction are due to feelings of emptiness and meaninglessness

That sentence was highlighted too. Because my memory is what it is, I should have tatooed those words on the palms of my hands. Then in moments of despair I'd see what I need to see. Maybe because I have lived it I will begin to learn it. When I demand life have the meaning I want, deep sadness and anger dominate me. I'm in the right place when I take action to give. God's work is always a better job than Tom's work.

The last few weeks I wore a suit of lead. It was heavy and restricted my movements. We had an amazing session with Bobbi and Mourad last Wednesday. These are two souls of angels. They are able to make the lead melt away. I'm wearing boxer shorts and plain white t-shirt three days after facing my anguish honestly with humility.

Facing a fate that cannot be changed, I will ask myself again: now that this has happened, what am I going to do about me? I'm going to continue to mean something about gratitude to life.

Final thought: I drove past the DeForest Youth Football field today during games. Glancing over my eyes immediately picked out a lanky fellow in a DeForest helmet and yellow jersey. His right leg was bent so his toes of his right foot were touching the ground and his heal was on his left shin. There would easily be 22 kids on that field and dozens more scattered about. The only number I saw was 29. Aaron's number, his height, and his way of standing. Probably an angel.

Nothing Good Comes From Evil

Bad shit has absolutely no redeeming value. Nothing good comes from evil. I've heard the cliche "Well, maybe something good will come from Aaron's death." What good could possibly come from the death of a young person? Good is a relative concept. For something to be "good" it has to hold up as equal or better than the event or object it is compared to.

God did not intend for man to die or suffer. It is by choice of man that we experience death and pain. The evil which takes a young life in war or illness, accident or misfortune is worthless.

Evil and bad shit gets credit they don't merit when we say "Something good can come from this." Good can't come from evil anymore than a healthy meal can come from a dead fish. An action has to be taken in a good way by good people with good intentions. The dead fish just stinks.

When shit happens, placed before us are two hands. In one hand is evil, the other good. We choose which offering to accept. Now that this has happened, what am I going to do about me? Somewhere around 850 days later, I'm asking myself that question for about the 850th time. What am I going to do about me? What do I want my life to be in the world? I want to be compassionate. I'd like to go through life not hurting anyone and not taking. I used to pray for things like health, wealth, and happiness. Humility and compassion are more than anything else and they're enough.

School started yesterday. Patrick drove himself to school in his car. Cathy makes a big deal out of the first day of school. She has pictures from every year. This one was the last year that the boys went to the first day of school together. September 2003. They are walking to Aaron's truck. He died in that vehicle. In September '03 we had hope. Ninety days +/-, after this picture was taken Aaron was on his way to Oregon.

Pictures for Terri

Cathy spent the last week in Idaho renewing her bond with three of her BFF's from high school. Terri, Kim, Holley, and Cathy might have been apart for most of 30 years but their hearts and minds were always connected. The four days together was powerful medicine for Cathy. Terri came up with the idea of having Cathy come visit her for some rest and relaxation. Cathy does not like being away from home and the trip through Minneapolis was last made with Aaron by her side so she was anxious about going. Had she found a way out, Cathy said she would have cancelled. She didn't and Cathy will be forever grateful. The trip was the absolute best.

Friends from our youth are special. They are part of who we are. These three friends live in Idaho, Oklahoma, and Florida. They could not be here for Aaron's funeral and now was the right time for them to be there for Cathy. I know that friends come in at just the right time. Last year would not have been the right time for Holley, Kim, and Terri to be there for Cathy. The year before was not the right time, but this year was perfect. Four days of laughing, crying, remembering, making new memories, and planning new adventures with loving friends opened a new door for Cathy. She's holding her head higher today. Cathy doesn't know what it was about the visit that made such an impact on her but she knows going there was the right thing to do and she feels the love of her friends healing her grief.

Terri told Cathy that she reads this blog and likes the "ones with pictures the best". So, Terri--I give you pictures. Aaron at the rushing water was taken in OR in April '04. The platform is a memorial to a young man who had died. We wondered what had happened. Was it a kayaking accident at the rapids? We didn't find out. Aaron probably knows today.

The other two pics are from August '04 at MBA. Notice how Aaron is holding his pants up with one hand and a book in the other. This was a time when Aaron was doing a lot of reading and personal growth. Aaron was a content young man that weekend. He was breaking from his past and was contemplating his life. The picture of Cathy leading the boys on the path is priceless. Cathy and her boys. I thought they would be together forever.

Friday Night Lights

For a two days I thought about going to the home football game tonight. In the last hour I came to a decision. I'm not going to the football game. That was a crazy thought. What would I gain by subjecting myself to that experience. God, I can't drive by the empty practice field without a quiver of agony. Last year I think I went to a half of a game, or was that the year before? Many days have passed and little differentiates one from the other. All days are occupied with the same dominating focus.

In the light of the sun setting on August, Doc and I were noseing around the oak tree in the front yard looking for acorns. The squirels chew them up and leave few of the perfect ones so you have to look close in the grass and ground-up shells. An acorn is beautiful creation. The little cap with a tiny stem is as perfect as a wool beret. A piece of oak furniture finished in a craftsman's shop is almost as fine as the acorn's body.

Looking close at the base of the trunk of the tree I saw three shards of material out of place. Two little finger nail size pieces of purple and on of white. They weren't vegetable, they were mineral. Coffee cup in fact. Carbon dating would put their date of destruction at May 11th to 13th, 2005. I shattered the mugs in anger, and found the pieces in peace.

I'm not going to the game tonight. I fear my heart would shatter. Tonight I want to keep the peace. In the Friday night light of the setting sun I will ride my bike and leave the pieces of the past where they belong.

Senses

When I sit still I appreciate my senses. The rest of the time they get as much respect as the hairs on my head; if they were gone I'd miss 'em but I don't care what they do.

Tonight is a perfect late summer early evening. My senses of sight, sound, smell, touch, are pulling memories out of the past. I'm looking over our deck into the green and brown-black woods of our back yard. The patches of sky I see through the leaves is the lightest shade of blue. The flowers in the gardens are faded to fall. Air temperature is football night cool, just a touch under warm.

At any moment I could hear the kitchen door to the garage open with a push. That door has it's own DNA sound. I hung the door so it's been partially broken since day one. What you hear with that door is more what you don't hear--the latch doesn't work so you don't hear the click first, you hear the spring in the tube groaning. The next sound would be Aaron or Patrick pushing their way in--"Hey." Then the fridge opens because you can't come in the house unless you inspect the interior of the fridge.

There will be dew on the grass in the morning. Squirrels are gathering nuts. Our yard is full of shells. The leaves are showing signs of preparing to bale out. I don't hear the little kids tonight. Moms and Dads are probably trying to get them on a school schedule a week early. We did that.

7:35 PM. In grade school days, Aaron and I would be wrapping up youth football practice. Cathy usually had dinner ready. Lots of noise in the house. We would finish a night like this on the deck or front porch.

Somebody is cutting grass of course. Winter might be the quietest time. Living in a neighborhood of mixed ages a lawn mower is constantly at work. The retired guys cut grass from morning 'till dinner and the working fellas start at dinner and go 'till dark. Winter has one redeeming quality after all.

It gets darker on the hill in the trees earlier than below. Patrick argued that point as a little guy. He was right. We let him stay out ten minutes longer. I can hear the sounds of Patrick and Aaron and their friends. In and out of the house. ON bikes, skateboards, and roller blades. Our doors got a workout and survived. The bikes are hung up, beaten to submission like the roller blades.

Now it's ten minutes later and time for Patrick to come home. When he comes in he'll have little sweat beads on his nose. Aaron will come in a little later. He'll be hungry.

Does God Have an Alibi?

Tomorrow brings today
Today is yesterday once more.
Grief lasts forever; grief can't be stopped.
Forever feel grief or
stop forever.

Life is unkind and fair
that's as good as it gets.
Where is God?
Does God have an alibi?
Does God have an alibi?

God does not kill, God does not save.
Is this a giant play?
God watches and never intervenes.
Does God have an alibi?
Does God have an alibi?

Infuriating

Mourad said it is OK for me to be angry because I am angry. Not possible for to believe I can't be angry when I am. I know what I'm angry about. My son is gone and I did not give my permission for him to be gone this long and I surely did not give permission for God or anyone to take him. I did not give permission to anyone to build a stupid wall close to the road. I hate that wall. Who needs a wall to hold wood chips? Why does a four foot high, two foot wide wall have to be built 20 some feet from the edge of a road when there is 80 acres of land to hold mulch? Goddamn wall.

I want my son back! Fu----ng mulch sh-t f---ing wall. I hate that wall.
The owner said "If I knew the wall was dangerous I would never have built it." Two fu--ing years later the wall still stands and in fact it was re-fu--ing built. Put the fu---ng wood chip sh-t wall beind the goddamn barn out of harms way. Let my son go past. Let him be safe.

I have no abundance of gratitude right now. I'm angry. I didn't say it was OK to hurt my son.

Bring my son home and leave me alone.

Looking, Seeing, Remembering

Three years ago today we were in Oregon looking to the future and never saw it coming. The peace of that day is lost.

I'm sitting in the midst of memories. The good and the evil memories make for a hurricane of emotions. Physical pain is in my forehead behind my right eye. Mental pain is in everything my eyes see and my mind recalls.

Football Season Again

Wednesday evening Cathy and drove into DeForest to pick up a donation for the Aaron House. The route took us past the high school football practice. Four years since football mattered to me, my heart ached seeing the players. Until September '04, football was a big deal to Aaron and me. We spent alot of time together on those fields and around football.

The Packers are playing a pre-season game right now. To say Packer football was a big deal in Aaron and Patrick's childhood is an understatement. They grew up in the glory days. They saw their Dad go a little overboard more than once.

Football has not been the same to me since '03. That fall we started to lose Aaron to an addiction. Aaron lost his desire that year as is the case when an addiction consumes a life. After several months of recovery, Aaron regained a desire to play and held it just long enough to let go for good in a healthy way a year later.

Never again will football be anything significant to me. Everything about the game has the same affect: An empty, harsh, cold, hard, dull ache gets me right in the center of my chest. I feel it in my chest, my back, my left arm, and the back of my head. The games go on. Players play, fans cheer and it's all so unreal to be happening without my son.

I have more in my life than a game but that doesn't change the pain triggered by what once was.

Because Aaron Lived

A little project started two years ago opened today and we call it Aaron's House.
Four young men in pursuit of a solid foundation in sobriety are moving in to the building. They are living Aaron's idea. The idea was for a sober living environment where friends who shared the struggle of living with an addiction would support one another and begin their college education. Aaron wanted to live that idea in Bend, OR with some friends from Mount Bachelor Academy. "It'll work Dad..."

Aaron's House exists, not because Aaron died, but because he lived.
Aaron's House exists, not because Aaron had an addiction to a chemical dependency, but because he had an idea to change himself to live a healthy life.

Aaron's House is not to honor Aaron or memorialize him. Aaron is who Aaron was, no more, no less. Aaron's House is an honor to God. It's a testament to hope, to goodness, to mercy. Aaron's House is an offering of gratitude. Aaron's House exists because of charity and charity is the weapon to defeat evil. Evil took a kick in the ass from the people who love Aaron and/or love what he meant to life.

I'm tired tonight. I'm sad. I miss my son and I am deeply grateful for my other son, Patrick. Aaron isn't coming home but with the Aaron House in the community I feel Aaron making a difference in the world while I live, because he lived.

See the pictures from the dedication day on www.AaronsHouseMadison.org

Or Go Directly to Amanda Anderson's photos: http://www.picturetrail.com/aaronshouse

Make-up Work

"Feeling your feelings" is a term grief and recovery counselors use. In grade school I had the box of---it was no box, more like a sleeve, eight crayola crayons. A few kids had eight shades of blue. Most of us had regular blue. If emotions were made by Crayola, today I would say I have the fat box of 64.

Up to two years ago emotions to me were: Happy, sad, mad. I didn't know about their relative: Content, pleased, accepting to name a few on the bright side. And the many shades of blues such as angry, bitter, resentful, sorrow, horror, unrelenting-grief, violent, hurt, lost, disconnected, could-care-less, and deserving of fairness. The last one is an emotion you get when you mix all the blues together. Same as mixing red, brown, blue, purple or violet, yellow, and orange, deserving of fairness is sort of a muted shade of black.

I can't define the feeling I get when I see parents with their sons and daughters from the class of '05. Lost and disconnected captures some of the twinge. The closest feeling that I can recall from the archives of my memory is from about 1969-70. In grade school, about age 10 and 11 when everyone was a friend, if you missed a few days with a real illness everyone cared about you. Not when you were "sick" on a Friday and playing with friends on Saturday morning. The sick where friend's mom's called your mo to see how you were doing, and no one brought your home-work home. The kind when you were sick on Thursday, Friday, worse on Saturday and Sunday, getting better on Monday, still home on Tuesday and back to school on Wednesday afternoon with a note from the family doctor.

When you got back to school even Sister Francis Anne and the vicious Principal nun who's name but not her face I've forgotten, showed some concern. Even the cute girls rushed over to give some attention. Everyone helped you with the Make-up work. While everyone talked about the events of the school day, and moved chapters ahead in math, spelling, English, and reading, you were left with Make-up work. Stacks of it. You couldn't relate to the stories. You had nothing to add. Your classmates knew things you didn't know about or comprehend. You had to do the Make-up work and the new stuff. There was no catching up. Your class moved on without you. You didn't belong to the same grade. A kid without a home-room. The only place you felt normal was at home. If home-schooling was an option, you'd ask to transfer.

In childhood, you eventually caught up and someone else got the mumps. I wish there was a penicillin for this illness. I'd accept the shots that left you crippled in one rump. I'd gladly take the week worth of medicine in the giant spoons- full...pinkish, reddish pills all chopped up and mixed with water--the most bitter tasting stuff I ever experienced until two years ago.

Where'd All The Good People Go...in the Editorial Room?

Two weeks ago a family in our neighborhood was embraced in the arms of extraordinary compassion from people in the DeForest community and across the country. An adult family member was missing. She vanished in the night without a trace. Family, friends, neighbors, concerned people everywhere asked for help, and prayed for one thing--the safe return of Francine. Qualifications were not attached to any of the pleas and prayers of good people.

The good people were not on the job in the DeForest Times-Tribune editorial room. A poisonous editorial opinion in the form of a drawing appeared in the August 2, 2007 edition on the Opinions Page. I'm not going to repeat the message of the drawing. But I wonder, did someone decide a resolution to the mystery was worth the effort of all who searched and cared only if foul play was involved? That can't be the prevailing attitude. We get heaps and heaps of what we sew. Compassion can't be reserved for tragic endings.

Is there some resentment? A man told me in my lowest moment: Resentment is like taking poison and hoping the other person dies. Profound and proven.


Appropriately,-----a few lines from:

Good People by Jack Johnson

You win
It's your show, now
so what's it gunna be
cause people
will tune in
how many train wrecks do we need to see?
before we lose touch of
we thought this was low
It's bad gettin worse so

Where'd all the good people go
I've been changin channels
I don't se them on the tv shows
Whered all the good people go
We got heaps and heaps of what we sew

Annheuser Busch: Parenting Advice from Real Men of Self Righteousness

Real Men of Genius is my favorite commercial. Great ad writing in a sixty second format is a talent. When the result is something to make me laugh at simplicity, the work is pure art. I prefer this commercial campaign on radio to any Super Bowl ad ever run. When I was buying beer, none of the ads ever caused me to buy a Bud, but they do make me laugh. The Coors Light "...And twins" compelled me to buy Coors Light. I'm a visual guy.

Yesterday I heard a radio ad by Annheuser Busch that left me annoyed. Apparently some smart executives decided to use the AB mega billions to redirect the attention of teen alcohol abuse from the producer to the parents. I don't remember the exact words, but the message included a blatant statement that children who have parents who stay involved in the child's life are less likely to partake in illegal and dangerous activities. Well, that's just brilliant. Now I know what I did wrong.

I should have been more involved. Let see, I took my young sons to Milwaukee and stayed in a tall hotel downtown. On top of a taller building, viewable from our location and points beyond-- a Budweiser Sign. We saw baseball games at Miller Park. The home team is the Brewers. For a homerun, the team mascot, Bernie Brewer, slides into a giant beer stein. When we went to Packer Games, we entered the stadium at The Miller Gate. Every sporting event we watched on TV was sponsored by beer companies. A three hour presentation of football includes nearly two hours of commercials--most selling a life of fun and frolic as a by-product of beer consumption. In Florida we could visit Busch Gardens. Aaron and I went to a movie in Bend, OR when he was at boarding school. Prior to the previews we watched a beer commercial. I remember the moment because I knew I wanted a cold beer and suspected Aaron was being tempted by the message. Every grocery store and convenience store has bread, butter, milk, beer, wine, and hard liquor. More stores sell beer than books in our town. Devils Lake is a pristine lake and park, except for the trash bins overflowing with empty beer carcassas on a Sunday afternoon.

Now I wasn't a perfect parent. I abused alcohol in front of my children and that was wrong; I knew it was wrong then but I downplayed the risk. My boat was sometimes a giant, floating cooler. I can accept responsibility for my mistakes-- and there were many. There will be more. Help from the liquor industry to raise attention to my flaws is not necessary. They could spend some effort in self evaluation too.

Today I pay attention to beer commercials and liquor ads. In the ads we get the girl, the girl gets the guy, our team wins; everyone gets the car, the fun, the friends, the high life. I know people who have lost body, mind, and soul from alcohol abuse. I know people who have lost family members from alcohol abuse. Friends have died. Their parents were involved from beginning to dire end. Parents and their children do amazing work changing themselves. They can't fix the past. They focus on the present. They focus on self. AB could do the same. Responsibility. Humility. Honesty. I'd like to see Annheuser Busch and Miller compete to make the most honest beer commercial.

For myself, yes, I should have been more involved with my sons...A mega-million dollar ad budget of my own, and a shield from every temptation would have been helpful too.

Contemplation

Writing helps to organize what I think I'm learning. The books by Thomas Merton have clarified what I didn't grasp from Catholic grade school and Sunday sermons. Merton died in 1968 at the height of interest in his thoughts. Not all of the interest was supportive. Merton's message resonated with the anti-establishment crowd questioning America's righteous trampling on lives around the globe. The renewed interest in Merton is easily understood in light of history repeating itself.

The Merton Institute for Contemplative Living is a useful resource for insight into Merton's writing. www.Mertoninstitute.org A letter arrived this week with a simple outline of what it means to live contemplatively. In a survey of interested persons, the Institute concluded that most people defined contemplative living as leading a less complicated, less busy, more quiet life, or engaging in prayer, meditation, or yoga. On a lineal plane, contemplative life was achieved by living more like a monk or nun and less like a person outside of religious orders.

Merton explains contemplative living as living in true relationships with oneself, God, others, and nature. That made perfect sense to me. The more effort I've made to be open to other spiritual practices, the more I've seen similarities in core values. Honoring self, God, others, and nature is clear in native American beliefs, Buddhism, and Christianity--three belief systems where I've barely scratched the surface. All agree that we become true when we free ourselves of illusions of being independent of our true self, God, others, and nature.

The challenge of being my true self and knowing that it is enough to be me as I am is the first truth to accomplish. When I focus on being my true self I am open to my responsibilities to the relationships I have with God, others, and nature. By being comfortable with me as God made me enables me to accept that my everyday life, my active life in career, home, and in charity is my spiritual life. Isolating from everyday life is not a way to increase my spiritual being. Being aware of my place in the world and my responsibility, and the affect of my actions is the work of my contemplative life.

To affect change in the world, change myself.

Judgements Are Flying. Judgements Are Flying.

A man rode a bike up to Aaron's House last Saturday and asked to talk to someone in charge. Cathy decided that person would be me. I sat down on the front steps when the fellow asked if he could help us. "I'm a skilled carpenter. Do you have anything I could do for you?"

Aaron did his emotional growing at Mount Bachelor Academy. Woven into the fabric of the work at MBA, the young men and women were exposed to a basic and healthy ism ---non-judgementalism. I didn't teach that theory in our home. Aaron would often tell me as a young teenager "You're too judgemental, Dad." I answered with "You need to be more judgemental. It's OK to not be friends with everyone. Some of these friends of your's are bad news." The conversation would typically end with Aaron pulling his hair and giving his final response, "Ahhhh. I don't want to ever be like you!"

Today Patrick calls me on my judgemental ways. Fortunately the incidents are less common but the character trait is not eliminated. "We have some carpentry work to do but all of the labor is donated. This is a volunteer project." I told the man on the bike. He informed me that he was working with a labor service and his skills were being put to work on some condo projects around Dane County. With more fact than humility in my voice I said,"There are a few things that I could use help on, but again this is a volunteer project. We don't have money to pay anyone." With persaverence and compassion, the man on the bike told me, "I understand the word. If you have some carpentry work. I can help. I'd like to help you. I'm not looking to be paid." I accepted his offer and we agreed to meet at the house at 9AM on Sunday.

Aaron told us how MBA worked acceptance and understanding into the program. Students were challenged to express themselves, and share their emotions. What they stood for mattered, what they believed was their beliefs, and feelings were to be felt, styles not criticized. Peers were not to be judged. All of the students had their humanity in common. They also were all raised in the same world. How do you not judge another human being when it seems to judge is to be human? Aaron told us how the guys at MBA would react when the tension in a room was elevating over an uncomfortable situation. To make light, the kids would say to eachother--"Judgements are flying. Judgements are flying."

No more had the man left on his bike and I judged him undependable based on how he looked and what he was wearing. Within seconds I concluded that was the last I would see of the man , with the torn jeans, dirty shirt, and a bike with a flat tire. Sunday morning came and Cathy told me that I had better get going to meet the man at the house to do the carpentry work. "He's not going to show up. And I'm not running down there for nothing," was my response. Cathy left for church. I made a phone call and plopped on the couch.

It was 9:20 when the phone rang. "This is Randy. I'm at the house. You were going to meet me at 9:00." Me, "OK. I'm running late (lie). I'll be there in 20 minutes." I scrambled off forgetting the tools I promised to bring. Five hours later, the house had a new back porch railing, some rain barrel stands and a a commitment to rebuild the front porch stairs this Saturday. All from the tattered clothes wearing man on the bike. Randy is the man's name. Randy lives in a homeless shelter.

Judgements are flying. I continue to learn what matters and my teachers are everywhere.

No Promises

The family that plays together stays together. The family that eats together stays together.
The family that prays together stays together. The family that reads together stays together. If these are promises, somebody owes an apology to alot of families.

Cathy and I were typical, traditional parents whatever that means. Cathy's career was at home with the boys, I had the career outside of the house. We went to church on Sundays. Ate dinner as a family. Prayed as a family. Played as a family. All are incidents of happy, sad, surprising times. We all laughed in church. We all cried in church. Same with the dinner table.

There is a prayer we Catholics say at meal time and it goes like this:
Bless us O Lord for these thy gifts which we are about to receive from thy bounty through Christ our Lord, Amen.

After chanting and mumbling that sentence 1095 times a year for 30 plus years it occured to me that I had no clue what it meant. A change in the prayer ritualwas in order.

Cathy sat to my left, Patrick to my right with his back to the window, and Aaron was directly across from me. With a sleeve in the table, Aaron had a place at the opposite head of the table typically reserved for one of the parents. We kept the table small and round. Our new prayer ritual, starting in '98, was to make the sign of the cross, "In the name of the Father, the Son, the Holy Spirit, Amen" (we didn't say Holy Ghost. That was to scary for the boys) and then proceed with a simple thank you for whatever we were grateful for. Patrick and I would typically have some depth to our gratitude--Patrick, "For the sunny day so I could play with my friends". Me, "For the people who care for the children who have no parents." Aaron and Cathy would try to be the first to say "For this food". They were the traditionalists and praying from the heart was not going to come easy for the Catholic school girl and the alter boy.

Family dinners are rare as are prayers at the dinner table. I know we all have gratitude but the empty chair is sad enough without the silence it emits in turn.

Only this past Saturday did Cathy announce that she feels a desire to return to church. The Mom who rallied the boys--all three of us boys, on Saturday nights or Sunday mornings to get to church against our wills. The Mom who set the table, made the dinners, led the prayers. The Mom who played the games, organized the family outings, read the stories until the covers fell off. That Mom attended church last Sunday for the third time since Aaron's funeral. Cathy cried.

She put it all on the line for her boys. Moms do that. They give themselves to their children and trust in the religion of their youth. Only Mothers know a Mother's sorrow. God didn't kill Cathy's son. God didn't fail Aaron. There is no purpose in Aaron's death. There is solitude in the sorrow and in solitude is God. Cathy is nearest to God and this is not the God of our youth. This God has patience and mercy.

So, what about "The family that _______ together, stays together."? That's not a promise. That's a bumper sticker from the religious politics of the feel good church of any denomination.

Always Have Memories

The consolation prize for losing a son or daughter is the memories. They come in a variety of facsimiles of life. Pictures, videos, writings, movie reels in our minds to name a few. There is a memory trigger I'd like to know a name for; it's the one where you see a person doing an activity your child once did well and your heart aches and your eyes burn.

I returned from a visit to Antigo where I spent time with family. The young kids have some features similar, naturally, to Aaron and Patrick. Facial expressions, eyes, eyebrows, ears, body language, voice inflections, skinned knees, hands, everything reminds me of my son. I see memories in all of the kids. Some make me smile or touch a tender nerve and burn my eyes.

Water skiing is something I never accomplished. Aaron's uncle Paul did. He grew up skiing and passed his interest and ability on to his children and in-laws who cared to learn. Aaron jumped at the offer as a little boy. Aaron was one of the first of the kids to be introduced to water skiing by Uncle Paul. Somebody else showed him tubing. Aaron had the right ingredients to become a good skier--a desire for excitement, no fear, strength and balance, and a good coach in his uncle. I watched him progress. Incapable of getting out of the water myself, I was proud to see my son learn to drop a ski and glide around the lake looking strong and confident on one ski. Any fall was attributed to driver error (me) never operator error (Aaron) "Dad, you slowed down too much...Dad you went to fast! Didn't you see me signal?"

Aaron's cousin Alex is a teenager now. He was 11 when Aaron died. He was nine the last time they attacked the lake together. They didn't just swim, or ski, or tube. Alex and Aaron created turmoil in the lake. Alex has grown into a strong young man and a terrific skier. Last evening I rode in the boat watching Alex.... and seeing Aaron. My heart beat hollow thumps seeing one boy where there could be two. Seeing Alex do what Aaron would want to, my eyes welled with tears behind my sunglasses.

Today I came home after three days of enjoying the neices and nephews and remembering.
The kids are special and I enjoyed them all. The memories are special and they all hurt.

No Running. No Diving.

The only swimming pool Aaron loved more than a pool full of friends was a pool he had to himself and his brother.

Today I attended a seminar called Boys at Risk. This is the second year of the annual event. I've attended both and if I had not been Aaron's Dad, I would not be here. I'm 20 years too late to help my sons but so is the information.

Listening to the Doctors and professionals describe the findings of studies of the brains of children over the course of 30 years gives me great sadness. The enthusiasm Aaron had for going to Kindergarten and his loathing for school soon after getting the slap of reality plays over and over in my mind as the speakers describe the experiences of so many little Aaron's all over the country. I could hear Aaron objecting and me ranting. I added to the chaos of the failure and Aaron disengaged from learning. Absolutely. Why bother. I thought Aaron was unique in his lack of concern for learning.

I can't change the past, but I can affect the day. That's my mantra and I needed it today. I wanted to cry but I toughed it out for a while. Until I got to the pool.

After years of sedintary activity, I was motivated to run. First a clumsy chug part way around the block. Now I'm up to 8/10's of a mile with a fair stride from start to finish. I stayed to the end of the sessions today, changed into running shoes and shorts and hit the street. My lungs don't hurt too much and my legs aren't killing me. I finished with some pretty good swimming in a huge pool which I had to myself.

Aaron and Cathy are the best swimmers in our family. Patrick is third. I'm OK. Floating in the pool, I could see Aaron diving in. Regardless of the contortion he put his body through in the air, Aaron ripped into the water. When he would emerge, as he taught Patrick, Aaron shook his head to free his locks from the soaking water. If I tried that violent move my brain would strike the sides of my cranium and I'd black out, or my neck would snap and leave my head resting on my spine. I leave my hair plastered to my scalp which leaves me looking like Grandma Lucy getting a perm.

I had the pool to myself and my tears. It's the movie thing again. I'm here in 2007 and my eyes are seeing all the years back in time, 2004, 03, 01, 00, 99, 95, 93, 90, 89... Alone in the deep end I watched Aaron take a deep breath and slide under the water to do handstands, pick up whatever was on the bottom and emerge with a swoosh and a shake. Running were words on the floor said NO RUNNING, and diving wher someone wrote NO DIVING. ("Why Not???" Because you could get hurt. "No I won't") I thought those words were warnings, not reminders. I saw 2 year old Aaron holding my thumbs and steering us around playing motorboat. Crashing into the walls and bobbing in the water, then going full speed after Cathy. "Mom look, I'm a boat!"

So much laughter. "Again! Again! Again! " Please God, Again.