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.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Monday, April 20, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, April 09, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 07, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, April 05, 2009
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.
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.
Saturday, April 04, 2009
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.
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.
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