Treasure

Christmas Joy.

Blackbird

Blackbird

Red wing blackbirds cover the marsh.

Aaron's guitar on the black stand.

Blackbirds rise and fly as one giant cape-- flitttting wings.

The guitar is silent--dusty.

Blackbird singing in the dead of night.

All your life you were only waiting for this moment to be free.

I know why you chose the blackbird and not the powerful hawk or eagle.

Peace.

Thanksgiving Gift

We can't always have the facts and proof before making decisions and taking action. Sometimes we have to do the best we can with what we have and what we have may be no more than logic and intuition. Once the decision is made, we live with the results. This is the end of year six of living with the results of a decision made in a time of chaos. Life has been lost, changed, and reprieved due to that decision. Thanksgiving is the landmark date. The December 7th of a personal day that will live in infamy. I can't do Thanksgiving without reliving the darkest days.

Wednesday, the day before yesterday, a friend of Aaron's sent a message to me confirming what I thought was true but could not prove in 2003.  The young man wrote what my heart knows to be fact but sometimes my mind wonders if my memory is clouded by my wishes. "He left for oregon a good person, but came back a better person, you r icould tell he was looking forward to a great future.... He was the peace keeper. "

I'm thankful for little peaks behind the curtain of time to see images from the memory vapors of people who know what I want to be true.

One life to live

It was only a peak through the curtain to the evil place and they shuttered. Standing in front of an audience of 100 parents of 16-18 year olds I remembered being in their place. Son somewhere out of sight, a packed room of equally eager parents, a host of academy staff, and a speaker. My body was there but my mind had left the conference when I was the parent. 'Let's wrap this up and let me see my son...' I knew it all and didn't want to hear what I didn't need to know.

For forty five minutes Saturday and Sunday, I drifted back and forth. Ocassionally animated. At times somber. Often with my voice cracking. The parents were always intent. They followed along as if they were insiders to the story. They laughed and nodded. Rolled their eyes in understanding. Dads buried their face in their hands. Moms patted their husbands on their shoulders. Dads touched their wives hands. A woman turned to her husband and made a guess at how the story would end.  I saw faces and necks turn red. And then the tears poured. As if their phone had rung and their coroner was on the other end, people who live in fear of the awful end felt a touch of the indifference of death.

Tonight I heated a mixture of chicken, veggies, cuscus and ketchup. The aroma of ketchup mixing with the gas flame of the burner took me back to my childhood. Only my grandma and maybe Grandpa Jake's hunting cabin had a gas stove. I love the memory of gas stove meals.

How could all this be lived in one life?

Wisconsin Challenge Academy

Wisconsin Challenge Academy Parent Weekend

"Does anyone have any questions?" The leader of the parent group looked out over the 200 Mom's and Dad's. I have a question--"Because my son has an issue with smoking weed, does that mean I can't have a beer around him?"  God I was a ding dong. I asked the question that was on the mind of dozens of participants and I thought I had more courage than the rest because I asked the tough question. Courage or lack of brains. I didn't need to do any work. Of course not--my son was in no way affected by my conduct....right.

Spring ahead from 2004 to November 2009. This Saturday and Sunday I will be a speaker at the Wisconsin Challenge Academy Parent weekend. I am grateful that life has given me another opportunity to be part of the solution instead of continuing to be part of the problem. Telling the parents what it was like, what happened and what it's like today. The title of my presentation is taken from Aaron's words to me--"You Gotta Do Something About You. Now that this has happened, what are you going to do about you?"

Aaron and Patrick will be there with me.

Wisconsin Challenge Academy

Tell Me How This Ends

I've never found a book to read. The book finds me.

A sure sign of the times is the amount of time I spend in a library. Big book stores were once a favorite destination, then half-price book stores, now the public library. They have their advantages--you can read the front page and the entire newspaper in a library. Internet too.

Library books are old compared to the book stores. New, fresh, best--those are the books of the big stores. In the astronomy section Pluto is a planet in the library. Both the borrower and the buyer are never far from a new or old book on JFK. Now that I'm older than the president of my earliest days the guy looks incredibly young.

I will slip out of the library without being found tonight. Is there so much going on in the world or is everything just getting too much attention?  Everything seems to be at a crisis level. So much taking up sides. For a beer tax, against a beer tax. For Brett, against Brett. For Rush, against Rush. For health, against health. For war, against war. For America, against America.  There is so little discussion and so much accusation. I have no interest in signing up for the war efforts. Wondering if I'm walking around the edges of life?

Tell me how this ends.

And Then the Laughter Dies

Marijuana gets a free pass and Woodstock is cultural iconic event. Young people are enthralled with the '60's. What are we do as responsible adults? We capitalize. We make a buck on the new audience. Movies, books, shirts, clothes. And then we pay the price of our capitulation.

Weed is cool right? If I say "pot" I show my age and my un-hipness. Bob Marley is hip. Ziggy's hip. Hemp is in. Why is hemp in? Hemp is scratchy, hemps smells when it's wet. Hemp is weed.

Hemp wasn't cool when weed was killing my son. I don't like hemp. Glamorizing pot consumption and profiteering on the nostalgia of drug culture for entertainment is disrespectful. People die and we laugh at the pot head culture.

I don't find entertainment in drug culture. A pot head is not funny. Distributing weed is not a minor transgression against society because it is participating in the destruction of a human being, a soul, and a family. That's disgusting.

One of the most horrific moments of a funeral is when the lid of the casket is closed and sealed for the last time. I remember seeing my son's face for the first time at the exact moment of his birth. I saw his face when the casket closed. And that's when the laughter dies.

Patience. Tolerance. Humility.

A coroner could be expected to be callous. In a county the size of Dane the coroner must attest to several hundred deaths each year. The grace of God is not that the person is able to do the job at all, but that he or she is able bring compassion to the duty day in and day out. John Stanley was such a man. Blessed with grace he did God's work for years and soothed the misery of thousands of people when the need was the greatest.

I had heard from people who had lost a son or daughter to a traffic crash or accident. A common theme was the grace of the man who delivered the news accompanied by uniformed officers. The man was John Stanley.

When Aaron was killed the wheels of public service turned differently with a person other than John involved. Without compassionate and mercy, grief was wratcheted to horror by an employee doing a job by the book. Time demanded haste so rumors could be set in stone. No personal visit. An urgent phone call, time is running...we must not wait, your son is dead, what do you think? This is what we think. OK, let's talk about autopsy and of course organ donation.

Grief and horror are a potent concoction for furious anger when simmered. The following week John Stanley came into the picture. His calm and care filled manner set us at ease when he walked up to our house. We expressed our feelings, John listened and made an amends for his staff. No excuses. No blame. A heartfelt apology and a promise to do his part to put the rumors to rest and return a measure of dignity to our son. John was doing his job and God's work in our home. Patience, tolerance, and humility. I will always remember what John showed by being the man he was.

Rest in Peace, John Stanley. You carried God into the homes of broken people.

Fade to Black

Walking, talking, laughing, pontificating and then silence. April, and May 2001 Aaron, Zach, Eric, Justin--four friends captured on video a few days in the life. Patrick and his buds make appearances. Mom and Dad show their charm. School was almost over. The boys would be turning 14 and 15 in days. Skate boards, movies, video games, jobs, life was easy for the fellas.

Patrick and Cathy have begun the inevitable journey through the video archives. They went in first. Patrick reported to me that the road was safe and fun. Not painful. I took my place on the couch in Patrick's re-decorated basement rec room. A much more comfortable couch. The instant I heard Aaron's voice, his dialect I got tears. His mannerisms were there, his smile, his facial expressions, the ear twisting, nose scrunching. Everything that doesn't show up on still photos. There he was. His mind worked in way unique to Aaron. I can't describe it. But I saw it again and remembered.

Equipped with the video camera Aaron took us on a tour of life through his eyes and I am incredibly sad. Aaron is behind the camera, he puts in on his friends, people passing by, his brother and friends, and himself. Thank God he did that. I need to see his eyes. I need to hear his perspective. Looking into the camera Aaron gives advice to Movie and Video game makers--"If you're gonna do a sequel----Don't do it! They're stupid. It's dumb."

The video turned into art without anyone trying. At one point Aaron and Zach are downloading music and Billy Joel's Only The Good Die Young comes on. The boys are singing along, Aaron with the camera on himself sings the words "Only The Good Die Young" abd then he turns off the camera. After a few more episodes of Aaron and Zach the story reaches an ending on May 4 2001 with a sleep over at our house. Zach, Eric, Aaron. In the kitchen "Cathy says Aaron this is your last Thursday being 13." Zach chimes in--"This is my last Thursday being 14." Much chatter and fun. Then the camera goes off as if the story ends.

After a pause of a few moments the camera is recording again. The date is November 3, 2003. The lens is pointing into a cushion. Just black scene but you can hear a television at a low volume. Footsteps can be heard walking past the camera and up the stairs...the voices on the tube are adult. No young boys. There are no sounds of laughter. No banter. No levity. No innocence. Just black.

I despise how drugs steal young people. Drugs steal the innocence, the soul, the youth. Aaron didn't die from the drug. He had regained that youthful vigor for a while. Maybe he could have continued one day at a time. We don't know. One day laughing, pontificating, telling stories...then dead. Fade to black.

I want Aaron to make the sequel.

Living the Dream

"I don't understand why we have to have money! Why can't people just get along!!" Aaron's frustration with life demands and expectations burdened his mind and troubled his days. Talented professionals took their turns exploring Aaron's mind, maybe some of them have an idea if Aaron was on to something or avoiding some things.

At sixteen Aaron exploded with exclamations like "I hate you. I never want to be like you!" With the mind of a dad who thought making a buck and showing up for events was enough I gave my sons a view of a persona they would have good reason to despise. Everything they had learned to be avoided I personified--ego driven, money driven, resentful, dissatisfied. Aaron's shouting was heard by me as disrespectful behavior when I should have heard the sound of a son's bewilderment and fear. Bewildered by the contradiction in my words and actions and fear of being on a road leading to death of a soul. Anyone with a healthy mind and an image of a peaceful existence would be wise to resist the mandatory boarding of a train to no where.

When Aaron was 7 I made up a long story for a longer car ride---The Man in Black. "Tell me a scary story Dad....tell it again." The story won me Aaron's Best award. It was never forgotten, often told, and always accomplished his goal--it scared him. The Man in Black wandered dark train stations of rural America in the late 1800's on the prowl for little kids traveling alone. In an unsuspecting instant, the curious kid would tumble into the Man's over sized suitcase and SLAM!! Gone without a trace...I believe the young adult Aaron saw the world as the Man in Black on the prowl for unsuspecting humans. The world would steal hopes, dreams, visions of happiness, and souls---the true self would become the annoyed, distracted, irritable adult who worried and traded peace for chaos. SLAM!

I don't know where Aaron would be today. I like to wonder because I don't think he was afraid of living his idea. Maybe I would have learned to accept him for who he was, maybe I would not have. We can't know.

Knowing what I know because I have lived what has been, I am pleased to hear from people who are going their way. In the last week a young man told me how he left his HR position to follow his heart and restart his photography business. A friend of Aaron's is moving east to pursue her drawing passion. A young man chose to go to rehab to free himself. I've witnessed Aaron's brother display his values and seen him living humbly. Gone is reckless ego, replaced with peaceful eyes and a heart filled with acceptance.

I see people choosing more often to do what they are able to bring joy to. They are being what they want to be as opposed to doing what they think society will most reward. Is this typical or a result of the catastrophic demise of a period of financial gluttony? It appears to me that the depression has powerful life saving attributes.

Months after Aaron died I began to understand Aaron's frustration and words he used to articulate his pain. They were the best he could come up with from what he had. When Aaron was 3 or 4 he would get mad at us and stammer "Mom (or Dad)you, you bug you! As a toddler, Bug was probably his best word for putting someone down for denying him something of pleasure. As a teenager, "Hate you" was his cry of refusal to accept what I had become as his fate. He hated, feared,despised being trapped and lost forever. Aaron did not want to lose his youthful hope. Peter Pan was no different.

I heard from one of Aaron's friends that he heard from Aaron in dreams where Aaron is encouraging his friends to pursue their dreams. Makes sense. There is no peace and promise of happiness in any endeavor---they are found in ourselves and we are always free to bring them to the work we do. Money is not necessary when we live with less expectations.

Just a Peek

That's all I want...just a peak at Aaron at 22. I saw a cousin's 22 year old son on Saturday. He looked healthy and content. Patrick is 18 and he's got it going on...healthy, insightful, calm and content. From what I saw for a few days at 18 I think Aaron would be just fine today.

There are no peeks in the valley of death. Aaron is gone. Gone is incomprehensible because I just saw all of the relatives who knew him laughing, talking, caring on. "Wild child" he was called at an age old enough to run and kick. Kristopher and Amanda called him Wild Child. Kristopher is gone too. Amanda is 24 and she's left to tell the story. Too cruel. At a family reunion the 76 and 80 something family elders told stories of their siblings and cousins. Seven full decades is acceptable to be a story telling survivor.

Unseen or forgotten photos make my heart race and my tears flush. I found one of those pictures on my sister's wall this afternoon. I remember when the picture was taken--9/8/01 according to the note from the photographer. A young fellow taking pics at a Badger football game was in front of AJ and me that Saturday. We leaned on the fence in the south end zone at Camp Randall. I asked the guy about his work and he offered to take our picture. Two photos arrived in the mail one day with a note about memories. Signed--Peace, love, and happiness. Major Latimer.

I like the picture. We're smiling. We were having a father and son day. I'm grateful for the peek back at a time that should have stood still.

Photo by Major Latimer. www.myspace.com/majorlatimer

August '04

At the time I thought my life was taking off. What I considered confidence was in fact ego which is not a relative of confidence. One is built on a foundation of delusional self will run riot and the later is built on humility. August 2004.

How close I was to a disaster I did not see. The sky was the limit. An airplane trying to climb with its nose up and losing power will stall when the air stops passing over the wing. In a stall, the plane drops from the sky quickly. The ensuing cork screw spin toward earth can only be stopped by right actions---God does not intervene.

In August we visited Aaron at MBA in Oregon. We were all together and it felt like family. Aaron was clean. He and Patrick made amends. Healing was underway. Aaron had done much work. As a father I didn't do mine. The works should not have been too much for me but I let other things into my life...things like self importance. My career would have been just fine had I maintained the status quo. How much else would have survived I dare to contemplate.

Yellow Sweatshirt

A yellow sweat shirt with a red United States Marine Corp emblem is what I remember Fred Benishek wearing in Antigo, 1968. My parents called him Freddy. About 60 feet separated our houses. I was 8, Freddy was 18-19 years old. His younger brother, Jim, was my friend. Jim was 6 feet 3 or 5 inches tall. Maybe 4 years older than me. Maybe 5. We were good friends. Jim had three brothers and one sister. I had no brothers and three sisters. I suppose all of the boys were called "Benny".

Two of the Bennys were big boys. Tom was the oldest and not big. He got married and worked for the fire department. Tom's typical shirt was a white T-shirt, or a button casual work, checkered. John was a giant. He wore shorts, maybe 12 months out of the year and sandals. I did not know other guys who wore sandals and this crew cut, giant of a man scared me. Jim never went to a barber, but his hair style was forever crew cut. Blue jeans and white t-shirts was all he ever wore.

Fred was the smallest. My memories of him are bits and pieces: A ride on his shoulders. A cherry bomb exploding in our yard left a crater the size of my little boy foot. Fred bombed a football all the way across my back yard. He rode a Brigestone motorcycles and nearly cut all the fingers off of his hand with a machete. I think I saw the yellow of the inside of Fred's fingers, but I could be imagining.

Marines were dieing by the dozens daily in Vietnam in 1968. Walter Cronkite said the war was unwinnable that year. Canada was the destination for many. The draft was in full gear. Fred joined the Marines. He became a sniper. He was going to Vietnam by choice. By air Vietnam is nearly 9000 miles from Antigo. I had hardly been out of the City.

Home from sniper school Fred wore the yellow shirt with the red Marine emblem. The arms were missing. Hand written words in black marker made it clear that Fred was determined to do his job well. People were going to die. Fred was going to war. I was wide eyed and in awe. Me, Jim, and our friends played army with plastic guns and baseball bats. We killed Krauts. Never Gooks. We saw the current war on TV at night but never built up any warrior feelings toward communists. We could battle the Germans. We knew about Germans and the iron cross, the tanks, the machine guns, and the odd shaped helmets. We didn't know much about the communists---too young to know about Korea.

In June of '69 I was at the City Park when my sister Kathy rode up on Carol's blue Schwinn Hollywood bicycle. The handle bars had streamers of multi colored plastic coming out of the ends of the handle grips. Her message was for me to go home right now. It was important and as usual, Kathy was not going to tell me the message...just get going home.

I rode my black Schwinn Typhoon. I kept asking. We reached Superior Street at the top of a hill. Facing the orange brick, federalist style public library, Kathy told me. "Freddy Benishek was killed." I pushed my bike pedals hard and stood to pedal with anger and said, "I hate those gooks!"

The war had come home to 5th Avenue. Two Marines were at Benisheks. Fred as we knew him was not coming home. I wondered about the man who killed him. Did he know that he was our neighbor. Why would he kill my friend's brother. The idea that a kid from Antigo High School was hated enough to be killed by a person who did not speak our language scared me.

We never played army again. Bats were for balls, not bazookas. Any ill will we had about Germans and Japanese probably vanished. I wanted to know more about these Viet Cong...they had a scary name and a bullet they touched killed a person I knew. I wanted to know what happened to Fred. I found Fred's name on the Vietnam Vets Memorial and took pictures for his Mom and Dad in 1982.

For forty years I wondered about Fred's final moment. This summer the family found out the rest of the story from the man who was Fred's teammate on hill 55. Too late for Mr. and Mrs. Benishek, but in time for Fred's brothers and sister. I'm grateful they have heard the rest of the story.

I wonder what became of the yellow sweat shirt with the red Marine Corp emblem, no sleeves and black marker handwritten words of determination?

www.antigodailyjournal.com

Memorial To Vietnam Soldiers

Heaps and Heaps of What We Sow

Aaron and I were going to patch this hole in the basement drywall together. We made it together with his strength and my elbow.

Drugs and alcohol are a dangerous concoction. Explosive actually. Not the first area of wall to take a beating, it was the last. November 2003. The repair of the behaviors which created the hole started in December '03 and continue today. Aaron's work ended before we could patch holes. Our holes were patched before he died.

In June I bought the material to make the repair. I had put this off as long as I could. What is a donut without a hole? As long as I could see the hole Aaron's energy existed for me to touch. My elbow still fit perfectly. The small depressions a little higher up were knuckles from his hand. Reminders that we had been there. Reminders of the damage done. Heaps and heaps of what we sow.

Courtesy of High Tech Sales I found this: "Our Drywall repair kits are the easiest way you will find for repairing holes in your wall."

There are no easy ways of repairing what we sow.

When life ends

Twenty six years in Madison and 160 miles of road between here and home. How many times have I driven that stretch to Antigo and why is the road always under construction? I wonder if the reason the highway is six lanes is so two can always be closed?

In Aaron's life we probably drove to and from Antgo 100 times. The family conversations, and questions about things they saw along the way leave landmark memories for the entire trip. The travel is a bitter sweet memorial journey. How many times do you think I had glanced in the rear view mirror to see their smiling, pouting, crying, laughing, sleeping faces? A gadzillion or two. Rear view mirrors are made for holding the faces of kids. Their emptiness tells a sad story the way the unused chair at a table whispers "I'm gone".

Accept it. No. How can everything be so much the same everywhere? Photographs and memories burn and I just insulate my heart to make the trip. My jaw aches from clenching. My head hurts from remembering. There is no comfort in traveling the gauntlet.

A radio talk program featured a conversation on death. According to the voices, at the time of death we relive our entire life in an instant. All of the places, all of the people, all of the smells, and feelings are experienced one more time to let us know where we will be in God's heaven. Oh, geeze, one more time with purpose! When life ends, will that then please be the last time I relive all of the memories? When life ends.

His Life is Not a Game

Six years ago this summer I caught Aaron smoking marijuana. A 16 year old would have some experience with the drug before being bold, or careless, enough to light up with dad a few steps away. The proof I didn't want to find verified a suspicion. Through the smoke I faced Aaron confused. Five months later the drug had consumed Aaron and family. Choices were made, decisions were implemented. We live with outcomes for the better or worse. I'd rather not judge the decisions and choose to try to live with the results.

Today I spent some time at the location where that six year old day ended. So much has changed. I thought I never wanted to get back on that road of life which carries us away from the days of sorrow and heartache. Life appears to be a spiral instead of lineal. If hard work returns anything I expect my mind to be sharp and wise with the experience of life's brutal lessons. I'd like to not repeat the mistakes of my past.

I dream of saying the right thing, responding with wisdom to situations which should no longer baffle me. Keep dreaming. Sometimes I feel that the hard work was just hard. Did the work just smart and not give smarts?

Driving home my mind was reviewing opportunities to be more than I was; opportunities I fumbled. A United Way billboard caught my attention from a half-mile away. His Life is Not a Game. The prayer handed to me on that deadly day 5/10/05 spoke again: God let me hear the words you need me to hear-- A young person's life is not a game. My sons never need me to be their coach. They always need me to be a Dad. Other young men don't need me to be more than humble and respectful in and out of their presence. Saying the perfect answer every time is a goal I will never meet. Failure to meet unatainable expectations is certain. I wanted to be the perfect dad and certainly suffered the consequences of that expectation. A version of that mistake doesn't deserve a second look at the light of my days.

Russian Gulag

Tomorrow You Go Home by Tig Hague, Gotham Books. 2008.

You don't find books. Books find you. The story of this British banker who lands in Moscow in July 2003 on a simple business trip and ends up in a merciless Russian prison nudged my attention as I walked past it in the library last week. The red jacket with black stripes looked right and the spacing of the sentences felt good as flipped the pages. "A twenty first century Midnight Express" described the story in the inside flap. A young man arrested in Moscow for carrying a tiny amount of hash in his jeans pocket. The year 2003 has meaning to me in that it was the last year of life as I once knew it. Still I picked up another new book and spent an hour reading its story about Sirhan Sirhan and the assassination of Robert Kennedy. In the end I put back the book I selected and checked out the book that found me. For a week I read.

Tonight I finished Mr. Tig Haque's true story. What happened in his story is not why I came to the office tonight to write my thoughts. When it happened moved me. July 17, 2003 was possibly the exact date when I discovered Aaron had taken on pot smoking. Tracking the story almost perfectly, Aaron was in full crisis within 3 months, the same time it took for Mr. Hague to go from problem to full blown crisis in his situation.

The story continues with Hague being sentenced to 3 plus years in a horrific prison in the frozen Russian wasteland. He landed there about the same time Aaron arrived at Mount Bachelor Academy. As Tig Hague wasted away and suffered in misery, Aaron was rebuilding his sense of well being. Hague's family mourned, and we found hope. While Hague nearly died, Aaron was given new life. Finally in April 2005, Hague was released from prison and reunited with his family. About the same time, early May, Aaron died.

The tracking of the two stories, one ends in happiness, the other is sorrow didn't jump out at me until I read the Afterward. "...flew back to London in the spring of 2005." One nearly dies and finally lives, the other nearly lives and finally dies. While one family rejoices, another mourns.

The sun shines on the joyous and mournful at the same moment. The paradox of life.

Memorial Day

A picture of a dad sitting by the grave of his son stopped me on Memorial Day. The son was a helicopter pilot in Iraq. He was killed flying his last mission.

When we commit sons and daughters to war, every American should have to feel the painful consequences of the reality of battle. It must be a lonely feeling to lose a son or daughter in a war that makes not even a ripple of disruption in the lives of the rest of the country.

If you just kept walking on your way...

O.A.R Dakota

I had a dream about you
It was December in the afternoon
You're something pretty and cool
Signing records as you're passing through

You saw everyone as an angel
But what about the thieves?
Who don't know what do
And don't know who to be
You saw everyone as an angel
But what about the thief?
Who took away from you
He took away from you

If you just kept walking on your way
If you just kept walking on your way
If you just kept walking on, walking on, walking on your way

Behind the archway lies a thief
Awaiting double fantasy
He's something evil underneath
Outside Dakota died the symphony

I think everyone has a devil waiting in the wings
When you don't know what to do
And you don't know who to be
You saw everyone as an angel
But what about the thief?
Who took away from you
Took away from you

If you just kept walking on your way
If you just kept walking on your way
If you just kept walking on, walking on, walking on your way

Maybe this is just a nightmare
And I will wake up
We all will wake up
Maybe this is just a nightmare
December afternoon they took away from you

If you just kept walking on your way
If you just kept walking on your way
If you just kept walking on, walking on, walking on your way
Just walking on your way
Just walk on



Aaron,
This song sings my angst. Thoughts which wrench and strangle my mind are music and poetry in the hands of artists you enjoyed. How often did we have this conversation? You saying I was judgemental, me telling you to use some judgement.

You saw everyone as an angel. But what about the thief? What about the thief? He took away from you. He took away from me.
Maybe this is just a nightmare.
If you just kept walking on your way. Just walk on. Just walk on...please. Just keep walking on your way.

May 10 2000 and forever.
Dad

Calm Before the Storm

May 5th is a quiet day. Aaron will be 22 tomorrow. The night before he was born was very quiet. Probably the same for every young parent who is aware of their last meal before the birth of a first child. There were some laughs during Aaron's life as we told him of the last supper. We knew it was the calm before the storm. Quiet times were a void filled by Aaron's presence. Spilled water does the same with a depression.

Aaron's birthday is quiet because the clock ticks louder on the countdown from here to just after noon on May 10th. For a guy who looked forward to being 18 for so long it's ironic that his life would end so few days into his 19th year.

Looking at his picture on my desk I see the face and the long arms. His body appears to be filling out. I barely remember. Turn the picture sideways and the thickness of the paper represents how clear I remember my son Aaron and I miss him.

Happy Birthday Air Bear.
Love you.
Dad

I Don't Watch the NBA

Monday night I went to the Library to catch up on the Packer draft. I got my first Madison Library card, read the news and hiked home to my apartment in the dark and light rain a little after 9:00 PM.

My apartment is a complex of 6 identical brick buildings. Rarely have I approached by foot and hardly ever by the front door. Walking up to the door I noticed a guy watching a big screen TV in my apartment. "Hey, what's this?" I thought. I'm not home and I don't have a TV. I almost walked in until I concluded this was not my apartment. I was sure of that because I never watch the NBA.

Past Life

Two teams of boys, probably ages 9-12, filled a ball field in Madison on Friday. Parents lined the fence and occupied the stands and dugouts. The scene was familiar to me only in the way that I recognized the actitivy as something I've seen before, not participated in.

I was a parent of young boys. They played youth and high school sports. I've been there. I just don't remember the "being there" part. The memory is not vivid. Something has changed. That life is one I believe existed but I don't feel it in my memory. For the last few years I felt that I was getting older and the memories were part of my past. Today I feel that the aging has ended and the memories belong to someone else. I've been asked to carry the memories for someone as if I have to deliver them someplace and then my job will be done. I carry a bag of pictures and notes.

I know I was a father of two young boys. The pictures tell me so.

Captain John Peterson

Madison can be unfriendly cold in winter. Captain John Peterson got an arctic blast hello when he arrived on campus, maybe 15 years ago. He came in from San Diego. A typical spring day, the temp was in the thaw range when John arrived and well below zero when he woke the next day.

Finishing a Naval career, John chose Madison, WI for his final two years as the commander of the Navy Rotc. I didn't understand why--didn't even know we had a Naval command. We have no water big enough to float a ship. What water we have was frozen 12 feet thick on that day. John walked to my Jeep wearing penny loafers and a spring coat. He was a man of optimism back then. I expected John's look at Madison would last part of day with the rest spent waiting for the next jet west. Can't hardly blame a guy who spent his adult life at sea thinking the weather everywhere was mild to balmy.

John returned with his wife Kristen a few months later. He must have told her nothing about the spring. It was on his second visit when John asked me about the "Ruffed Grouse Society" sticker on my rear window. John explained his interest in Wisconsin. Hunting was his passion. Ducks were all he talked about. English was his best companion. I never heard a man talk so fondly of a dog. I learned none of his two legged companion's names. But I knew English intimately and English was long gone dead. John could tell a hunting story and from then on we were hunting buddies.

The end of our hunting days together arrived when John discovered Wisconsin Whitetail hunting. Now, I don't shoot deer, so I don't know if white tail is two words or one...looks like it should be two.

Before climbing tree stands, John taught me everything he knew about the pursuit of ducks. I will never forget his explanation of waiting until the perfect opportunity to "take ducks". With a flock of mallards working our decoys John was carfully explaining how to tell when it is the exact moment to rise and shoot. "OK, see how they are cupping their wings? Their feet are down. And 'take em'." John stood up and immediately saw his exact timing was exactly too soon. "Shi_. Too soon." As John crouched down, the mallards back peddled and gained altitude, rising to live another day. "I got it John. When the look like they are just right, wait a little longer."

Having mastered the pursuit of ducks, John elevated his game to stalking deer. Climbing trees in pitch black night was surely a safer adventure for our ageing friend. I would miss my pal in the boat, but instead of losing a buddy I gained gear. John gave me everything he owned for hunting ducks. From decoys to a jon boat, trailer, and motor, John's gear became mine. Just last year I returned the motor and boat. The trailer I kept, the boat was better suited to be a fish crib, and the motor I didn't want to risk breaking.

I call John every fall and leave him a message or chat and relay the duck hunt updates. "We'll have to get out again" John would always say in his deep voice. I knew the day would be when I would have to wheel him out because as long as he could walk, John would spend every opportunity in a tree stand. He was that hooked. Well, I thank John every fall for passing on his passion for ducks to me. I love the adventure and the excitement as well as the mud.

John and I had one fall ritual for the first few years. When his daughter Meredith and my son Aaron were young we went pheasant hunting on a private farm on the second day of the season.We always came home with wild roosters. In John and Kristen's living room are dozens of photos from their life and travels. I was at the house today. A photo of Meredith and Aaron dressed in blaze orange vests, hats, and roosters is still there as is the picture I took of John, Meredith, and SAM. I cried when I saw the pictures.

Two days ago it occured to me that I needed to call John. Somewhere between the occurance and action I put off making the call. Yesterday I drove into Antigo and remembered John. It was on his first visit to my home town that John pointed out to me that Antigo was a gigantic bowl--a "prehistoric lake", John described Antigo. A career naval pilot, John had a facination with topography and he immediatly saw what I had never noticed, the obvious rim of the lake which held the fertile Antigo Silt Loam, the State soil. Driving in to the Antigo I could see the giant rim and thought of my friend John, and our trip up to hunt those ruffed grouse he was curious about.

My phone rang this morning. I miss my friend John. Mission accomplished Captain.

Grief Speak

Talking about emotions is one way to participate in the grief process. Not the only way. When I was 16 I chose to not participate in grief work. I had a good reason to be a player, but I didn't know the rules so I stayed out. Self medicating with emotions that weren't sorrow was what I knew best. Those emotions started with "Being strong" (I know that's not an emotion but it is a description of one) and extended as far as anger and its cousin resentment. Self pity was a tool. Jealousy--oh that was one I denied; not the existence of, but the use.

Writing is useful way for me to participate this time around. Not so much with the pen but banging out words with a keypad. Some of the strokes are firmer than others. The tickity tick of the strokes lets me know I'm really into something. Emotions flow out through my finger tips and I don't stop to find better words. My vocabulary is what it is and if I don't have a better word I use what I have. If the words were more than I know the writing would not be me.

Last night I heard another way to participate in grief. A young man of 15 played a guitar and I heard words I wish I wrote. In three years since the death of his father, my young friend excelled at learning guitar. His fingers move over the strings and words transform into music. Key strokes turn into letters on a screen. Words become electrical impulses which travel over lines and are heard by listeners over telephones. Neither has anything over a musician who takes emotions and transfers them through human cells, into a man-made instrument which produces a sound that is unmistakably music of recovery.

Some people did work to help this young man achieve his talent level. Guitar players are heard and watched. I took it all in. It's easy to see a creator's work in my friend. He didn't get here by himself and it took himself letting other people in to be the artist he is today. Evil did not take this talent and squander. Goodness resisted evil. Healing is possible because of the choices of people, including my friend, who had resisted evil and made music.

Watching this young man play reminded me of the note I left for Aaron in September 2004. It read--Play guitar Aaron. The world has enough business people. I had reached the point of understanding in time to let Aaron know that there is more to life than chasing the wind. Playing music, living life, sharing a talent for the enjoyment of other people is worthy.

Never accused of being a saint, Jerry Lee Lewis caught my attention last week. I found a decent CD in the 1/2 priced book store and played it repeatedly for a few days. One song in particular was pure Jerry Lee. Rocking out the Boogie Woogie on a song titled Pee Wee's place, Jerry tells the story about a bar where a four piece band plays too loud. Leading his band through the song, Jerry turns to a member in the band and says in perfect Lousianna drawl "Play that gui-Tar souahn!"

I replayed the song a dozen or more times just to hear Jerry Lee say in his language what I said in mine to my son---"Play that gui-Tar souahn!" I hope my friend hears what he needs to hear. His fingers write and speak what he needs to say. The gui-Tar is his voice.

I Feel Home

I Feel HOme, O.A.R.
Maybe the link works, maybe not. If not, try YouTube and search for OAR I Feel Home. Aaron might have selected this song for his graduation song in '05. At one time it was in the running.

Last night I saw O.A.R. in Milwaukee. Went to The Rave. Same place Aaron saw them in '05. Part of the experience was being there and part of the experience for me was being THERE four years ago. I wanted to feel the music as Aaron felt it. Feel the vibrations. At times I closed my eyes and felt the music of the songs he would have heard. Old Man Time was one he could have heard. You slipped away, yeah you slipped my grip....Old Man Time.

I felt home in the smoke, the heat, the sound, the lyrics. I felt home. I felt my son's vibrations. I lost it all, yeah I lost it all. That was a crazy game of poker.

Walls and Humble People

You know I sure hate that wall on Vinburn, the one that killed my son. This is April and the countdown to Aaron's 18th birthday date and the anniversary of his death. Without seeing it coming I woke up yesterday aware of the time ticking away again. How short were the days in '05 between January twenty something when Aaron came home and the collission with the wall. I expected more time and the abrupt ending left with unfinished work. This past week I joined Families Annonymous to do some of the unfinished work.

Yesterday I stopped at the wall. The trucks were back in the yard. Mulch is being moved again. The bins are full. The wall is secure. The fence is mended. I know I'm not put back together as easily. What I don't remember doing is driving onto the shoulder and into the ditch as Aaron's truck traveled that day. Yesterday I did. The route, short as it is, is scary. Walking in Aaron's moccasins I felt a little of what he felt. The angle of the ditch is steep. It feels as if my truck is going to tip over. The high wire post is directly in my face. There is no way to go left because pull of gravity pushes the vehicle down and to the righ. The momentum of the energy keeps the truck going straight. Aaron clearly wanted to miss the pole. It's all he could see. The wall was not his first concern. By the time he missed the pole, the wall was there and the journey was over.

Later in the day I met with a young man--probably 42. He is highly successful, as measured by any business stick, in his endeavors. The time and attention he gave me to the Aaron Foundation and Aaron House was incredible. When I left the meeting I felt better about myself than when I arrived. Tells me a huge amount about this man. Humility was evident. If I only acquire humility of that degree in my life I will leave a happy man.

Organize and Mobilize

Now that this has happened, what am I going to do about me?

Parents from 33 states sat down for two days of brainstorming ways to change the status quo of adolescent treatment and recovery. In respect to the lives damaged and lost to substance use addiction these parents choked back tears and finished their work today. Looking back at their bewildered minds in the days of trying to find help for their sons and daughters the parents diligently recalled the good, the bad, and the ugly. Looking but not staring allowed the parents to focus on ideas. The results were fueled by mercy not bitterness. Their sons and daughters have died or outgrown adolescents so no change in policy or attitude will affect their families. But it's not for themselves that they go to the dark places. It's for others--- Those who today may not see what's coming at them like a freight train.

Gigantic goodness grows from the tiniest seeds of hope. A visible, vocal national movement is growing in fertile soil. It has a chance because the seed is watered by the tears of loving parents pained by the produce of ambivalence which had it's start in an attitude of resentment. Americans care but the body count has gone unreported. We're killing our young people at rates that should trigger riots in the streets.

In a day when the United States Government is deciding which businesses are "too big to fail", I believe Americans are going to decide addiction treatment and recovery is too important to fail. Misguided national sentiment toward addiction is approaching the end.

Follow www.motherwarriors.blogspot.com

Families of Youth with Substance Use Addiction Second Day

A study shows alcohol commercials and movie scenes influence drinking

JoinTogether.org provided that link.

We heard today that there are exactly ZERO dollars in the 2009 stimulus bill for substance use addiction treatment. What was the final total $870 BILLION--- A Trillion dollars and not a nickle for substance use addiction? Once again our words say one thing and our actions prove another.

Parents at this conference have impressive attitudes. These are people who raised to believe doing right things... praying, meditating, would help keep their children safe. They trusted our government's promise to care about America's children was real. First they discovered when they needed help there were no resources, no understanding, no compassion. In fact, the best Uncle Sam would do was arrest their child with a charge of some violation of a get tough law. Treatment for addiction is simple--make the addict a criminal. After the government showed its true face, God was next to dissapoint. What parent didn't learn at an early age to pray to God for the well being of loved ones? My prayer went something like: "Dear God, thank you for my children. Please keep them safe through the day and at night. Amen." That should do it. Wrong. Uncle Sam told us he cared and showed us he doesn't. God never promised us freedom from death, but the expectation was reasonable for children, wasn't it?

The landscape in the United States favors the alcohol and pharmacutical industries. Top to bottom these people have friends who vote. Barriers to dumping their wares where we live are eliminated by politicians. Truth in advertising doesn't pertain to producers of intoxicants and pharmacuticals.

A suggestion was made today to fund treatment with dollars raised in taxing the companies who advertise alcohol and drugs. The excited cheers and supportive laughter said plenty. No one is asking for restitution. I think they are in favor of the contributors to their children's darkest days and deaths stepping up to join them in being part of a solution.

There is no possible way these industries can deny their advertising and entertainment marketing has a positive correlation to drinking. But, you know they will try.

Families of Youth with Substance Use Addiction

Cling to the thought that in God's hands, the dark past is the greatest possession you have--the key to life and happiness for others. With it you can avert death and misery for them. p. 124 of the Big Book.

Five years ago no one would have asked me for my opinion on substance use addiction. Oh, I gave my opinion but no one was asking. I'm humbled to be sitting in a hotel outside of Washington, DC exchanging greatest possessions with people from all over the U.S.A. Moms and Dads are here to collectively put their dark pasts in the hands of a higher power.

I live in Wisconsin. A farming state. We think of farming as crops and cattle. There is a new kind of farming sweeping the country. Farming with a PH as in Pharming--the illegal use of legal drugs, typically obtained illegally. Oxycontin is the crop most commonly pharmed. Every state with medicine cabinets in their home has the fertile ground necessary to raise Oxycontin.

Governments and big business can not move people with their message the way moms, dads, and siblings can. Here's a powerful message from a mom I met at dinner-- www.Momsagainstpharming.com


Compassion of a Mother in pain is powerful. I heard words from her I've heard from other Moms and Dads--I was angry, but that wasn't going to make a difference, so I started telling the story. I don't know the young man who's Mother gave me this brochure-- Legal but Deadly. He looks like every 19 year old boy--young, pleasant, happy sometimes, frustrated sometimes. His pictures show an athletic young man. The grave stone looks cold and final. I don't think his life is final because his Mom lives.

Death and misery will be averted for some people because people in pain share.

Different Life By Choice

Succumbo. Latin for surrender. I chose to succumb. Quitting was not an option. A door to life opened when I chose succumbo.

Happiness does not exist as a thing which can be held, acquired, attained, pursued, kept. Happiness is fleeting and the instant it fleets, a choice to be replaces the lost happiness.

Should I be quicker to forgive happiness? Should there be an apology for being abrupt before acceptance? Do I set myself up for dissapointment by not resisting happiness longer? Happiness doesn't leave me, I let it go. I'm grateful happiness has the patience of a book and the forgiveness of a saint.

River With No End Has Serenity

Two years ago a song by John Prine gave me a visual in a song. A river with no end. From my view point back then, the river of grief had no end. Fast flowing currents, sharp rocks, smooth boulders-- all brutally hard. Dangerous undertows, ice cold or just cold, no exit, frightening blind corners, no turning back. I expected to be tossed battered and dead into a serene pool at the rapids' end. Tranquility awaits the unwilling traveler. He will arrive---either dead or alive.

The book Grey Owl, perfectly described the final scene. I don't have the exact words but they depicted a traveler thrown from his canoe, struggling against the current, the rocks, the debris, bashed in the violence of water rushing with a purpose. The purpose was to kill slowly at first then quickly with violence and then toss the corpse into a quiet pool of still water. Freshly dead the body would float with a new calm. The only witnesses to the murder were the trees which toward over the river. They would turn a blind eye toward the details. Having seen everything they stood mute. The violence had no effect on their day. The trees saw it all and understood nothing. Had the man lived they would have cared no more or less. The river has no mercy. Trees have no compassion.

Grief is the river. The world I left towers and sways with the winds. Had I fallen from the canoe or chosen to abandon the safety of the vessel, my arrival at the end would have been without my knowledge. I know the canoe is battered. I survived. There is peace. Serenity is the gift.

Who Owns the View?

Nine degrees above zero isn't cold weather on a sunny day...out of the wind. I wouldn't wear shorts but with a sweater, jacket, warm socks and shoes, and a hat a walk in the woods in 9 degrees is more pleasant than a walk in a park in 79 degrees and sunny. Sunday morning was one of those perfect March days for a walk. The snow has melted down to patchy white ice on the southwest sides of the hills. Falls flattened sheddings are a damp mat layering the ground. There are no insects buzzing and biting. Somethings about to happen in the woods and these are the final days of calm before the tree and plant people wake up.

Doc and I followed the beaten path until we reached a fork in the woods. The path going up was well worn. To our left going down the hill was a snow crusted trail. I would likely be tresspassing to leave the trail but the road less traveled led to uncertainty. I have to know where I'm not invited to go. Surely there must be something more interesting where no one has gone.

The route having been left unventured through the winter was easier walking. The road more traveled was mostly ice. A treacherous walk but the destination was certain because it was well marked for the snowmobilers. The unmarked trail had the potential of adventure. Doc walks like a good boy now. He stays within 20 yards. Every few minutes he stops to see that I'm still with him, smiles, and runs back to me as if I just returned home a week away. Doc makes sure other four legged people know he's been there. He carries an incredible amount of pee which he deposits after thoroughly inspecting various stops.

Northern Wisconsin has an abundance of evergreen trees. A more aware person would know the difference in species. I call them all pine trees. Southern Wisconsin is not as green as the north woods. When I see a pine in the souther forests I'm drawn to it. How'd it get there? How'd it survive? Where I grew up the lush green and spicy aroma is something I took for granted. Here the pine is less fragrant to me but each tree is a green land mark. Doc and I came around a bend and our virgin trail disappeared. We weren't the first to travel here since the snow fell. Turkey by the dozens used this trail. Their tracks told the story of their journey. The clump of pine trees might have given them protection from the wind. The big oaks were likely roosts.

Doc led the way to the pines. Something with their mass must intrigue him. He had to inspect, snoop, pee, sniff. Standing next to the pines, the view to the north west was spectacular. Eastern Dane County is flat. The glacier leveled the land on its way south, and deposited debris as it retreated. To the west the glacier pushed heaps at its edge and then retreated. What it left us to the western edge of our county is beautiful rolling hills and deep valleys.

I have a walking stick I made from an ash tree. Five years ago I cut the tree and left it to dry in Aaron's room thinking he would carve something out of it. He came home and died before doing anything with the wood. I carved a walking stick for Patrick. It stayed with me. A symbol was carved into the handle. A stick man walking between rain drops, cool and slow. I leaned on the stick and admired the view. Three houses dotted the scene. Some people possess the land. The view is free.

My thoughts were with Thoreau. Is it the farmer who has the land or the land who has the farmer? If I owned the hill and the valley would I appreciate the view? I said a prayer of thanks for all that does not have me.

Proverbs

Two Wise Men and a student.

Wisdom was handed down to our grandparents by their ancestors and they perfected their knowledge in the great depression. My parents grew up in the households of wisdom. I wonder how often King Solomon's Proverbs were read in living rooms and at kitchen tables across America in the 1930's? Given the choice of the newspapers or Proverbs for starting and ending the day today, I'm choosing the King.

Talk about depression. For how much longer will failure and finger pointing be news worthy? Attitude is the greatest depression. There are stories in the world about Americans who are taking action, keeping businesses open, paying employees fair wages, creating jobs, and making life better for someone. A test of faith is to believe it's happening because you wouldn't know it by what's being reported.

I quit reading the paper and put my TV in the closet. There is no reason to go to madison.com anymore either. I'll watch YouTube and Thirty Rock on-line for entertainment--but not at home, I have no cable.

There are 31 Proverbs. One a day for the month of March. I'm guessing on April 1 my attitude will be better than had I read the paper for a month.

Green Bay Packers Foundation and Aaron Meyer

Aaron had a way of exclaiming his happy surprise that went something like: NOaoaohwhww! I think that's a reasonably close spelling of what was more a sound than a word. His eyebrows would raise, or at least the left one, and his eyes would smile. Aaron's mouth formed a big "O". NOAOAOHwhww...long and drawn out. The press conference at Lambeau Field where it was announced that the Green Bay Packers Foundation had awared the Aaron Meyer Foundation a grant for the Aaron House project would cause Aaron to break out his signature sound.

John Blaha and I made the trip to receive the check. John, known as FJ around Lambeau, gets the red carpet treatment for giving 20 years of his life to the Packers. The stories he can tell... you'll have to talk to John.

Air-bear, you made it to the Packers. Because you lived the life you lived, and inspired the people you inspired, the Packers cut you a check. You're one of chosen few. True story Air-bear. True story.

Thank you to everyone who gave time, money, expertise, and prayers to the Aaron Meyer Foundation. Your efforts are validated by the organization that sets the standard for excellence.

www.Packers.com

On Thursday, February 26th the Green Bay Packers Foundation will announce their 2009 awards. They support causes which meet their criteria of responsibility to the community, financially responsible, and organizationally well managed.

The awards will be announced at a luncheon at 11:00 am followed by a press conference at Lambeau Field. Might be something people want to tune in to at www.Packers.com or see if the Green Bay Fox affiliate WLUK will do live coverage. http://www.fox11online.com/

After telling Aaron and Patrick they could grow up to be whatever they want, they asked me: "Why didn't you be a Packer dad?" Left me speachless. Aaron was a little more than irritated that I didn't be a Packer. Patrick was more forgiving. Naturally.

Blessings From Aaron's Friends

Summer days of 2005 were painful with the sounds of graduation parties in the neighborhood and brutal seeing Aaron's friends going off to school. God those days were torture to my mind and body. My brain would scream to me about the insanity. How could my son be dead? And the tears--oh my there were floods of tears.

The kids went off to school and I know they were there; I've seen Facebook. Well, actually there are no pictures of classes but they were somewhere and their college experience photos look alot like college kid pictures. I've seen some of these friends of Aaron's--they're young adults now. Hardly resemble the little kids and carefree high school students we remember. They're all just a pleasant as ever.

When I hear from any of the friends of Aaron I consider the message they share to be a blessing. Around Christmas I heard from one guy that he had a dream of Aaron. The message Aaron had for him and their friends was "Be Free--Live Free". Aaron is free. I know that. I've heard from messengers who let me know what Aaron needs me to know.

Today an email came from another friend of Aaron. She wrote, and I cherish this message:

Mr. Meyer, I went to school with Aaron and was friends with him while he attended DeForest Middle and High Schools. I believe that Aaron had the best happy go lucky attitude towards everyone and everything. He was always cheery and very easy going. I enjoyed getting to know him as a person and was pleased to have him has a classmate. I remember hearing about the Aaron House a while ago and I came across your website tonight. I think that this whole project is awesome!! It is very needed in the area and across the country!

I can say I remember Aaron was easy going and happy and it sounds like parental pride. For a person who was friends with Aaron to tell me what their impression of Aaron is, I know it's true. Softened in the pain of grief are the rough edges of our existence. However, I know the rough spots. I don't hear enough about the softe side of Aaron and if he was 3D there were two and a three quarters sides of softness to that little edgyness he kept for protection.

My little apartment in Madison is called Walden. Like Thoreau's Walden Pond cabin, this is a place of few luxuries. I like it this way. Dogs and friends are welcome for visits. This is a place of serenity. A place to read and write. There is no dishwasher--except me. No cable. I can vacuum, clean the bathroom, take out the trash, do the dishes, and mop the floor in 10 minutes. If Doc's here add 5 minutes for him dumping the trash and generally getting in the way of every where I go.

Aaron, Patrick, and I share a fondness for ideas well written. Aaron kept a log of quotes he heard. It's on a small yellow pad in his bedroom still. I read a quote he and Patrick would like. It's a Latin verse and the latin I did not remember, but the english translation I kept. Emerson used the quote in his discourse on Compensation. Here it is: "Things don't stay mismanaged long." They sure don't.

Life at Walden is peaceful. I have gratitude for the messages I receive from Aaron's friends--they remind me that he lived so I can for a moment forget that he died.

Thank you Chris and Tessa.
Tom

1988 - 2009

Cathy called to tell me an MBA friend of Aaron's died this week. Frank McGill She remembers this young man very well. He was one of the first Cathy met, possibly five years ago today, when she made her first visit to MBA to see Aaron. Probably a little further down the road than Aaron at the time, Frank was outgoing, friendly, and eager to talk. I'm sure his eyes were bright--that's the fondest memory I have of my visits to MBA--kids who's eyes would have been dark and full of fear at home were now bright and full of life and hope.

I have no idea what happened. I wonder what last Saturday was like for the McGill family? The last day of life as they knew it, Valentines Day...hmm. My head hung low in the first days. As I thought about this family and their grief my head drooped again. The neck muscles must be the first to surrender to sadness.

The ruins in the family when a young adult child dies is probably not the same in two families. But I doubt it's significantly different in emotional turmoil. A brave face and an attitude of gratitude for what was had buys a person time and enables one to leave the house for small moments. Ignore the grief when it calls and pay the price for ignorance. Emerson wrote in Compensation The gain is aparent;the tax is certain. A latin phrase he quotes says it well too: Res nolunt diu male administrari. Things refuse to be mismanaged long.

What are we mismanaging that so many young adults with compassionate souls die? What's the cause? I know the effect. 1988-2009 is not a lifetime, it's merely a start.

I'll Lose it Anyway

My health and well being is dependent on a daily reprieve. Anything I place ahead of health and well being doesn't matter because I'll lose it anyway. I heard that insight on this trip to the south and the message is worth contemplating.

I see the clock has struck midnight on the fortys for me--eastern time, but wait I'm a central time baby--I've an hour remaining.

There was a time when everything was ahead of my health. There was also a time when nothing mattered. The days of nothing are more meaningful to me than the days of everything. The days filled with so much of everything impress me as nothing of significance while the days of nothing inspire me to embrace, but not hold-on to life.

From the days when I wanted nothing, I received everything that matters. Recently I have been wanting. My journey has placed me in the presence of wise people who have raised my awareness. I have heard what I needed to hear. My teachers have given me the assessments of my spiritual condition. It is up to me to do the work.
I know where to begin.

Letting Them Go

Letting them go is hard when they fit so easily in my arms.
One to heaven and one to life.
Letting go.

One Foot Every 22 Seconds

At the speed of life. That's the way I lived my life. At 25 and before, I acted as if I were 50 in order to gain the respect of people in positions of power over me. Acted in moments though. No way could I play that role day and night. Some of my props included: Three piece suits, a hardy handshake, scotch and water, sarcasm, stupid witty comments, and other acts which hurt people who did nothing but be friendly to me. Every experience could have been a one man show, the other characters were props best played by people without feelings.

The last days of being forty something are here. Maybe, and I can't say for sure so maybe, this is the first time in my life where other people matter to me for who they are and what they know. Santa Maria Deluca and Michael wanted to talk to me yesterday. I let them and I'm more content today because I listened.

Giving is better than receiving, except when it comes to advice. I am so quick to give advice, before it is requested--as if the request is a given, and after speaking my mind I feel a bit wasted. Why do I feel when someone tells me somthing that they are seeking my advice? That can be changed. I am going to begin working on that today. Today I will be aware of my responses to the conersations I have with others. I will say Thank You for sharing your experience, and leave it at that unless my input is requested.

Eating dinner at the top of a hotel built in the early 70's I suspect I looked out over the Gulf of Mexico to the west, the coast north and south, and the city of St. Pete's to the west. All of those views were mine in the hour I sat at the table because the dining room floor rotated. By measuring the time it took for six inch floor tiles to move across a point on the floor, I calculated the room mooved at one foot every 22 seconds. I wonder how the designers arrived at this speed as the ideal speed of rotation? Too much faster and I think there would be problems for an intoxicated patron---would have been a challenge for me. George Jetson said what crossed my mind as the window pane dividers sped past one every 72 seconds--- "Jane! Stop this crazy thing!"

Aaron's In Heaven and No One Can Touch Him-He's Free

Leaving the confines my safe place I find myself in the company of fascinating people. This morning a man named Michael, who was probably 60 years old, sat across the room from me. On the top of each hand was tatooed a word. The right hand I couldn't make out. The left hand read: DAD. Michael is a spiritual being with a burning faith in God.

When everyone finished sharing their experience, Micheal approached me. Pushing me back without touching me, Michael moved me away from anyone who could overhear. His eyes were wide. Unblinking he looked into my eyes and said, "I know your son. I've seen him. I've held him. He's happy. He's free. There is no death. He wants you to know he's with God and he's happy. He's free. You are to be free. Let go of the past. Don't go there. There is no life in the past." I thanked Michael for the message and told him I know the message was real and I accepted it. Michael walked away without blinking once. "Peace of God be with you."

I had breakfast with Santa Maria Deluca and then packed my bag and headed south to Bonita Springs. The drive was made in Peace.

Tampa

Destination Tampa. Midwest Airlines is not what it used to be. No warm cookies, but according to the box tacked onto the partition at the ticket counter you can buy a box of frozen dough and bake 12 yourself at home. Cool. Fifteen bucks to check a bag. Cool. Flight attendants. Cold. Everyone is a little pissed off it seems. No smiles.

From '98-'02 we vacationed in Sarasota. Most of the time we flew to Tampa and drove down. Aaron and Patrick were great vacationers. Take them to a hotel, a pool, room service, and they were set. Well Patrick always needed time for his lungs to adjust--hook him up to the nebulizer and wait for his skin to turn from pale to pinkish and then he was ready to swim. Cathy, PT, and I almost made this return trip two springs ago, but cancelled as the date approached. Too traumatic to go without Aaron.

I am not sure why I am here, something coaxed me to keep going with an idea that seemed ideal more than a month ago. This morning I almost called it off, but here I am. Never have I been to FLA and been cold. Until the plane touched down today. Coming in over the Gulf of Mexico, the plane banked and approached the runway. 32 degrees, the Captain announced. Then I saw what triggered an emotion. Of all the beautiful sights, what ached my heart were round fuel storage tanks on the ground around the airport and the palm trees whipping past the plane as we raced in toward the terminal. Next was the inside of the terminal, then the shuttle, next the rental car stations, and then the drive south toward St. Petes and Sarasota. I have not cried deeply for some time, but that changed today. Grateful to be able to feel emotions. Especially the ones that don't include anger. What is the name of the emotion where you cry hard, the snot runs out of your nose, you sob, and your body aches and shakes, and then you feel tired and refreshed? I don't think sadness is it.

There were days I could not get to any feelings that were not related to resentful. Remembering what it was like, I recalled the agitated feelings. The anxiousness of getting to the hotel or condo, and the impatience I had with the boys. Regrets for sure, but I know better than to stare at the past. I remembered and forgave myself. I didn't know then what I know now. Today I have choices. Thank you Spence and others.

32 is 32 in Tampa and Madison. NW wind and hard cold. I sat by the pool in shorts and shirt off for 20 minutes then took a barefoot walk on the beach. Bright sun. Icey sand. I retreated to my room. Found a warm spot out of the wind on the balcony and then fell onto the bed. Woke in time to go meet some friends of Bill W. The topic of the conversation was---God's will and grace. Geezes. I don't know how this thing works, but everywhere the results are the same--I just shake my head in wonder. I always get what I need.

Don't know why I'm here. But I'm here and where I am going I don't know for sure, just that I will be there when I get there. In the morning I have some people to see at 7:00, then point the car south and drive. Expecting to reach Bonita Springs by 11:00 and maybe find a warm spot protected from the wind.

Fishing in the Gulf is the only activity I want to be sure to do. I friend set me up with a surf fishing rig. If the temp doesn't go north while I'm south I may need to send for a tip-up.

Wondering why I'm here and not regretting coming.

God's Will and The Power to Carry It Out

Tonight begins a stretch of days of solitude which will end the day after my 50th birthday next week. If disaster should strike before I see everyone again, it will happen with all of my relationships in the right place. That's the beautiful outcome of help from others who do God's work in my life. I'm far from perfect, but with the help of other people life is a blessing.

For a day and a half my mind has been filled with an awareness of understanding of God's will. Abundant clarity struck me and I know this too shall pass, but until it does--I gotta write. If I ramble you may have to sort through the mess, but there is a nugget in here. This is it:

God's will, as I understand the opinions of thinkers who I read--Dali Lama, Merton, Lewis, is that we live with compassion, mercy, and forgiveness to others and ourselves. To be able to progress in compassion, mercy, and forgiveness, we develop humility. A humble person sees himself as not more or less than anyone, but one of the whole of all the universe.

Now, here is where my opinion's come into the discussion and where my mind is swirling this week---God does not make horrible things happen in my life to drive me into humility. Maybe he makes it rain on my parade from time to time to slow me down or to keep me from running over someone, but there is no way God took the life of Aaron. No way. God is merciful and would not use murder as a way of leading one human down another pass. God created a world of balance and order. Only many affects the balance and order unfairly. No other species takes more than their share of any natural resource except man. Only man uses nature in a disorderly manner to serve his species. God is order.

So, with the world in balance and the universe in order, and God willing humans to progress in humility to better serve the universe in mercy, compassion, and forgiveness, my shallow thinking might decide I know God's will for me. I decide God wants me to progress in my humility by serving meals to the homeless, once a month. Twelve times a year should do it. I can commit to that. Might not keep all 12 commitments, but God won't care. I can do God's will as long as I can drive to the homeless shelter in my truck. I may make half of the 12 provided nothing comes up. I'm a busy man you know. Here I am cruising through my life of humble pie baking and all of a sudden I get a message delivered by one of God's angels.

"You misunderestimated God's willingness to allow you to visit the fertile fields of humility. God does not want you to serve meals to the homeless."

Good, because that's a sorry place. I'm glad he sees it my way. I'm better used expounding on the virtues of good over evil. Where does he want me to report for duty? On the speaking tour? National TV?

"Right here, Mr. Meyer. You will be homeless, destitute, cold, and hungry in this very city."

Is God going to take my apartment away from me? My job? My car?

"No. God doesn't take anything away from you. You give it away a little at a time by living a life of self will run riot. God will pick you up and deliver you to the streets where you will learn to live without."

Can you imagine this scenario? Serving meals to the homeless would be a teeny-tiny unpleasant. What kind of humility progress can you make in an apron spooning mashed potatoes and gravy? Even the most disgusting life of poverty in the United States is superior to poverty in Somalia I suppose, but it can't be a walk in the park. Humility would flourish if I was open to the lessons. Homeless, hungry, and poor, being fed by people who I probably once thought were beneath me would be a fertile field of fresh manure for my humble crop of compassion, mercy, and forgiveness. But, I'd have to survive to be an example of God's grace.

I'd have to survive and I could, if I am granted the power to carry it out.

Surrender With Both Hands

Crawling through a field at night, hiding in six inch tall grass, an on the run convict/addict looks up into the beam of a sheriff deputy's flashlight. The deputy has no idea if his man is armed. He knows he's dangerous--the pursuit was intense. "Surrender or I shoot!" With a feeble, noncommittal attempt and careless to his fate, the convict raises one-half arm, and one hand to the light. "Surrender to me with BOTH hands!" is the final order to the man on his belly.

Little kids know what the deputy knew. The one handed surrender is "the oldest trick in the book." Let 'em think you're too hurt to raise the other hand. Then when the other guy drops his guard, WHAM! You let 'em have it! No Surrender! Get up and run! To be a real surrender, a safe surrender, it's gotta be two handed.

Surrender is the hardest part of living. Trying harder is the way of the west. You can't do algebra? Try harder. You can't lift 250 lbs? Try harder. You can't stop killing yourself? Try harder. Never give up! Be persistent! Don't quit! Press on! Resist the temptation to quit. Pull yourself up by the boot straps. Winners never quit and quitters never win. Depends.

Depends on the event. And life is not a game. I tried to give up a few attachments with one hand. I used the other hand to hold on for safety. A getaway driver with a bullet in his left shoulder and a steering wheel in his right hand, I could always speed to my destination. I only needed one non-committed hand. As long as I was moving, I was trying hard. I grew up just tough enough that I could be persistent as in the persistent way a guy bangs his head against a brick wall until the concrete chips. Sure the concrete chip on the ground shows progress. But not much promise. Well, not much to the man of reason. Banging ones head against hardened clay will leave a brain muddled.

I was talking to Cathy last week and heard her say something I took to heart. "We don't know." She was responding to something I had said about the present. We don't know what our choices today will mean to eternity. Mistake? Calling something a mistake today is no more than naming a feeling. We don't know. I gave thought to those words until I believed them. we don't know, I surrendered with both hands.

Both hands in the air, high above my head, leaves me no way to hold onto anything for long. Anything gets heavy. Even feelings.

Patience

My friend Tim was told by a golf pro--'Tim, the problem with you is you want success and you want it right now.' To which Tim responded, 'And...that's wrong?' Twenty one years later, Tim might be just as bewildered by the observation.

For me, declining life's invitations to wait was not always a key to success but it got me right where I am today and this is where I should be. Knowing what I know and learning what I learned from the life classes I chose, I am aware of the opportunities in patience. Today I am open to hearing what I can only hear with a patient mind.

Waiting for a person today left me with an opportunity to breathe and think about how it feels to be where I was sitting. My mind went to places it likes to go. I didn't join. I brought the fellow back into my coconut. 'Wait there until I need you.' With the patience of a 3 year old, my mind trotted out of the warm and mushy confines again....Impatiently, 'Hey, let's be a dick. Let's make this person sorry. Let's say something toxic. Sarcasm. Come on!!Sarcasm. Use it!!'
With patience, 'Sit. Be quiet.' The eventual visit was worth the wait.

Later, I walked into a candidate debate. I carried patience. The environment is toxic by nature and this was no debate. The candidates are called opponents. It's a debate because they have different opinions. Opponent. Opinion. Any Greeks see similarities in these words? This event was an accusation. The challenger used a hefty dose of passive aggressiveness to accuse the incumbent. 'Murder and neglect,' she whispered louldly between the lines of her prepared statements to each question.

How do you debate those opinions? " Um,I disagree. Twice."

The two people were my teachers today. I watched the incumbant not jump over the moderator and slap her accuser. Patience was just one of her virtues. Grace was another. I was impressed. The accuser showed me how I am capable of sounding and looking with ill-will in my head, and stupid on my lips. I don't have enough days in my life to be that hurtful.

I see I was not there to listen to a debate. I was there to see myself as I am capable of being. Virtuous, or sinful.

Twenty one years after that golf lesson, Tim is a much better golfer than me. He took more lessons, practiced, and played the game of golf. I left my game in the hands of time. Time does not heal all wounds of golf.

I will practice patience.

Molly Goes to Heaven -- January 22

On the day Patrick passed Aaron's days of life, 18 years 3 days 12 hours and 15 or so minutes, Molly went to Heaven. She is running and lounging in the sun with her other boy. Her time with Patrick, Cathy, me is done.

Molly picked us out when Patrick was less than 2. An all around hunter Molly retired from active pursuit of birds and fowl in November '05. A month earlier she gave Doc lessons in flushing grouse and took him to school retrieving ducks in the water. A Chesapeake of any age would be humiliated to be out swam by a Setter, but Doc is not just any lug. He knew Molly ruled.

Molly outlasted her hunting days by 38 months. She was the constant peace in a home of sadness. Aaron loved to sleep in the sun with Molly. Patrick let her on his bed--until he was ready to sleep, then he'd give her the boot. Cathy could make Molly move from the pillow to the foot of the bed just looking at her---to avoid the mental telepathy Molly would try to not look her in the eye, but eventually Cathy's powers proved too much and Molly sulked to the foot. She would creep back in the night until she had the spot she owned. Grandma Lucy had her own tug of bed with Molly. At 80 she had to hustle to get in bed before Molly snuggled into the most cozy compression.

In the clinic Molly rested in her bed. She had a case of the Shivers. When Patrick and his friend Amanda entered the building, Molly's tail wagged. She knew he was nearby. I noticed the tail wag and then the shivers calmed when she sensed her boy. With her family around her Cathy and I saw the biggest smile on Molly's face. She knew she was loved. Patrick told Molly to 'go to Air-Bear'. I coaxed her to 'hunt em up in heaven'. Big Sobs. Big Tears.

The sleep was instant. Calm over her face first. Her eyes closed slowly. Molly let go. Peaceful. Goodbye.

Before I fell asleep it occurred to me, Aaron had come home 4 year ago on January 22.

Embrace Life

Patrick surprised me with new insight on a day I feared he would be sad. Aaron's life long friend Zach wrote a touching letter which Patrick received on his birthday. The idea of living beyond Aaron's age could be looked at more ways than one and the healthy way is what Zach talked to Patrick about.

I know PT has thought and talked about living beyond Aaron's shadow--sometimes an easier notion to imagine than to put into practice. Guilty feelings about abandonment might stop a person from living one's life without a departed loved one. The encouragement from Zach, whom Aaron was friends with since age 7 or 8, is as close to permission from Aaron as it can get. If Zach says OK to go, Aaron would surely not be oppossed.

Embrace life is the message. Live. I recall the letter I wrote to Aaron a week before he died. It ended with--"...all I want for you is to live." My wish for Patrick is no different. To live is to be caring of other people in a selfless way. Using what we have to help other people avoid misery or even death. I spent much of my life confusing living with existing.

Another Son Turns 18

Years ago I would think about years such as 2009 and imagine what the year would be like. Little , Patrick, who promised me he would stay a little boy, would graduate high school in '09. Aaron would turn 22. My vision did not allow for sorrow of any kind. One night I had a dream about the present. Aaron and Patrick were living together. Both in a college somewhere in the west. Patrick was going to class. He carried two bags of books--one for him, one for Aaron. Aaron was not going to class---he had another place to be.

The dream and my old visions have more in common than my old vision and the new reality. The future is also as much an illusion as a dream. I see the future from what I know about the present. My recall of the past is limited to all my mind is willing to revisit and repackage for delivery to my senses. The past is absolutely an illusion.

There is no past. There is no future. The present is all there is. Today is a combination of past and future: this morning, this afternoon, this evening. Even today is nothing more than a word to define what is not this instant.

Today Patrick turns 18. He is the second of three young men in our family to reach 18 since my 18th birthday in 1977. Kristopher didn't make it. He died at 15 years and 11 months in '97. Aaron made it...for 3 1/2 days in '05. This is the first time in Patrick's life that he has not had his cousin's life or his brother's life to model and compare. "When Kris was my age he did ____." When Aaron was my age he did ____" Those comparison opportunities will end on the 21st for Patrick. New uncharted territory. He may feel more alone than ever today. His ship is shoving off and the boys he knows are being left behind. Their footprints end in the sand. From here on he walks where they never had the opportunity to go. I dream he will press on.

It's hard to live in sadness. Death of a sibliing and big cousin who was admired may leave a young man feeling a loss of his true self. Searching for something to fill the void may become a full time commitment. Life is worth living, but being committed to living may be a commitment Patrick is not sure he wants to make. Eighteen is a landmark birthday. Graduating high school is a landmark date. With sorrow and the illusion of indifference to life neither event is joyful. Both mark endings not beginnings to the person who does not see joy.

When Aaron turned 18 four years ago I wrote about him with hope. Optimism was in my heart. A handful of hours passed and reality changed my optimism to grief. With Patrick 18 today I'm watching. My prayers are not for good things for him--I don't believe God will do for people what they won't do for themselves, but my prayers are for Patrick to want peace in his heart and mind. I pray for understanding and wisdom. Knowing the price of wisdom can be painful, I'm still asking. It's all that's worth having.

Patrick has the present. I have the present. We may fear and dread the future and be saddened by the past in any present. Illusions are no more than what we are willing to let them be.

The past and future--let them be.

God's Will, My Ya-but

Throw a stone in a still pond and the ripples can not be stopped by removing the stone. Once action is taken to put in motion a decision made on God's will or self will, the repercussions can not be stopped. The energy is released, the impacts are felt, and lives are altered. God's will is quite clear and simple. Direct for sure. The confusion comes in what I add to the question. Circumstances are not the problem. I make problems out of circumstances.

As a child I would respond to my Dad with, "Ya, but..." as in "You said you would cut the grass in today. It's today, the grass isn't cut, and now you want to go to the movies?" Me: "Ya, but I didn't know my friends were going to the movies." Dad: "Ya-but rabbit. Get your work done."

Promises and commitments made without intention to keep them are treachery as C.S. Lewis writes in Mere Christianity. Sins of the worst kind because they harm the spiritual condition of other people. There is no free pass for acts committed with impure intentions.

Having thrown a stone into the pond many years ago, I have tossed in pebbles to alter the ripples. Some were intended to stop the course of nature.More disruption of what exists is not progress. Removing the causes would not remove the impact. Today I pray to not add more to the life altering ripples and waves.

I noticed a remark to yesterday's post. Rereading, the commentor may see what they need to see instead of what they think they saw. I am grateful for the awareness of knowing more chaos will not lessen the impact of acting on my will. Today I have the opportunity to not live the way I have.