83 Years Sweet

My Mom was 48 in 1975. One night in April she went to sleep a married mother of 4 and the next morning she woke up a widow with three kids under 18 and younger at home. Thirty three years ago you didn't go through the pain of loss of a loved one, you ran from it. Death and pregnancy were whispered subjects--neither happened yet one person would be gone and another grew in secrecy. Maybe that's not accurate, but that's the way I saw it.

She was an energetic 48 year old. The athlete in our family--before me. Mom was the classic 1950'-1970's American Mom. Home running the house. Raising kids in a neighborhood of Moms and kids. Shooing kids out in the morning and rounding them up when the street lights came on. In between there were meals from scratch on the table and on time. She's a great cook. Always has been.

A small tin can on the window sill in the kitchen held loose change. Mainly pennies and nickles, possibly a dime, never a quarter. From that can Mom would pass out a few coins for us. We could walk to the corner store--Franky's for a bag of candy. The real name was Westside Grocery. Franky was the owner--grouchy man who would rather make a kid wet his pants in fear than take a nickle for candy. His wife--Mrs. Franky, was everyone's grandma. Kind and patient. God help you if Mrs. Franky wasn't working. Getting that candy out from behind the glass and into the brown paper bag required collective courage. Better to wait outside for friends than to go it alone with Franky. I know I tried it once. I put a penny in the gumball machine with Franky watching me. I turned the crank and waited for the gumball to drop. Nothing happened. I opened the metal door. No gumball. "Ya stupid kid--you can see the dang things empty! I left Franky a puddle and ran the two blocks home.

My mom is still running the same house. Two little boys and a young lady of 11 get the full dose of sweetness. They are lucky ones. The tradition of Grandmothering runs deep and long in my Mom. It's an art she has perfected.

I was home for Thanksgiving. Grandma Lucy's home is sweet. Peaceful and comfortable. I slept in my old room. Very small, but cozy and warm. Breakfast is always relaxing at Mom's. She cooks and serves. Nice to be treated like family. This morning we talked about feelings and memories. Good feelings.

Next month Grandma Lucy, my Mom, turns 83. Driving home it occured to me that 83 years old is not accurate for her. Mom is energetic and sharp. To say 83 years young is not true. When you have earned your wisdom, to say "young" is to be in denial. I spoke to a friend about my Mom and it occured to me that there is an accurate descriptor --(is it verb, or adjective?)my Mom will be 83 years sweet on December 17th. Those years which included the loss of a young husband, and two young grandsons could make a person bitter, but because she's done the work in the time, she is sweet. Somewhere along the way Mom went through the pain.

I'm grateful for my Mom. Happy Birthday. All your boys love you.

Gratitude

How do I thank God for ALL of my life situations? I can be grateful that I did not get a job, or a career, or a friend that I thought I so desperately needed. That's easy, but how to I say "Thank you God for destroying my son's heart and other internal organs so that his life would end in an instant at the instant he was being his true self?" That sort of a Gratitude is dysfunctional and obscene before even being selfish and sick. Three and a half years after the incident there is clarity.

My first prayer might have been to make this go away. Make it untrue. The closest second was for something God could and would do if he were sought---mercy, grace, dignity. The prayer was always answered. The virtues were always received, and not always accepted. Humanity is a powerful drug--one which I am powerless over. But because of God's mercy I had choices when my mind was a fog, my body was weak, cold, and broken.

The ability to make choices is where my gratitude is with respect to vicious life situations. The ability to make choices and the choices I made brought me to here. Regardless of right or wrong, good or bad, as perceived by how my choices impact the harmony, I am grateful. What happened in the past could be the target of my resentments and angers, or they could be where they are--in the past. My opinion of what was is of no consequence to the past. The choices I make when I form and manipulate my opinion of the past reality are dangerous and hurtful. The choices I make when I acknowledge what is or what is not, opens a door to freedom of bondage. Changing how someone feels is no more possible than changing history. All my actions mattered then, all my actions matter today.

I am grateful for the choices which brought me here today. Right this minute I will accept what is and what is not. I have no promise of accepting tragedy tomorrow, but this instant is not tomorrow.

Five Years and Tears and Work

I feel home.

There are few things pure in this world anymore...when I'm with my friends I feel home...chillin outside with the people I know...

Five years ago a decision was made to wisk Aaron away by escort to a thousand miles away. He was 16. The decision process was horrible. The decision is what it is. Not good or bad. Without any preliminary work, Aaron was without home, without the people he knows, without his mother and brother. We decompressed. Aaron did the work. Patrick had tears and fears. Everyone was affected. Aaron did the work.

When the boys were boys I spoke to them about praying for wisdom. I was best at giving direction, poorest at showing by example. They said their prayers and God blessed them. Both are at their best in emotional situations. There are no classes in wisdom at D.A.H.S. but what would it matter, PT speaks fluent english and his grade indicates english is not his first language... may not be even his second. Patrick will do the work.

My work was unknown to me. Or, maybe I knew the work like PT knows english but I chose not to pick up the book? My issues were certainly uncontested until Aaron told me---I don't care where you go, but ya gotta do something. PT added his little hand push with---OK. See you. PT was playing video game, sitting on the couch. He didn't look my direction. Aaron stood firm. It was about an hour ago in the life of time.

The work never ends. Ya gotta do something isn't a one time thing. It's an all the time thing. The something is more than one thing. Time heals nothing. Time creeps up on you, and waits for no one. Old man time is creep. I wanted more time with my boys and at the end of January 05 it looked like our time was here. Three more months and a couple of weeks? That's not time, it's not time. What kind of time is that?

Almost 4 years of work on two things and now I hear what Aaron learned--it isn't one or two things, it's more things and more things need more work this time. Timeless work. I'm tired. Choices. So light I could vanish. Too much feeling.

I had a dream about you,...you saw everyone as an angel, what about the thief, took away from you...if you just kept walking on your way, if you just kept walking on your way...Beyond the archway...a thief...double fantasy...outside the Dakota...everyone has a devil...took away from you. If you just kept walking on your way. December afternoon...if you just kept walking on your way. Just walk on.

Much death. Much work. Much hidden...never walk this way again...not with a passon but a prayer...not what I do but what I be...take these away from me...Time is liar. Everyone has a devil. Just keep walking on your way. I choose solitude. Just keep walking on your way not alone...There is a place I need to be... seeing's not for me. Aaron's it's time to go. I'm not ready to leave. It's time to go. What if you had stayed for just that one more half a day? You wouldn't have took that call...you'd be far far away and we could see you still today. I see you in your music. We know why you loved the sound. A wonderful day is shattered and you've never heard the new songs. I miss you. I'm tired today I saw your sign AJ.

Coffee

First things first. Coffee is a first thing. On May 11, '05 Steve Larson asked me if there was anything he could bring to the house. Coffee was my suggestion. Steve arrived with a couple of tall Starbucks coffees. I sent him back out with more specific instructions--coffee for the masses. Just this fall we tossed the barely used green can of Folgers Decaffeinated. The full decaffeinated supply didn't survive the initial week I suppose.

Coffee has a role in every emotion--more than one hot cup of coffee has been poured in sorrow, joy, and on someones lap in anger. It's a player in economics and debate. I remember using a comment that went like this: "As for your opinion, that and 10 cents will get you a cup of coffee." Where? I'd like to have a dime back for every Two dollar cup of coffee I bought this decade.

Coffee is the first casualty of the economy. Rise with the tide, you'll be rolled by the flow. Coffee is the first to go. All across America I assure you billion dollar companies are making changes in the coffee room. Business is simple, either make money or cut costs. Light and heat might be gianormous figures on a spread sheet, but coffee is the tallest weed. If it's connected to Seattle, dark as fertile soil, and so strong it takes expensive flavor syrups to be palatable, it's going or gone. The last packets of the expensive stuff is buried in a drawer beneath the rejected bean, "full flavored" package of regular Joe.

Joe's a survivor. He's gone to war for this country. He was there in the depression. Joe was a victim of his own success. Pushed to the sidelines. Relegated to the minor leagues of coffee---the greasy spoons where he built his reputation in the first place. Traded hundreds of dozens of times a day for a couple of nickles, Joe ignited the brain cells by the billions and drowned cigarette butts by the cartons.

From 1948 to... oh about last month, those brains built an economic powerhouse unlike any the world had ever seen. So powerful was the economy industrial coffee/espresso/latte churning machines had kitchens built around them. Not just at the office but at home too. The commute from home to office, no longer counted in miles, but hours spawned the Mud Huts. Little houses on the fringe of parking lots, easy on easy off. "I have to leave now, I'm running late. I won't have time to stop for a coffee." Out the door we ran with our silver, adult sippy cup.

Like the last package of Steep & Brew that I pulled out of the back of the bottom of the drawer this morning, the little white huts will be vanishing. Well, maybe not vanishing, but they will be closing. Maybe best that they don't vanish--they're affordable housing. Coffee's done.

A Wonderful Day

A positive message and a good time. Young people. Parents. Little kids.
Makes me feel good about myself. Makes me sad. Makes me remember what I lost. I'd fix it if I could. Of A Revolution. O.A.R.

Aaron brought O.A.R. into our home from Oregon. He saw them in concert. His first concert. His last concert. Just when we were getting to know this band and Aaron again, we lost him. Patrick picked up where Aaron left off with the band. He kept the music playing in our house. I'm glad he did. Would like to get back what is mine. But it's not going to happen.

Shattered. Need a change from this burned out scene. Pouring rain. It's always back to you. How many times can I break till I shatter? Turn the car around. The rain still falls. Give me a break. Always turn the car around. Give it up. Over the line. Time that I'm wastin. Find what I'm after. Don't wanna turn that car around. I've gotta turn this thing around.

A Wonderful Day. It was a hot, hot day, in the middle of May...
Aaron would wake up and crank his stereo with A Wonderful Day. You knew he was up and from the sound coming from his bedroom you could tell that day was going to be the best damn day. I liked the way those mornings started. That day, that day, that day was such a wonderful day.

Those days are over. I listen to O.A.R. and feel my feelings. As sad, angry, or hurt that I may feel in any day, at the end of the day it's still a wonderful day.

Love and Memories