It’s 7 AM on a snowy Thursday morning, a vacation day where I should be sleeping in and relaxing, but for some reason, I am wide awake. For the first time in a long time, I feel the urge to write again.
Standing at the window, hot cup of Lipton’s Honey & Lemon Tea in my hand, I am looking at the beautiful snow that has fallen over Kentucky this morning. Today, for some reason I am reminded of the snowy days of my youth, especially those when the snow prevented the out-of-town teachers from making it to Mosby and we would have a Snow Day.
Unlike these days when snow days are common in the winter months, a snow day for a small town school like mine was very uncommon. Since 95% of the students of our small little school were within walking distance, there were no worries about the cars sliding all over the road or into the ditch. All you did was put on your snow boots, bundle up a little more, and trudge off thru the snow for the 1 or 2 block walk to school. Along the way, you stop and pick up snow, throw it at your brother, best friend, or your worst enemy. (If it was your worst enemy you made sure to add a little slush to the snowball to make it sting a little more)
Snow days at school were a mixed bag of treats….depending on whether you had your real teacher or a substitute the County School Board sent. And if your real teacher had a hard time getting to the school, you just never knew what to expect….more times than not though, they seemed to get into the spirit. Instead of hard-core school work, we would spend a couple of hours listening as they would read to the class from a carefully chosen book meant to reflect the time of the year. I remember having an abridged version of Dicken’s A Christmas Carol read some many times, that by the time I reached 8th grade I could recite it by heart. If we were lucky and it was a Music Day, we would sing only Christmas Carols by request….most of them the old classics.
Those memories are fond ones….and ones I wish my children could enjoy themselves. Christmas doesn’t seem to carry the same naïve (and simple) enjoyment that it did long ago. Yes, it has become more commercialized and more about gifts than the true meaning of the season. But it’s more than that….when I was young it was always about family get-togethers and dinners meant to stuff you silly. Everyone forgot about what they fought about and grudges/annoyances were put aside, even if just for the moment. We reminded ourselves we were all human, and the frailties that made us do things to those we loved most were just silly events to be forgotten or forgiven.
But these days things are not so simple and we seem to be not so forgiving. To forgive someone means to let go of the wrong that may have been done and never to bring it to their attention. Maybe it’s just me, but we have seemed to have lost that character trait that is the most admirable of all. And it seems that we have taught our children to never forgive and never forget….because that wrong becomes useful in validating our anger we never want to let go of. But by doing that, we’ve seemed to have let a little of our humanity slip away.
How do we get back to being a little more human…..a little less angry……a little more forgiving? I wish I had the answer, because it would make me a wealthy man. But before I go about trying to fix the ills of others, a little self-reflection is definitely in order.
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This has been a very interesting year for me and my family…one filled with many ups and downs. For me, the year started out great….my daughter finally convinced me to join Facebook amidst all my grumbling about it’s popularity and I regret I didn’t do it sooner. I have connected with many of my former classmates, friends, and co-workers and it’s great to see what we have all become. But even better is that I have connected with cousins on both sides of my family that I had lost touch with at some point in our lives. It is painful to admit, but my family (both sides of it) will never be accused of being a close-knit group. When I was very young, the Christmas Eve gathering at Mamaw and Papaw’s was always something to look forward to. We would gather for dinner and once all was cleared and cleaned up, the gifts were opened. Each child could be assured that they would have plenty to open, and part of the joy was the anticipation of who got what gift that was under the tree. When it came time to open gifts, Papaw would position himself in his favorite chair, his rocker, which was a sign it was time to hand out presents. Usually one or two of the kids were appointed as the “gift hander-outer” as each person eagerly awaited to see what was theirs. I don’t ever remember a time I was disappointed in what I received…maybe it was because we were thankful for anything we received.
But somewhere along the way our families drifted apart…..and as cousins we were no longer close. I hated that, because each and every one of my cousins brought something special into my life. You see, whenever my Mom was sick and had to be hospitalized, my brothers and I would sometimes spend time with Aunts and Uncles….Aunt Billie and Uncle Ernie on my Dad’s side, and Aunt Judy and Uncle Jay on my Mom’s side. Each visit with them would bring something special in it’s own way. And funny thing was….even though in some cases I was much younger than my older cousins, they always made me feel welcome and never a hindrance. For Sherry, Gary and Terri Dawn….you’ll never know how much it meant that you never made me feel out of place, even though our being there interrupted your normal life. For Terry and Chris….the memories are still fresh in my mind of your farm just outside of St. Joe and the times we spent in the Ranger’s Tower your Dad built there.
For all my cousins on Facebook….I am glad we reconnected, even if in just this simple way. I hope this is just a first small step towards getting to know each other again. We may never live as close as we once did, but I hope the distance doesn’t keep us from closing gap that our parents put between us.
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One of the more interesting aspects of Facebook is getting a glimpse into the lives of people we may never have had any communication with had it not been for the electronic age marvel. I am glad that I have connected with so many people who have been a part of my life at one time or another. Each of you enriched my life and helped me grow….so in the spirit of the season I am going to steal an original idea so many columnists have done and hand out “Christmas Wishes” for some of my friends:
To Ron, Nan, Braden & Brennan….much love and strength and success with Connor’s Song.
To Kevin M….may your voice be heard by politicians everywhere. Maybe next time the elections will be all about the issues, not the candidates mud-slinging.
To Shaun and Rachel P………many blessings in your life together. May your love grow greater every day and be as strong when you are 80 as it was when you began your life as husband and wife
To Coach Michael, Coach Bush and Coach Bonuchi….my eternal thanks for being there in a point in my life when I needed guidance. I would not be the person I am without the wisdom and strength you gave me when I was young.
To Terri W-W…..the gift of the eternal youth you seem to already have. How is it that you look the same as when you were younger?
To my friends who are Breast Cancer Survivors……a big Pink Ribbon…..and many more years of good health. May we someday soon find a cure.
To all my Mosby friends…may you have continued fond memories of our growing up in our small town.
To those who have lost a loved one this year…..love, comfort and healing to fill the hole in your heart that is always there when someone you love passes.
To those struggling with health issues…..may you gain strength to fight whatever you are struggling with and beat it.
To my Nieces and Nephews…..patience while you try to understand your Parents, Aunts and Uncles. Someday you will be just like us and your kids will look at you the same way you look at us.
To my Sisters….patience while you try to understand your brothers.
To my Father….strength to continue to fight. I know the struggle is tough and the temptation to quit is there, but resist it.
To my Brothers….my unconditional love. There is nothing greater I could give you and you deserve nothing less.
To my Son….a world that understands the illness that you live with daily. And love and compassion for those that can’t understand you.
To my daughter….all the dreams you have to come true. And the wisdom to prepare for life in case they don’t.
To my wife….patience to wait for your husband to grow up.
And to everyone else….may you be richly blessed with that which you desire most…but more than anything else, may you have love.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
The Old Rock School- A Firm Foundation for a Solid Education
When I first started thinking about creating my own blog, I mulled many ideas for what I wanted it to be. To get people to read what you write it has to have feeling and must be something that catches the readers interests. What really led me to where I am now is the fascination that people had when I would tell them stories of growing up in small town Mid America. Some were interested because they too had grown up in small towns and others were interested because they had never known a life so simple.
But the one over-riding fascination seemed to be with the stories I would tell about growing up in Mosby and going to an old Rock School. You could see the smiles and the interest as each would listen attentively about learning in an environment that is foreign to many these days. And it is their fascination that drove me to bring back memories of a time gone by that was much simpler for us all. So today is the first article in what I hope to make a series of articles called “The Old Rock School-A Firm Foundation for a Solid Education”.
The Old Rock School and the Band of 14
It still stands in the middle of the town I grew up in, a monument to the work of the generation that built it. It’s the 2-room Rock School where my friends and I walked, or in some cases, rode the bus to each morning from 1st to 8th grade. It’s where we went to learn the 3 R’s of education Reading, Writing and ‘Rithmetic. And for me, it was where education mingled with friendships, puppy love, and scraped body parts from playing on the blacktop playground.
At times when I have been back home visiting my family I have driven by the school and wondered what it looked like on the inside…does it look the same as when I was there as a young student? Or has time, like it has done to many of our bodies, given it a worn and tired look? What would my mind’s eye see, that the physical eyes of another could not?
I fondly remember that little rock school, and I am confident the lessons that I learned in my formative years there are what made me the inquisitive and educated person I am to this day. And as I look around at the lives of many of my Mosby friends, I see the very same in all of you. You see, any school can teach what is in a book, it’s the ancillary lessons we learn while at school that really round out the complete person.
So…what would I see if I sat down in a desk just like the one that I occupied when I started 1st grade? I close my eyes even as I sit at this desk, and let my memory take over from here.
Looking around the room I see the old coat closet, where we came in each morning and took off our coats/jacket and hung them neatly on the hooks. At each end of the closet there was an opening and there were shelves where we put our lunches if we brought them. At the head of the rectangular room was the Teacher’s desk. On the left side of the room was the long blackboard where the Teacher would write the assignments for each day. The 1st Grade sat on the right side of the room while the 2nd Grade was on the left side of the room nearest to the chalkboard. Our class size was so small (and funds so limited) that each Teacher taught 2 different grade levels. The Teacher would teach one grade in a subject, then while the students worked on assignments, she would teach the other grade the same subject, different level. (I can confess now that I many times would listen to the Teacher as she taught the other class just so I could learn what the class ahead of me was learning).
Looking around the room yet again, I can see the faces of my classmates. Whenever I look back at my classmates I call us the Band of 14. We were probably the largest class to come out of Mosby for many years, and probably the most diverse. I can recall each and every name….myself, Bobby, Connie, Paul, Jack, Mona, Earnie, Doyal, Bea, Beth, Kim, Toni, Patty, Robin, Robin (Rose), Terry, Kyna, Cindy, Billy and Cathy. I know if you have used your Math skills you are probably scratching your head as to why I called us the Band of 14 when clearly you can count 20 names! Mostly because those were all the names of the classmates from 1st Grade to when we graduated in 8th Grade. No matter who moved in or out we seemed to remain at 14, other than one year we were actually 15 strong.
I smile as the memories come back so easily, mostly those memories that left indelible etchings in my mind because of their nature. I remember my 1st and 2nd grade teacher Mrs. Shannon, a gray haired lady short in stature but firm in nature. She was a strict, by-the-book, no-nonsense person who tolerated very little in the way of precocious behavior. She demanded strict attention in her class, and if you violated this code, she was quick to call you down or even call you to the front of the class. (To this day I can still picture her chasing Bobby around the room with her long ruler after he did something to upset her.) She demanded complete attention in her direction while she was teaching, and any daydreamer and ne-er do-well was quickly brought back in line. But she also had a soft side that she tried hard to not let people see and I was lucky to witness.
I remember Mrs. Usher who was quite the opposite of Mrs. Shannon in that she was a statuesque lady, with a booming voice and gentle heart. Well, gentle only if you didn’t try to cross her or show a lack of respect. (Anyone remember when Bobby called her by her given first name and got a weeks worth of cleaning the chalkboard and dusting the erasers?) I also remember her because it was her love of Social Studies/History and the way that she made it interesting in an almost storybook manner that led me to my love of History.
I remember Mrs. Graves, the Music Teacher who came only 2 days a week. (Her husband, Bill, was the History Teacher at ESHS and a character in his own right). I remember all the songs that she would teach us in preparing for the Winter and Spring Programs that were such a staple in our small little town. And then the occasional plays that she would help put on such as Johnny Appleseed and the farcical version of Romeo & Juliet that my older brother and I starred in.
But more than anything I remember my classmates.
We were a rather unique group of people, almost in a Breakfast Club sort of way.
We had our class jock in Bobby, the guy in grade school that no one would be athletically better than. Things seem to always be easy for him in Grade School, almost like he had the Owner’s Manual on the how-to-look cool bus.
We had the class clown in Paul, always the one to play a practical joke. Paul and Bobby were best buds, even though Bobby lived in town and Paul was a “bus rider”. They were partners in crime (remember the suspension) and where one was the other was surely close by. I remember Paul having to go to the hospital once when we were young because of a Heart Murmur, our first brush with physical human frailties.
We had the vocally talented Beth, who was part of a sister’s quartet dubbed the “DREAM Sisters” because of the first initials of each sisters first name. (Debbie, Rebecca, Elizabeth, Amy, Millie). While highly studious, very intelligent and talented, she like the rest of us struggled to gain acceptance, while feigning not needing it.
We had Jack, another of Bobby’s sidekicks, who always seemed to find a way to get blamed for something someone else did. Jack was always one of the bigger kids in class but never quite warmed up to the thought of being a bully.
There was Doyal and Earnie, brothers although not twins, that just seemed to be a magnet for trouble. Earnie was always in trouble for trying to emulate Paul as the class clown and never quite succeeding. Doyal was always in trouble because (rightfully so) he had a bit of a chip on his shoulder because everyone made fun of his physical struggles. For me, that is something in my past that I am disappointed in myself about. As a Father of a Special Needs child I see visions of myself as a child in those who would make fun of my own child.
Each person I can picture in my mind brought something nice and simple into my life. To all the guys, (Bobby, Jack, Paul, Earnie, Doyal, Kim or Billy)whether it was being my best friend or running mate, my biggest “foe” or first black eye, you helped shape me. Whether you were a confidant when things got rough at my home (Connie), my first love (Cathy), or my first kiss (Mona) you helped shape me. Whether you were the first to, well you know what it was and you know who you are, you helped me grow and learn.
We all learned together in a time and place that is rarely duplicated these days. Instead of calculators and computers, we had worksheets and erasable pencils. Instead of movies and the constant blur of hundreds of channels, we had our books and our imaginations. I say we have lost a bit of our imagination with the passing of our times and the ability to creatively use our minds. But then again, we were a generation of change from our parent’s time also and what we did changed the world no differently than the invention of the electronic age.
As a sad part of what is our physical nature, a few of my old classmates are no longer with us, and for that I am sad. Others we have lost track of and sometimes wonder where they are and how they are doing. It was, at one time, a small dream of mine to hold a Class Reunion at the old school, just to see where everyone is, and how they have done.
But for now, I enjoy the fact that many of my old classmates are friends with me on Facebook and chat with me occasionally so we can reminisce and trade stories.
I hope as you have read this, you have chuckled or smiled at my view of my little school. Or maybe as you read this you began to think of your days in grade school and your old classmates. And I hope your memories are as fond as mine
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Turning Points and Second Chances
It seemed like an oddly warmer night than usual in October as the HS Football Team started to board the bus for the 2 hours ride to the out of town football game. This was an important game for the team boarding the bus that afternoon as it was against an old arch rival. A great deal depended on the outcome of that game for both schools, as both were highly ranked in the state in their classes, but even more so, because for the past several years the game had ended in a tie. Neither team wanted that outcome again that year, least of all the visitors who were boarding that bus.
As one young man got ready to hop on the bus the Head Coach lightly tapped him on the shoulder and said…” I want to be able to reach out my arm in any direction and grab you at a moments notice tonight, so stay close by. If I can’t reach you I’ll have you running wind sprints in practice next week”. He smiled a smile that told the young man he was joking but sending a message that was well understood.
The bus ride seemed eerily quiet that early evening. Usually the bus was raucous with noise as players talked about assignments or opposing players, strategies or plays, each meant to utilize strengths and maximize the opponent’s weaknesses. But on this trip there was only a scattering of chatter. Mostly hushed conversations talking about the week’s practice and new plays installed especially for this game.
Halfway thru the ride one of the Assistant Coaches came over and sat down next to the young man whom the head Coach had spoken to and began to chat with him. It was small talk to begin with, mostly about what they had practiced that week….attention to detail…eye on the ball…don’t let anything distract you. But then the conversation turned as the Assistant Coach said…”Son, I’m no fortune-teller, but something in me says that tonight all that you have practiced on doing all year, will suddenly become more important to this team. Just remember, focus on what you do best, and everything else will fall into place.” And with that he stood up and walked back to the front of the bus to sit with the other coaches.
As the Assistant Coach walked away the young man realized, for once, someone had truly believed in him. His mind drifted back to a couple of months earlier when High School football practices had started and all the young men had gathered to try out for the team. The Head Coach brought all the young men together and gave the same speech he did every year about football being a team sport and building character. Then the process of separating young men into what positions best suited their talents began, and depth charts were formed. The young man tried several spots, none of which seemed to suit his particular talent. As luck would have it he landed at Split End, way down the depth charts. But somehow he had found his way onto the Team, in an altogether different position…one that he, along with guidance from the Assistant Coach, had found a particular knack for.
As the bus arrived at its destination at the small college stadium where the game would be played, and the team headed to the locker room, it still remained a quiet group. The team went to the field to do their normal pre-game warm up and then filed back in to get into their game uniforms. It seemed as if, once the team started getting dressed, the mood changed and the player’s game face took shape. The Senior Class members, the appointed leaders of the football team, took charge and began the task of firing up the team. As game time arrived, the Head Coach gave his small speech, and they all gathered for a prayer before taking the field.
True to form, the game was a battle that was hard-fought with neither team getting more than a 7 point lead before being tied again. Going into the last minutes of the 4th Quarter the scored was tied 22-22 and it seemed that, like the years before, the game could end in a tie as neither team gained ground. But with just 2 minutes left in the game, a series of events happened forever changing the life of that particular young man.
With the young mans team driving down the field for what appeared could be the winning score, a pass was intercepted by the opposing team, pretty much appearing to stop the momentum. But the opposing team, knowing that a tie would hurt their chances at a state title (and probably wanting a tie even less than the young mans team) hurried their offense onto the field to try to mount their own scoring drive. As the opposing teams Quarterback dropped back for a pass he was hurried into a throw by a fierce rush of the defense. His errant pass fell right into the hands of the Linebacker who promptly ran it back several yards before getting out of bounds to stop the clock. What had just a few moments before seemed like a deflated team, suddenly the young mans team had new life.
There were but 11 seconds left in the game…
The Head Coach hurriedly called a play, a pass over the middle that just missed its target. The Coaching Staff on the sideline quickly mulled over a running play meant to move the ball to the middle of the field but quickly dismissed that idea because the team had no more timeouts.
There were but 7 seconds left in the game…
Then,as if to wake the young man from the dream that he was witness to unfolding before him,the Head Coach turned to the Assistant Coach and said “It’s time…send him out there.” After some final words of encouragement from the Assistant Coach , the young man trotted onto the field. Already nervous as he reached the middle of the field, the same Senior Linebacker that had moments before intercepted the errant pass stopped the young man and said, “do it man…you know you can do this”
The young man reached the huddle and looked around at the faces, most of them Seniors who wanted nothing more than to win…just win…this hard fought game. The Holder called the play, set the formation, and the team broke the huddle. The players from both teams lined up, and the referee placed the ball down. Each team got set…the Snapper gripped the ball tightly….the Holder started the snap count, and the ball was snapped.
As the young man stepped forward he could feel something wasn’t right…the whole motion just didn’t seem as it always had when all went right. As he swung thru the ball and watched as it went soaring towards the goal his heart dropped and he saw that the ball was headed wide right.”No Good” was the signal he could see from the official under the goal post. Dejectedly the young man bowed his head, and slowly headed to the sideline. Fearing that he had let down those people who had believed in him, he truly wanted to head to the locker room instead of the sideline. He couldn’t bear to look up, for fear he would see the disappointment in the faces of his teammates who had struggled mightily for the win.
After a few steps, a hand from behind stopped his forward motion, and he heard from nowhere…” a penalty….there’s a penalty flag over there….someone jumped offside …don’t go anywhere man” the Holder said. The young man looked up to see a bright yellow flag laying to the left of where the formation was and the officials gathered around to discuss the call. Relief set in briefly for him, but was immediately replaced with anxiety as he looked to the sideline and saw the Head Coach and Assistant Coach discussing what appeared to be the next move. For what appeared to be an eternity for the young man, he stared at the conversation at the sideline, worried what was being said. In what could only be described as waiting for the Jury Foreman to read the verdict the young man watched as a player trotted from the sidelines with a message from the Coach. Fearing the worst the young man prepared for what he would hear upon the arrival of his team mate.
As the player from the sideline joined the loosely huddled group of players on the field, he looked to the Kicker, then looked to the Wide Receiver, and said… “Coach says I am in for you…we’re going to try the field goal again”. The Kicker breathed a sigh of relief and the team huddled up, prepping for the next play. As the officials marked off the penalty yards that moved the ball closer to the goal post, the Holder took the young Kicker aside and said…”we both know what we did wrong last time…my hold wasn’t right and your steps weren’t right…you looked up and I looked away. I’ll do mine right, and you do yours right and we’ll both be celebrating”. The Kicker looked at the Holder, a Senior who had been his constant support all year and realized what he was doing. The Holder had done nothing wrong with the previous kick, all the errors were made by the Kicker, not him. But the Holder was teaching him a lesson not lost, even to this day, for the Kicker.
There were but 3 Seconds left in the game...
The Teams gathered once more at the line of scrimmage, and the Referee placed the ball down. The Center grabbed the ball firmly and prepared to make the snap…..the Holder got himself placed firmly in the line of sight for the Center/Snapper….and the Kicker took his 2 steps back and to the right, eyes firmly fixed on the spot where the holder would place the ball. The snap count started and the ball was snapped…..
It was a deafening silence that fell upon the ears of the Kicker as he started his motion….and this time it all felt right…mechanical…head down…foot placed firmly next to the spot where the ball would be placed by the Holder…kick the ball…follow through….and never look up.
As he had done many times before on extra points, the Kicker listened for the reaction of his Holder before showing any emotion. What happened in those next few moments to this day still stays as fresh in his memory as if they happened just yesterday. The ball sailed cleanly thru the middle of the uprights and the Kickers team ran onto the field to celebrate.
As most of you who know me are already aware, that young man was me. And for me, that moment in time was what I call a pivotal point in my life. But not just for the glory or exhilaration I felt at that time, and still feel today when I listen to the broadcast of that game. (My Mother made a cassette copy of the game for me when they replayed the broadcast the next morning) It was a pivotal point because for me it taught me about what I call in my life, Turning Points and Second Chances.
The Turning Point for me was 2 months prior when, thinking I had no shot at making the Team, I wandered over to the practice field to kick field goals out of frustration. As I practiced kicking, like I always had when doing that same exercise in the empty lot next to the Parsonage in my small town, one of the Assistant Coaches, Ed Bush noticed me. It was Coach Bush’s guidance and support of me that led me to my career as the Kicker in High School that jumped started my participation in athletics at that level and helped me come out of the shadow of my older brother. (He also unwittingly pinned both of my nicknames on me that stuck with me all thru High School and even to this very day.)
As for Second Chances…to this day, I still do not know what was said between Coach Bush and Head Coach Vic Bonuchi after that first miss. I have heard bits and pieces from different people, and when I asked Coach Bush later, all he would ever tell me was there was no hesitation on Coach Bonuchi’s part to go for the field goal again. I can’t help but think that somewhere in his mind, with an All-State Running Back and All Conference players at Quarterback, Tight End and Offensive Line that he wasn’t tempted to go for a running or pass play. But what I want to believe, and what played out, was the both men decided that not only did they believe in me, but they believed in the very philosophy that they taught us while teaching us the game of football. Sometimes in life we succeed and sometimes we fail…it’s how we pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off and handle the “second chances” we are given that makes us the men we are.
I don’t know if either of those men truly know how they positively affected my life, and I feel a bit embarrassed that I never have told them. But knowing both of them, I would guess each would have said…..”you always had it in you, I just helped you bring it out”.
As one young man got ready to hop on the bus the Head Coach lightly tapped him on the shoulder and said…” I want to be able to reach out my arm in any direction and grab you at a moments notice tonight, so stay close by. If I can’t reach you I’ll have you running wind sprints in practice next week”. He smiled a smile that told the young man he was joking but sending a message that was well understood.
The bus ride seemed eerily quiet that early evening. Usually the bus was raucous with noise as players talked about assignments or opposing players, strategies or plays, each meant to utilize strengths and maximize the opponent’s weaknesses. But on this trip there was only a scattering of chatter. Mostly hushed conversations talking about the week’s practice and new plays installed especially for this game.
Halfway thru the ride one of the Assistant Coaches came over and sat down next to the young man whom the head Coach had spoken to and began to chat with him. It was small talk to begin with, mostly about what they had practiced that week….attention to detail…eye on the ball…don’t let anything distract you. But then the conversation turned as the Assistant Coach said…”Son, I’m no fortune-teller, but something in me says that tonight all that you have practiced on doing all year, will suddenly become more important to this team. Just remember, focus on what you do best, and everything else will fall into place.” And with that he stood up and walked back to the front of the bus to sit with the other coaches.
As the Assistant Coach walked away the young man realized, for once, someone had truly believed in him. His mind drifted back to a couple of months earlier when High School football practices had started and all the young men had gathered to try out for the team. The Head Coach brought all the young men together and gave the same speech he did every year about football being a team sport and building character. Then the process of separating young men into what positions best suited their talents began, and depth charts were formed. The young man tried several spots, none of which seemed to suit his particular talent. As luck would have it he landed at Split End, way down the depth charts. But somehow he had found his way onto the Team, in an altogether different position…one that he, along with guidance from the Assistant Coach, had found a particular knack for.
As the bus arrived at its destination at the small college stadium where the game would be played, and the team headed to the locker room, it still remained a quiet group. The team went to the field to do their normal pre-game warm up and then filed back in to get into their game uniforms. It seemed as if, once the team started getting dressed, the mood changed and the player’s game face took shape. The Senior Class members, the appointed leaders of the football team, took charge and began the task of firing up the team. As game time arrived, the Head Coach gave his small speech, and they all gathered for a prayer before taking the field.
True to form, the game was a battle that was hard-fought with neither team getting more than a 7 point lead before being tied again. Going into the last minutes of the 4th Quarter the scored was tied 22-22 and it seemed that, like the years before, the game could end in a tie as neither team gained ground. But with just 2 minutes left in the game, a series of events happened forever changing the life of that particular young man.
With the young mans team driving down the field for what appeared could be the winning score, a pass was intercepted by the opposing team, pretty much appearing to stop the momentum. But the opposing team, knowing that a tie would hurt their chances at a state title (and probably wanting a tie even less than the young mans team) hurried their offense onto the field to try to mount their own scoring drive. As the opposing teams Quarterback dropped back for a pass he was hurried into a throw by a fierce rush of the defense. His errant pass fell right into the hands of the Linebacker who promptly ran it back several yards before getting out of bounds to stop the clock. What had just a few moments before seemed like a deflated team, suddenly the young mans team had new life.
There were but 11 seconds left in the game…
The Head Coach hurriedly called a play, a pass over the middle that just missed its target. The Coaching Staff on the sideline quickly mulled over a running play meant to move the ball to the middle of the field but quickly dismissed that idea because the team had no more timeouts.
There were but 7 seconds left in the game…
Then,as if to wake the young man from the dream that he was witness to unfolding before him,the Head Coach turned to the Assistant Coach and said “It’s time…send him out there.” After some final words of encouragement from the Assistant Coach , the young man trotted onto the field. Already nervous as he reached the middle of the field, the same Senior Linebacker that had moments before intercepted the errant pass stopped the young man and said, “do it man…you know you can do this”
The young man reached the huddle and looked around at the faces, most of them Seniors who wanted nothing more than to win…just win…this hard fought game. The Holder called the play, set the formation, and the team broke the huddle. The players from both teams lined up, and the referee placed the ball down. Each team got set…the Snapper gripped the ball tightly….the Holder started the snap count, and the ball was snapped.
As the young man stepped forward he could feel something wasn’t right…the whole motion just didn’t seem as it always had when all went right. As he swung thru the ball and watched as it went soaring towards the goal his heart dropped and he saw that the ball was headed wide right.”No Good” was the signal he could see from the official under the goal post. Dejectedly the young man bowed his head, and slowly headed to the sideline. Fearing that he had let down those people who had believed in him, he truly wanted to head to the locker room instead of the sideline. He couldn’t bear to look up, for fear he would see the disappointment in the faces of his teammates who had struggled mightily for the win.
After a few steps, a hand from behind stopped his forward motion, and he heard from nowhere…” a penalty….there’s a penalty flag over there….someone jumped offside …don’t go anywhere man” the Holder said. The young man looked up to see a bright yellow flag laying to the left of where the formation was and the officials gathered around to discuss the call. Relief set in briefly for him, but was immediately replaced with anxiety as he looked to the sideline and saw the Head Coach and Assistant Coach discussing what appeared to be the next move. For what appeared to be an eternity for the young man, he stared at the conversation at the sideline, worried what was being said. In what could only be described as waiting for the Jury Foreman to read the verdict the young man watched as a player trotted from the sidelines with a message from the Coach. Fearing the worst the young man prepared for what he would hear upon the arrival of his team mate.
As the player from the sideline joined the loosely huddled group of players on the field, he looked to the Kicker, then looked to the Wide Receiver, and said… “Coach says I am in for you…we’re going to try the field goal again”. The Kicker breathed a sigh of relief and the team huddled up, prepping for the next play. As the officials marked off the penalty yards that moved the ball closer to the goal post, the Holder took the young Kicker aside and said…”we both know what we did wrong last time…my hold wasn’t right and your steps weren’t right…you looked up and I looked away. I’ll do mine right, and you do yours right and we’ll both be celebrating”. The Kicker looked at the Holder, a Senior who had been his constant support all year and realized what he was doing. The Holder had done nothing wrong with the previous kick, all the errors were made by the Kicker, not him. But the Holder was teaching him a lesson not lost, even to this day, for the Kicker.
There were but 3 Seconds left in the game...
The Teams gathered once more at the line of scrimmage, and the Referee placed the ball down. The Center grabbed the ball firmly and prepared to make the snap…..the Holder got himself placed firmly in the line of sight for the Center/Snapper….and the Kicker took his 2 steps back and to the right, eyes firmly fixed on the spot where the holder would place the ball. The snap count started and the ball was snapped…..
It was a deafening silence that fell upon the ears of the Kicker as he started his motion….and this time it all felt right…mechanical…head down…foot placed firmly next to the spot where the ball would be placed by the Holder…kick the ball…follow through….and never look up.
As he had done many times before on extra points, the Kicker listened for the reaction of his Holder before showing any emotion. What happened in those next few moments to this day still stays as fresh in his memory as if they happened just yesterday. The ball sailed cleanly thru the middle of the uprights and the Kickers team ran onto the field to celebrate.
As most of you who know me are already aware, that young man was me. And for me, that moment in time was what I call a pivotal point in my life. But not just for the glory or exhilaration I felt at that time, and still feel today when I listen to the broadcast of that game. (My Mother made a cassette copy of the game for me when they replayed the broadcast the next morning) It was a pivotal point because for me it taught me about what I call in my life, Turning Points and Second Chances.
The Turning Point for me was 2 months prior when, thinking I had no shot at making the Team, I wandered over to the practice field to kick field goals out of frustration. As I practiced kicking, like I always had when doing that same exercise in the empty lot next to the Parsonage in my small town, one of the Assistant Coaches, Ed Bush noticed me. It was Coach Bush’s guidance and support of me that led me to my career as the Kicker in High School that jumped started my participation in athletics at that level and helped me come out of the shadow of my older brother. (He also unwittingly pinned both of my nicknames on me that stuck with me all thru High School and even to this very day.)
As for Second Chances…to this day, I still do not know what was said between Coach Bush and Head Coach Vic Bonuchi after that first miss. I have heard bits and pieces from different people, and when I asked Coach Bush later, all he would ever tell me was there was no hesitation on Coach Bonuchi’s part to go for the field goal again. I can’t help but think that somewhere in his mind, with an All-State Running Back and All Conference players at Quarterback, Tight End and Offensive Line that he wasn’t tempted to go for a running or pass play. But what I want to believe, and what played out, was the both men decided that not only did they believe in me, but they believed in the very philosophy that they taught us while teaching us the game of football. Sometimes in life we succeed and sometimes we fail…it’s how we pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off and handle the “second chances” we are given that makes us the men we are.
I don’t know if either of those men truly know how they positively affected my life, and I feel a bit embarrassed that I never have told them. But knowing both of them, I would guess each would have said…..”you always had it in you, I just helped you bring it out”.
Monday, September 6, 2010
To Absent Friends and Family, (Part 2)
In part one of this article I talked about the fact that recent events had made me stop and ponder on 2 people who were very important in my life, each of whose presence I miss but both for distinctively different reasons. I spoke about the fact that each had left an indelible mark, either for the dignity with which they lived their life or the ability to live with the struggles that they faced. It was their kindness and their struggles in life that taught me some very valuable lessons. In Part 1 I spoke of my late Father-In-Law, Bill Kinder, who became the very role model for being a Husband and Father to my children. In Part 2, I want to relate to you the second person whom I miss dearly and the real impetus for this 2-part blog.
But this one is going to be a little different for me, because it will involve the more emotional part of telling you the story of my relationship with a person who, at times, was very enigmatic. This person was my mother, Connie Kilgore….
Connie Kilgore
As a young boy growing up in the small town of Mosby, I remember from my first vivid recollections of my parents as always at odds with each other. Each carried their own emotional baggage that only further solidified the eventual split that came when I was just 9. I still remember the day my Father moved out of our rented home, and left to live in another town. The divorce was pretty much like all, contentious to the points of who was better suited to raise all 3 boys in a stable (or what passed for stable then) environment.
From that point on was when I believe my Mother earnestly began her life of emotional isolation. While she did everything she could for providing a home for my brothers and I, she was prepared neither physically nor emotionally for what it took to raise 3 boys. We each grew into teenage years with our own set of issues, and she was struggling mightily to figure out just who she was as a person. There were periods where she struggled with depression to the point of needing to be hospitalized…and there were periods where she seemed to almost be ready to fight past the demons that haunted her for so many years.
There is one thing that I remember most about my Mom from my youth....you see, my Mom had a special gift, a gift of free-hand artistry that was breath-taking. My Mother had not a single day of art classes (save for one year in High School) but yet had the artistic talent of her peers who had spent years honing their craft. And her artistic talent was not just in drawing…she also had the gift of poetry. Her poetry, for the most part, was light and meant to poke fun at herself and the obstacles she faced. To this day I can still quote one of her more significant pieces…one that would make you laugh, and also see inside yourself. It was called “Mirror” and the first part goes like this:
“Mirror…what a funny face you have…the things you say can make me laugh,
You’re cold and brittle and say not a word…but what you say can cut like a sword”
(Mom once sent in one of her poems to Reader’s Digest, but I never remember if it was ever published. But I know that the very thought that she never got a rejection letter gave her pride.)
But the thing that my Mom was most remembered for in our little town was her chalk drawings at church. For her, it was her homage to God for giving her the talent she saw as a bridge to sanity. I remember Betty Cazzell, the woman with the most beautiful voice I heard in my youth, would sing a song as my Mom would do the drawing. I distinctly remember 2 different drawings that she did during Revival Week at our little church in Mosby. The first was a picture of a sailboat calmly floating on a lake between 2 mountains, much like the scene that you see at the end of The Lord of The Rings. (I cannot remember what song Betty sang, I just remember feeling the calm as Mom drew and Betty sang) The second one, and the one most vivid in my mind, was her haunting chalk drawing of the Cross on Calvary as Betty sang “The Old Rugged Cross”. Mom loved that one…kept it carefully tucked away and rarely brought it out for viewing.
But it was also in these crafted talents that she would also express her darker sides. I remember once seeing her draw furiously on a tablet, her anger and force evident with each stroke. After finishing and looking at it she ripped the page from the tablet, threw it into the trash and retreated to her room. When I peeked into the trash, all I saw was a caricature of an angry person screaming at the world, saying “please listen, can’t you hear me crying”. During these times, Mom’s poetry would take a dark tone…..with thoughts that belied the inner struggle that was her demon all her life.
At some point during my High School years, Mom struggled less and less with her emotional well-being and focused more on what she would do once my older brother and I graduated. So all during my High School, when my brothers and I would be at school, my Mother was taking Nursing classes in Kansas City. She would ride the bus from Mosby to KC and then back home. By the time I graduated, Mom had graduated Nursing School and announced that she was moving to Kansas City to take a position working at a hospital. The decision had been made that she would move to an apartment near to her work, and my younger brother would live with my Dad. (He actually finished 8th grade there in Mosby then went to live with my dad)
I think Mom moving to KC and both her older sons moving respectively in their own directions out of town was the first step in her emotional and physical independence….and her first step into isolation. In those years Mom was at times caring and at time emotionally disconnected. In her mind she had nudged her children from the nest, and it was time for them to fly on their own. But she still wanted us at “arm’s reach” as she used to call it. If we did not immediately come when she called, she found ways to remind us she could be emotionally cold and unfeeling. For her, our inability to drop what we were doing in our lives was akin to rejection, and she would dive deeper into emotional isolation. And that is what finally drove a wedge between her and her children.
So....over the years each of us grew emotionally detached from her. Going our separate ways, we fashioned our own set of excuses why we could justify distancing ourselves emotionally from her. And the more excuses we made, the easier it was to not answer a phone call, not send a card, or stop by to see her. And pretty soon it became easier for her to rationalize in her mind that she was all alone…left to her world with no one for emotional support except her close circle of friends she had made that lived in her apartment building on the corner of Broadway and Armour in Kansas City.
For me, the turning point in my relationship with my Mother came when I starting dating my wife. She had come from a strong Christian family, and the very thought that a person could emotionally detach themselves from a parent was a foreign thought to her. She would engage me occasionally in conversation about my Mom and I would try to dismiss it, telling her that she could never understand because she never had to worry about her parents showing love and support. But, like all good women who take the rough clay that is their spouse and mold them into the adult they become, she gently nursed me back to understanding that my Mom was a creature of God,faults and all,and deserved to be respected and shown love. And as time grew, she came to help me understand my Mom, bring her back into my life and be patient with her during the ups and downs of her emotional struggles.
So thru the years, when Debbie and I lived in Kansas City, we would invite her over for birthdays, Thanksgiving and Christmas….sometimes she would come and other times she declined. It was still the emotional roller coaster it had always been, but at least we had come to a common ground and had come to respect each others “idea” of a perfect Mother-Son relationship. And more than anything…she got to see her grandchildren. She seemed like such a different person with her grandchild, almost like the light in her eyes had returned. And I think, that, more than anything softened my heart.
It was in 1993 that Mom, after suffering an attack by one of her patients, started having seizures and strokes. One of her Dr’s diagnosed that the attack had left her vulnerable to more strokes and seizures, so she decided to leave the nursing profession, move out of her apartment she had for so many years and move to North Carolina to be near her sisters. It was a move that would once again, put space between us both physically and emotionally.
Mom loved living in North Carolina and it seemed that the little town she lived in loved her. It took her several years to find the living arrangement she truly liked, but she never had problems making friends. And she found solace in her church, East Taylorsville Baptist Church, and a home (in her heart) when she volunteered at the Hiddenite Center. There she was able to re-energize her artistic talents and seemed to find peace that had eluded her for so many years.
In 1995 I was offered a job in South Carolina and accepted it. It was my thought that being closer to Mom would help to regenerate our bond, and allow her more access to her grandchildren, including her newborn granddaughter Emily. But sometimes distance between 2 people is not about physical location and more about the desires and directions their lives are taking.
With a new job, new location, and 2 young children I let my focus drift to building a family unit I had never had. Visits to Mom that we had planned took a back seat to illnesses in my wife’s family and a job that seemed to want to demand all my time. I would call her on the phone, talking for 15 to 20 minutes at a time before politely excusing myself and saying that Debbie needed help with the kids. What I was really doing was unintentionally driving a wedge between us because of a fear she might not live up to the expectations of a Grandma that I had set for her.
And so, once again, she retreated to the comfort of her emotional isolation.
Over the next few years it seemed our only contact was whenever Mom would have one of her many strokes and would be hospitalized. My Aunt would always call me, let me know she was back in the hospital, and give me a status. I would get in the car, drive from South Carolina to North Carolina, and spend time with her in the hospital. And each time I would promise myself I would reconnect, only to slip back into old habits.
It was on one of those visits that she was diagnosed with late in life diabetes, which only further exacerbated her otherwise weak physical condition. The many strokes had left her unable to truly allow us to let her live alone in her little apartment, so we moved her to a care facility in Hickory, North Carolina. The Walden House, her new place of residence, seemed to be just the tonic for her. The people there were her family, watched over her like she was their own and kept in touch with me. And for Mom and I it seemed like just what we wanted,a point where we came to realize that physical distance was what would make always make us closer.
Over time, the physical stress of getting older,the ravages of diabetes,and the effects of the now more constant series of strokes took away the one thing that was my Mom’s love, the ability to draw. And with it took away her will to fight. One day I got the call from the Director of the Walden house that Mom had had another stroke that had left her debilitated on her left side....and with tears in her eyes, and a visible weakness in her voice she told me that because of that, my Mom would have to go to a full-time Nursing Home. It was devastating....both to me and to my Mom because it meant the end of her independence.
While in North Carolina at the Hospital with her I arranged with help to have her moved to a Nursing home that was near, not only to my Aunt, but to my Mom’s old Church. There she could have friends come by, could get therapy she needed, and hopefully spend the last few years of her life living comfortably. The transition was a little rocky at first, but Mom settled in,finally getting a roommate that was perfect for her.
It was in the spring of 2008 that I got a call that Mom had another series of strokes, and that this one had left her incapable of speaking for a short time. With therapy she would be able to communicate on a limited basis, but her motor skills were forever affected. Debbie and I chatted and decided that we needed to make a trip down as a family and let the kids see Mom before another stroke took away her ability to speak forever.
We arrived that Saturday in North Carolina, got our hotel room and headed off to see Mom. I was dreading what we might find,worried that the children might not be able to handle that their Grandmother being in a state where she could not talk to them. But my worries were unfounded. My Mom, although no longer able to walk, was still able to talk and we had a great time. We wheeled her to the lobby and took some pictures of her with the kids and I. And the kids would ask her all kinds of questions about me as a child....what was I like, was I a “good boy” and did she ever have to spank me. And we all laughed as she communicated in her own way that I was a hand full.
That was to be the last “good day” I would see of my Mom.
It was a hot August morning when I got the call....Mom had just had another series of strokes which now left her virtually unable to communicate. Her body was physically shutting down a little at a time, and she was losing her battle with the ravages of diabetes. I spent an hour on the phone with the Nursing Supervisor of the Home discussing our options…no matter how hard I tried to see it otherwise, these were going to be my Mother’s last days. The Supervisor recommended that we call in Hospice and they would make sure that my Mother’s last days would be comfortable ones, with people at her side watching over her.
I spoke with the assigned Hospice worker for 30 minutes,asking all the questions, needing all the answers. She explained all the Hospice would do for Mom, how they would visit her regularly during the first stages then stay with her round the clock at the end. They would make sure that she felt little pain and that her comfort would be their goal. They would be there to answer any questions I had and were only a phone call away. And all the time all I could feel was the little boy in me crying,realizing that something I had taken for granted was slowly going to slip away.
I made one last trip to see my Mom. I had gotten a call from Hospice telling me that Mom was getting worse, that gangrene had set into her legs and that her vital organs were slowly shutting down. They needed me to be there for several reasons, not the least of which was to make certain decisions that only I could make.
I arrived there on a Saturday at the Nursing Home fully expecting to see Mom in a comatose state, but was surprised to see she was sitting up. But my hopes were immediately brought back to reality when the Hospice worker explained that it was very common for people in their latter stages to appear to have “gotten better”. And it didn’t take long to see what she meant. By mid afternoon my Mother had slipped back into her semi-conscious state, only occasionally waking up when her medication wore off or if some noise from the hall would disturb her.
For the next few days I spent my time in her room, chatting with her roommate Louise, and trying to communicate with her. She never really recognized me, but seemed to open her eyes when my Aunt would come in. Each day she would seem to be OK in the morning and fade quickly as the day wore on. But each day she would slip a little farther into a less conscious state. By the end of day Friday the Hospice worker let me know that Mom seemed to be holding on…like she was waiting for something or someone…a call or a visit. She suggested that it was probably time for me to call anyone else who might want to speak with her one last time, and then for me to say my goodbyes. I told the Hospice worker that there was no one left who would call, and that all her close family in close proximity had come to see her already. So she arranged to allow me to be alone in the room to say my personal goodbye.
It’s really hard, at the end of a life, to know what to say. What comfort can you bring to someone whose life was a struggle daily both physically and mentally? What do you tell them that can make them at peace with what they face? And how can you tell them that you will miss them terribly, that no matter how estranged your relationship might have been at time, your heart will have a hole that nothing will fill? I sat there crying…thinking about what we had missed…choking as I tried to say something. Finally I looked at her laying there peacefully and told her it was OK to let go, that we all loved her and would miss her terribly. But we wanted no more pain for her, we wanted her to be where the landscapes were pretty and the sunsets were beautiful...a place where she was free to draw to her heart's content.
With that I left the room. Because I could not be away from work any longer and because the Hospice Team told me that Mom could stay in this conditions for weeks, I decided to head home the next morning. They promised that they would give me daily reports and let me know of any turns, plus my Aunt lived there in town and could keep me apprised also.
It’s barely been but 2 years this September that my Mother, silently alone in her room in a Nursing Home in North Carolina, quietly slipped away to leave a world of physical pain and suffering behind her. It still pains me horribly that I was not there to hold her hand, tell her how much I loved her and how I would miss her, and comfort her before the Angels came. But in my heart, I knew it was the way that my Mom wanted to pass from this world. You see, that was the enigmatic part of my Mother…she loved you and needed you to be near her, but was fiercely independent and wanted nothing of constant closeness because it smothered her. And that is the way it always was....as long as I can remember.
Mom left little to this world, except a notebook of her poetry that hadn’t been lost in her moves or removed by a less than scrupulous family member. Her many paintings and drawings, all cherished by those of us who loved her, gone. Mom’s clothes I donated to the Nursing home, just like she would have liked it, and any art supplies still there remained in their care for the other residents. Her wheelchair was donated to the Kentucky Horse Park for use at their facility for the Riding For Hope Program. The only thing left were her picture albums she had of all the boys and their children. Or so at least that is what I thought.
While I was in Taylorsville making arrangements for my Mom’s cremation I stayed with my Uncle David and Aunt Susie. It was there that we made a discovery that touched us all….
While in his basement looking at a model train set my Uncle had put together, we came across some old drawings. They had been in the basement of his house after one of my other Aunt’s had passed away just weeks before. They were rolled up and held in place by a rubber band. We took off the rubber band and I was startled with what we had found. It was 2 old chalk drawings that my Mother had done many years before.
I guess they were her little gift to me…
But this one is going to be a little different for me, because it will involve the more emotional part of telling you the story of my relationship with a person who, at times, was very enigmatic. This person was my mother, Connie Kilgore….
Connie Kilgore
As a young boy growing up in the small town of Mosby, I remember from my first vivid recollections of my parents as always at odds with each other. Each carried their own emotional baggage that only further solidified the eventual split that came when I was just 9. I still remember the day my Father moved out of our rented home, and left to live in another town. The divorce was pretty much like all, contentious to the points of who was better suited to raise all 3 boys in a stable (or what passed for stable then) environment.
From that point on was when I believe my Mother earnestly began her life of emotional isolation. While she did everything she could for providing a home for my brothers and I, she was prepared neither physically nor emotionally for what it took to raise 3 boys. We each grew into teenage years with our own set of issues, and she was struggling mightily to figure out just who she was as a person. There were periods where she struggled with depression to the point of needing to be hospitalized…and there were periods where she seemed to almost be ready to fight past the demons that haunted her for so many years.
There is one thing that I remember most about my Mom from my youth....you see, my Mom had a special gift, a gift of free-hand artistry that was breath-taking. My Mother had not a single day of art classes (save for one year in High School) but yet had the artistic talent of her peers who had spent years honing their craft. And her artistic talent was not just in drawing…she also had the gift of poetry. Her poetry, for the most part, was light and meant to poke fun at herself and the obstacles she faced. To this day I can still quote one of her more significant pieces…one that would make you laugh, and also see inside yourself. It was called “Mirror” and the first part goes like this:
“Mirror…what a funny face you have…the things you say can make me laugh,
You’re cold and brittle and say not a word…but what you say can cut like a sword”
(Mom once sent in one of her poems to Reader’s Digest, but I never remember if it was ever published. But I know that the very thought that she never got a rejection letter gave her pride.)
But the thing that my Mom was most remembered for in our little town was her chalk drawings at church. For her, it was her homage to God for giving her the talent she saw as a bridge to sanity. I remember Betty Cazzell, the woman with the most beautiful voice I heard in my youth, would sing a song as my Mom would do the drawing. I distinctly remember 2 different drawings that she did during Revival Week at our little church in Mosby. The first was a picture of a sailboat calmly floating on a lake between 2 mountains, much like the scene that you see at the end of The Lord of The Rings. (I cannot remember what song Betty sang, I just remember feeling the calm as Mom drew and Betty sang) The second one, and the one most vivid in my mind, was her haunting chalk drawing of the Cross on Calvary as Betty sang “The Old Rugged Cross”. Mom loved that one…kept it carefully tucked away and rarely brought it out for viewing.
But it was also in these crafted talents that she would also express her darker sides. I remember once seeing her draw furiously on a tablet, her anger and force evident with each stroke. After finishing and looking at it she ripped the page from the tablet, threw it into the trash and retreated to her room. When I peeked into the trash, all I saw was a caricature of an angry person screaming at the world, saying “please listen, can’t you hear me crying”. During these times, Mom’s poetry would take a dark tone…..with thoughts that belied the inner struggle that was her demon all her life.
At some point during my High School years, Mom struggled less and less with her emotional well-being and focused more on what she would do once my older brother and I graduated. So all during my High School, when my brothers and I would be at school, my Mother was taking Nursing classes in Kansas City. She would ride the bus from Mosby to KC and then back home. By the time I graduated, Mom had graduated Nursing School and announced that she was moving to Kansas City to take a position working at a hospital. The decision had been made that she would move to an apartment near to her work, and my younger brother would live with my Dad. (He actually finished 8th grade there in Mosby then went to live with my dad)
I think Mom moving to KC and both her older sons moving respectively in their own directions out of town was the first step in her emotional and physical independence….and her first step into isolation. In those years Mom was at times caring and at time emotionally disconnected. In her mind she had nudged her children from the nest, and it was time for them to fly on their own. But she still wanted us at “arm’s reach” as she used to call it. If we did not immediately come when she called, she found ways to remind us she could be emotionally cold and unfeeling. For her, our inability to drop what we were doing in our lives was akin to rejection, and she would dive deeper into emotional isolation. And that is what finally drove a wedge between her and her children.
So....over the years each of us grew emotionally detached from her. Going our separate ways, we fashioned our own set of excuses why we could justify distancing ourselves emotionally from her. And the more excuses we made, the easier it was to not answer a phone call, not send a card, or stop by to see her. And pretty soon it became easier for her to rationalize in her mind that she was all alone…left to her world with no one for emotional support except her close circle of friends she had made that lived in her apartment building on the corner of Broadway and Armour in Kansas City.
For me, the turning point in my relationship with my Mother came when I starting dating my wife. She had come from a strong Christian family, and the very thought that a person could emotionally detach themselves from a parent was a foreign thought to her. She would engage me occasionally in conversation about my Mom and I would try to dismiss it, telling her that she could never understand because she never had to worry about her parents showing love and support. But, like all good women who take the rough clay that is their spouse and mold them into the adult they become, she gently nursed me back to understanding that my Mom was a creature of God,faults and all,and deserved to be respected and shown love. And as time grew, she came to help me understand my Mom, bring her back into my life and be patient with her during the ups and downs of her emotional struggles.
So thru the years, when Debbie and I lived in Kansas City, we would invite her over for birthdays, Thanksgiving and Christmas….sometimes she would come and other times she declined. It was still the emotional roller coaster it had always been, but at least we had come to a common ground and had come to respect each others “idea” of a perfect Mother-Son relationship. And more than anything…she got to see her grandchildren. She seemed like such a different person with her grandchild, almost like the light in her eyes had returned. And I think, that, more than anything softened my heart.
It was in 1993 that Mom, after suffering an attack by one of her patients, started having seizures and strokes. One of her Dr’s diagnosed that the attack had left her vulnerable to more strokes and seizures, so she decided to leave the nursing profession, move out of her apartment she had for so many years and move to North Carolina to be near her sisters. It was a move that would once again, put space between us both physically and emotionally.
Mom loved living in North Carolina and it seemed that the little town she lived in loved her. It took her several years to find the living arrangement she truly liked, but she never had problems making friends. And she found solace in her church, East Taylorsville Baptist Church, and a home (in her heart) when she volunteered at the Hiddenite Center. There she was able to re-energize her artistic talents and seemed to find peace that had eluded her for so many years.
In 1995 I was offered a job in South Carolina and accepted it. It was my thought that being closer to Mom would help to regenerate our bond, and allow her more access to her grandchildren, including her newborn granddaughter Emily. But sometimes distance between 2 people is not about physical location and more about the desires and directions their lives are taking.
With a new job, new location, and 2 young children I let my focus drift to building a family unit I had never had. Visits to Mom that we had planned took a back seat to illnesses in my wife’s family and a job that seemed to want to demand all my time. I would call her on the phone, talking for 15 to 20 minutes at a time before politely excusing myself and saying that Debbie needed help with the kids. What I was really doing was unintentionally driving a wedge between us because of a fear she might not live up to the expectations of a Grandma that I had set for her.
And so, once again, she retreated to the comfort of her emotional isolation.
Over the next few years it seemed our only contact was whenever Mom would have one of her many strokes and would be hospitalized. My Aunt would always call me, let me know she was back in the hospital, and give me a status. I would get in the car, drive from South Carolina to North Carolina, and spend time with her in the hospital. And each time I would promise myself I would reconnect, only to slip back into old habits.
It was on one of those visits that she was diagnosed with late in life diabetes, which only further exacerbated her otherwise weak physical condition. The many strokes had left her unable to truly allow us to let her live alone in her little apartment, so we moved her to a care facility in Hickory, North Carolina. The Walden House, her new place of residence, seemed to be just the tonic for her. The people there were her family, watched over her like she was their own and kept in touch with me. And for Mom and I it seemed like just what we wanted,a point where we came to realize that physical distance was what would make always make us closer.
Over time, the physical stress of getting older,the ravages of diabetes,and the effects of the now more constant series of strokes took away the one thing that was my Mom’s love, the ability to draw. And with it took away her will to fight. One day I got the call from the Director of the Walden house that Mom had had another stroke that had left her debilitated on her left side....and with tears in her eyes, and a visible weakness in her voice she told me that because of that, my Mom would have to go to a full-time Nursing Home. It was devastating....both to me and to my Mom because it meant the end of her independence.
While in North Carolina at the Hospital with her I arranged with help to have her moved to a Nursing home that was near, not only to my Aunt, but to my Mom’s old Church. There she could have friends come by, could get therapy she needed, and hopefully spend the last few years of her life living comfortably. The transition was a little rocky at first, but Mom settled in,finally getting a roommate that was perfect for her.
It was in the spring of 2008 that I got a call that Mom had another series of strokes, and that this one had left her incapable of speaking for a short time. With therapy she would be able to communicate on a limited basis, but her motor skills were forever affected. Debbie and I chatted and decided that we needed to make a trip down as a family and let the kids see Mom before another stroke took away her ability to speak forever.
We arrived that Saturday in North Carolina, got our hotel room and headed off to see Mom. I was dreading what we might find,worried that the children might not be able to handle that their Grandmother being in a state where she could not talk to them. But my worries were unfounded. My Mom, although no longer able to walk, was still able to talk and we had a great time. We wheeled her to the lobby and took some pictures of her with the kids and I. And the kids would ask her all kinds of questions about me as a child....what was I like, was I a “good boy” and did she ever have to spank me. And we all laughed as she communicated in her own way that I was a hand full.
That was to be the last “good day” I would see of my Mom.
It was a hot August morning when I got the call....Mom had just had another series of strokes which now left her virtually unable to communicate. Her body was physically shutting down a little at a time, and she was losing her battle with the ravages of diabetes. I spent an hour on the phone with the Nursing Supervisor of the Home discussing our options…no matter how hard I tried to see it otherwise, these were going to be my Mother’s last days. The Supervisor recommended that we call in Hospice and they would make sure that my Mother’s last days would be comfortable ones, with people at her side watching over her.
I spoke with the assigned Hospice worker for 30 minutes,asking all the questions, needing all the answers. She explained all the Hospice would do for Mom, how they would visit her regularly during the first stages then stay with her round the clock at the end. They would make sure that she felt little pain and that her comfort would be their goal. They would be there to answer any questions I had and were only a phone call away. And all the time all I could feel was the little boy in me crying,realizing that something I had taken for granted was slowly going to slip away.
I made one last trip to see my Mom. I had gotten a call from Hospice telling me that Mom was getting worse, that gangrene had set into her legs and that her vital organs were slowly shutting down. They needed me to be there for several reasons, not the least of which was to make certain decisions that only I could make.
I arrived there on a Saturday at the Nursing Home fully expecting to see Mom in a comatose state, but was surprised to see she was sitting up. But my hopes were immediately brought back to reality when the Hospice worker explained that it was very common for people in their latter stages to appear to have “gotten better”. And it didn’t take long to see what she meant. By mid afternoon my Mother had slipped back into her semi-conscious state, only occasionally waking up when her medication wore off or if some noise from the hall would disturb her.
For the next few days I spent my time in her room, chatting with her roommate Louise, and trying to communicate with her. She never really recognized me, but seemed to open her eyes when my Aunt would come in. Each day she would seem to be OK in the morning and fade quickly as the day wore on. But each day she would slip a little farther into a less conscious state. By the end of day Friday the Hospice worker let me know that Mom seemed to be holding on…like she was waiting for something or someone…a call or a visit. She suggested that it was probably time for me to call anyone else who might want to speak with her one last time, and then for me to say my goodbyes. I told the Hospice worker that there was no one left who would call, and that all her close family in close proximity had come to see her already. So she arranged to allow me to be alone in the room to say my personal goodbye.
It’s really hard, at the end of a life, to know what to say. What comfort can you bring to someone whose life was a struggle daily both physically and mentally? What do you tell them that can make them at peace with what they face? And how can you tell them that you will miss them terribly, that no matter how estranged your relationship might have been at time, your heart will have a hole that nothing will fill? I sat there crying…thinking about what we had missed…choking as I tried to say something. Finally I looked at her laying there peacefully and told her it was OK to let go, that we all loved her and would miss her terribly. But we wanted no more pain for her, we wanted her to be where the landscapes were pretty and the sunsets were beautiful...a place where she was free to draw to her heart's content.
With that I left the room. Because I could not be away from work any longer and because the Hospice Team told me that Mom could stay in this conditions for weeks, I decided to head home the next morning. They promised that they would give me daily reports and let me know of any turns, plus my Aunt lived there in town and could keep me apprised also.
It’s barely been but 2 years this September that my Mother, silently alone in her room in a Nursing Home in North Carolina, quietly slipped away to leave a world of physical pain and suffering behind her. It still pains me horribly that I was not there to hold her hand, tell her how much I loved her and how I would miss her, and comfort her before the Angels came. But in my heart, I knew it was the way that my Mom wanted to pass from this world. You see, that was the enigmatic part of my Mother…she loved you and needed you to be near her, but was fiercely independent and wanted nothing of constant closeness because it smothered her. And that is the way it always was....as long as I can remember.
Mom left little to this world, except a notebook of her poetry that hadn’t been lost in her moves or removed by a less than scrupulous family member. Her many paintings and drawings, all cherished by those of us who loved her, gone. Mom’s clothes I donated to the Nursing home, just like she would have liked it, and any art supplies still there remained in their care for the other residents. Her wheelchair was donated to the Kentucky Horse Park for use at their facility for the Riding For Hope Program. The only thing left were her picture albums she had of all the boys and their children. Or so at least that is what I thought.
While I was in Taylorsville making arrangements for my Mom’s cremation I stayed with my Uncle David and Aunt Susie. It was there that we made a discovery that touched us all….
While in his basement looking at a model train set my Uncle had put together, we came across some old drawings. They had been in the basement of his house after one of my other Aunt’s had passed away just weeks before. They were rolled up and held in place by a rubber band. We took off the rubber band and I was startled with what we had found. It was 2 old chalk drawings that my Mother had done many years before.
I guess they were her little gift to me…
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
To Absent Friends and Family, (Part 1)
Sometimes it is the events of life that make you stop and take accounting of your life…makes you think of those times that you remember fondly, those whom you hold close, and those whose presence you sorely miss. In the last few months a good business friend and a close family member passed away, both at an age much, much earlier than they should have. As a death of a friend or a loved one tends to do, it leaves a hole in either your life or in a person whom you love and cherish. But in the end, it’s the dignity with which they lived their life or the ability to live with the struggles that they faced that makes you remember them fondly and miss them dearly.
It is these recent events of my family’s life that made me stop for a moment and think about a couple of people who were very important in my life….2 people whose presence I sorely miss and both for different reasons. Each left a very distinctive mark in my life and it is their kindness, or their struggles, that taught me some very valuable lessons. The first was my Father-in-Law…..
Bill Kinder
I can still remember the very first time I met Bill. I had been dating Debbie (my wife) for approximately 2 months and I think she finally decided I had passed the first series of those awkward boyfriend yes/boyfriend no tests that are always played out between potential couples. She invited me to go with her to meet her parents on a warm Sunday evening, I can only assume to see if I passed that most important test of all, “affirmation from the girl’s Father”. (We men all know that no guy is ever good enough for our “little girls”).
I will admit to being highly nervous about the whole event. A guy can never be sure that he will make a good enough impression on a Father and trust me, in my dating life (beginning in High School) my batting average with Dads wasn’t that good.
I picked Debbie up at her place late that afternoon and we headed over to her parents house. We got out of the car and headed up the driveway to the front door. Her Mom greeted us at the front door, gave Debbie a hug, and gave me the acknowledgement that I am sure was just a cordial attempt to let me know I was OK thus far, but far from “affirmed”. Once inside, I was introduced to the man who would have as profound an effect on my life as any other man I have known.
Funny how in just the first few moments of meeting someone you can get good feelings…and know that you share something in common. Bill was (until I came in) watching the Kansas City Royals fumble their way to yet another defeat. By that time of the season the Royals were pretty much out of the pennant race, so I could tell that Bill (like me) was a true fan because he still watched the games. Bill shook my hand and motioned for me to join him on the couch. While Debbie and her mom adjourned to another room to chat, Bill and I made small talk about the Royals and the game. Interspersed with the chat about the Royals, Bill would throw in a question about where I worked, where I lived, and ask me a little bit about my family. Oddly, it never really felt like an inquisition….more like a way to get to know me. We found we both shared a lot of things in common. We both grew up in very small towns, loved fishing, and were avid sports fans (mainly the Chiefs and Royals). We sat and talked for 2 hours, but it seemed like just a few minutes, just like it should be when you are among friends. When Debbie finally mentioned that we should go since we both had to be at work early the next day, I was brought back to the reality that I had pretty much ignored her (not a good thing to do with a new girlfriend) since we arrived. I was a bit worried that I would hear about it on the way to take her home, but was pleasantly surprised that she was happy that her Father and I had gotten along so well in our first meeting. Little did I know, but that night was a turning point for me….you see, not only had I won the girl, I had gained a friend….and one that would become the Father figure I had been seeking all my life.
Visits to Debbie’s parents became a regular event for us. Although we had not gotten serious….well she hadn’t gotten serious….we would spend every Sunday after church at her parents house having Sunday lunch. Usually, Debbie and her mom would talk or head off to the Mall to shop while Bill and I parked ourselves on the couch and watched ballgames or movies. When football season came around Sunday afternoon was “guy time” as we watched our Chiefs find a way, week after week, to lose.
I remember the first time Bill and I went fishing. We had chatted about doing it sometime…but never got around to setting a time. Bill had a buddy he always went fishing with pretty regularly, but one day he asked if I wanted to go with him that Saturday. I jumped at the chance….then asked what time he wanted me to come over. He said, “well, I usually leave here around 5 AM, so I can get some good fishing time in before all the boaters take over the lake”. I said, “sure I’m game” all the while thinking about how I was going to lose precious sleep time on a weekend.
Saturday came, and I drug myself out of bed….made my way over to Bill’s house and waited outside beside his boat. It had been a long time since I had fished (something I loved as a young boy) and I was feeling a little odd. Bill came out shortly after I arrived and we loaded the truck and headed to the lake. Once we arrived it took only a few minutes to launch the boat and for Bill to park the truck. We soon headed out to a part of the cove where Bill said he had the best luck a few days before. I wasn’t sure of the “protocol” for fishing…would we sit for a while and if nothing bit, would we move? Oddly, I think Bill sensed I was at a loss and said….”you know, the best thing about fishing isn’t whether or not you catch anything big, it’s the enjoyment of relaxing and watching the sun come up. “ And to me, that summed up Bill Kinder in every aspect of his life….it wasn’t about “catching the big one”, it was all about enjoying the little things in life.
I think from that day on we became more than just Father-in-law/Son-in-law. There wasn’t anything it seemed like he couldn’t do, from painting, to electrical work, to plumbing to car repair. Whenever I needed help with something, Bill would drop what he was doing, come over and, with the patience of Job, guide me thru the process of learning a new task.
It was Bill that first got me into helping him drive the Church Van on Sunday morning to pick up a group of ladies in our church on Sunday morning. When he first asked me I was a bit hesitant, not sure of how much I would enjoy getting up a littler earlier on Sunday and arriving home later after church. Not surprisingly I came to greatly love the task for a couple of reasons…first because it gave Bill and I “alone time” before church each Sunday, and second because those dear sweet ladies reminded me so much of the ladies I had grown up with in Mosby.
I came to know and love Bill like the Father I had always dreamed of having, and depended a great deal on his wisdom and humility to keep my life’s ship righted. And when I was struggling I could always count on him to impart sage words to remind me that I was not alone…that sometimes a man is never as tall as when he is on his knees in prayer.
I had always known that Bill had struggled with heart problems brought on by diabetes. But he always seemed to be one step ahead of his physical ailments and would seem to bounce back to being himself. But the human body is a fickle thing, and sometimes even the greatest warriors cannot overcome physical struggles. The last few years of his life were mixed with hospital visits, surgeries, and medicines but never once did I hear him complain. He would always remind me that there was always someone worse off than he. He would say…
”I have lived a full and wonderful life, I have seen the many wonders of God and shared good times with friends. I have seen my girls grow up to be women…I have seen my grandson and granddaughter…and I have been loved by my best friend. God has graced me and there are better men than me that have seen less”
I struggle to remember his last few months at time….mostly because, for me, they were an end I dreaded. Our family had moved out of state for my job, and most of our talks were by phone. The kids were still young, so Debbie was able to travel and visit regularly and went home as often as she could.
I remember being at work when I got the call from Debbie…she said her Dad had been taken to the hospital, and the Dr’s were saying he would probably not be going home. His heart, strong that it may have been at one time, was fading. I grabbed the first plane out of town and arrived as quickly as possible. I stayed at the house watching the children as Debbie, her Mom, and her sisters kept vigil at his bedside. The day before he passed away Debbie and her Mom came home long enough to watch the kids so I could see Bill…and to this day I can barely talk about it without shedding a tear.
I walked into his hospital room unsure, not knowing what to say or even how to act. And like always Bill immediately put me at ease…we chatted small talk like we always did, the Royals and the Chiefs, and fishing. We laughed, we cried…we reminisced. Before I left he said:
“Mark…I want you to know how much I have always loved you as a son. I could not be prouder to have known you and had you as the husband of my daughter and the Father of my grandchildren. I can leave this place comforted that you will be here to take care of Debbie and the kids, and watch out for Regenia. “
Those were the last words that he spoke to me. I hugged Bill, turned and left the room. I walked outside to the car and sat there crying for what seemed an eternity.
Bill passed away early the next morning. Like all families we went thru the normal grieving processes, and settled into what was to be our life without our rock. But there was one last message Bill had left for us…a legacy of his persona that sits framed on a shelf in our house. It was a letter written by Bill as he lay in the hospital bed in his last days. It was entitled “I Am Thankful For” and was a loving reminder of just who he was and how he lived. I post it here today to let you see a glimpse of the man who in his last days had the heart that most long to have…..
I AM THANKFUL FOR
GOD, who loved me enough to send his son into a sinful world to die on a cruel cross for a sinner like me
FOR Jesus who was willing to suffer shame
FOR the CHURCH
FOR the Elders, Deacons, and Preachers
FOR the women who support their men in the good works
FOR Jesus and his CHURCH
FOR each member who loves the CHURCH
FOR financial support that GOD’s word may continue to save the lost
FOR those who give time to teach the word
FOR leaders who show the way, always there everyday
FOR deacons who teach, love others, mow the grass, feed the hungry, teach a class, greet the lost and help a child to grow
FOR the country where worshipping God is without fear
FOR my forefathers who died to keep my land free
FOR my children and grandchildren and the joy they bring me
FOR my wife who loved me through good and bad, richer and poorer, sickness and health
Thank you FATHER, SON, HOLY SPIRIT for your Love, Mercy, Forgiveness, Grace, the Word, a Guide to live by
With Love and Humility
BILL KINDER
There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t miss having him around…and long for his gentle wisdom to guide me thru the tougher moments. I only hope that when I depart this world that people will see in me those characteristics that I cherished most in Bill.
It is these recent events of my family’s life that made me stop for a moment and think about a couple of people who were very important in my life….2 people whose presence I sorely miss and both for different reasons. Each left a very distinctive mark in my life and it is their kindness, or their struggles, that taught me some very valuable lessons. The first was my Father-in-Law…..
Bill Kinder
I can still remember the very first time I met Bill. I had been dating Debbie (my wife) for approximately 2 months and I think she finally decided I had passed the first series of those awkward boyfriend yes/boyfriend no tests that are always played out between potential couples. She invited me to go with her to meet her parents on a warm Sunday evening, I can only assume to see if I passed that most important test of all, “affirmation from the girl’s Father”. (We men all know that no guy is ever good enough for our “little girls”).
I will admit to being highly nervous about the whole event. A guy can never be sure that he will make a good enough impression on a Father and trust me, in my dating life (beginning in High School) my batting average with Dads wasn’t that good.
I picked Debbie up at her place late that afternoon and we headed over to her parents house. We got out of the car and headed up the driveway to the front door. Her Mom greeted us at the front door, gave Debbie a hug, and gave me the acknowledgement that I am sure was just a cordial attempt to let me know I was OK thus far, but far from “affirmed”. Once inside, I was introduced to the man who would have as profound an effect on my life as any other man I have known.
Funny how in just the first few moments of meeting someone you can get good feelings…and know that you share something in common. Bill was (until I came in) watching the Kansas City Royals fumble their way to yet another defeat. By that time of the season the Royals were pretty much out of the pennant race, so I could tell that Bill (like me) was a true fan because he still watched the games. Bill shook my hand and motioned for me to join him on the couch. While Debbie and her mom adjourned to another room to chat, Bill and I made small talk about the Royals and the game. Interspersed with the chat about the Royals, Bill would throw in a question about where I worked, where I lived, and ask me a little bit about my family. Oddly, it never really felt like an inquisition….more like a way to get to know me. We found we both shared a lot of things in common. We both grew up in very small towns, loved fishing, and were avid sports fans (mainly the Chiefs and Royals). We sat and talked for 2 hours, but it seemed like just a few minutes, just like it should be when you are among friends. When Debbie finally mentioned that we should go since we both had to be at work early the next day, I was brought back to the reality that I had pretty much ignored her (not a good thing to do with a new girlfriend) since we arrived. I was a bit worried that I would hear about it on the way to take her home, but was pleasantly surprised that she was happy that her Father and I had gotten along so well in our first meeting. Little did I know, but that night was a turning point for me….you see, not only had I won the girl, I had gained a friend….and one that would become the Father figure I had been seeking all my life.
Visits to Debbie’s parents became a regular event for us. Although we had not gotten serious….well she hadn’t gotten serious….we would spend every Sunday after church at her parents house having Sunday lunch. Usually, Debbie and her mom would talk or head off to the Mall to shop while Bill and I parked ourselves on the couch and watched ballgames or movies. When football season came around Sunday afternoon was “guy time” as we watched our Chiefs find a way, week after week, to lose.
I remember the first time Bill and I went fishing. We had chatted about doing it sometime…but never got around to setting a time. Bill had a buddy he always went fishing with pretty regularly, but one day he asked if I wanted to go with him that Saturday. I jumped at the chance….then asked what time he wanted me to come over. He said, “well, I usually leave here around 5 AM, so I can get some good fishing time in before all the boaters take over the lake”. I said, “sure I’m game” all the while thinking about how I was going to lose precious sleep time on a weekend.
Saturday came, and I drug myself out of bed….made my way over to Bill’s house and waited outside beside his boat. It had been a long time since I had fished (something I loved as a young boy) and I was feeling a little odd. Bill came out shortly after I arrived and we loaded the truck and headed to the lake. Once we arrived it took only a few minutes to launch the boat and for Bill to park the truck. We soon headed out to a part of the cove where Bill said he had the best luck a few days before. I wasn’t sure of the “protocol” for fishing…would we sit for a while and if nothing bit, would we move? Oddly, I think Bill sensed I was at a loss and said….”you know, the best thing about fishing isn’t whether or not you catch anything big, it’s the enjoyment of relaxing and watching the sun come up. “ And to me, that summed up Bill Kinder in every aspect of his life….it wasn’t about “catching the big one”, it was all about enjoying the little things in life.
I think from that day on we became more than just Father-in-law/Son-in-law. There wasn’t anything it seemed like he couldn’t do, from painting, to electrical work, to plumbing to car repair. Whenever I needed help with something, Bill would drop what he was doing, come over and, with the patience of Job, guide me thru the process of learning a new task.
It was Bill that first got me into helping him drive the Church Van on Sunday morning to pick up a group of ladies in our church on Sunday morning. When he first asked me I was a bit hesitant, not sure of how much I would enjoy getting up a littler earlier on Sunday and arriving home later after church. Not surprisingly I came to greatly love the task for a couple of reasons…first because it gave Bill and I “alone time” before church each Sunday, and second because those dear sweet ladies reminded me so much of the ladies I had grown up with in Mosby.
I came to know and love Bill like the Father I had always dreamed of having, and depended a great deal on his wisdom and humility to keep my life’s ship righted. And when I was struggling I could always count on him to impart sage words to remind me that I was not alone…that sometimes a man is never as tall as when he is on his knees in prayer.
I had always known that Bill had struggled with heart problems brought on by diabetes. But he always seemed to be one step ahead of his physical ailments and would seem to bounce back to being himself. But the human body is a fickle thing, and sometimes even the greatest warriors cannot overcome physical struggles. The last few years of his life were mixed with hospital visits, surgeries, and medicines but never once did I hear him complain. He would always remind me that there was always someone worse off than he. He would say…
”I have lived a full and wonderful life, I have seen the many wonders of God and shared good times with friends. I have seen my girls grow up to be women…I have seen my grandson and granddaughter…and I have been loved by my best friend. God has graced me and there are better men than me that have seen less”
I struggle to remember his last few months at time….mostly because, for me, they were an end I dreaded. Our family had moved out of state for my job, and most of our talks were by phone. The kids were still young, so Debbie was able to travel and visit regularly and went home as often as she could.
I remember being at work when I got the call from Debbie…she said her Dad had been taken to the hospital, and the Dr’s were saying he would probably not be going home. His heart, strong that it may have been at one time, was fading. I grabbed the first plane out of town and arrived as quickly as possible. I stayed at the house watching the children as Debbie, her Mom, and her sisters kept vigil at his bedside. The day before he passed away Debbie and her Mom came home long enough to watch the kids so I could see Bill…and to this day I can barely talk about it without shedding a tear.
I walked into his hospital room unsure, not knowing what to say or even how to act. And like always Bill immediately put me at ease…we chatted small talk like we always did, the Royals and the Chiefs, and fishing. We laughed, we cried…we reminisced. Before I left he said:
“Mark…I want you to know how much I have always loved you as a son. I could not be prouder to have known you and had you as the husband of my daughter and the Father of my grandchildren. I can leave this place comforted that you will be here to take care of Debbie and the kids, and watch out for Regenia. “
Those were the last words that he spoke to me. I hugged Bill, turned and left the room. I walked outside to the car and sat there crying for what seemed an eternity.
Bill passed away early the next morning. Like all families we went thru the normal grieving processes, and settled into what was to be our life without our rock. But there was one last message Bill had left for us…a legacy of his persona that sits framed on a shelf in our house. It was a letter written by Bill as he lay in the hospital bed in his last days. It was entitled “I Am Thankful For” and was a loving reminder of just who he was and how he lived. I post it here today to let you see a glimpse of the man who in his last days had the heart that most long to have…..
I AM THANKFUL FOR
GOD, who loved me enough to send his son into a sinful world to die on a cruel cross for a sinner like me
FOR Jesus who was willing to suffer shame
FOR the CHURCH
FOR the Elders, Deacons, and Preachers
FOR the women who support their men in the good works
FOR Jesus and his CHURCH
FOR each member who loves the CHURCH
FOR financial support that GOD’s word may continue to save the lost
FOR those who give time to teach the word
FOR leaders who show the way, always there everyday
FOR deacons who teach, love others, mow the grass, feed the hungry, teach a class, greet the lost and help a child to grow
FOR the country where worshipping God is without fear
FOR my forefathers who died to keep my land free
FOR my children and grandchildren and the joy they bring me
FOR my wife who loved me through good and bad, richer and poorer, sickness and health
Thank you FATHER, SON, HOLY SPIRIT for your Love, Mercy, Forgiveness, Grace, the Word, a Guide to live by
With Love and Humility
BILL KINDER
There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t miss having him around…and long for his gentle wisdom to guide me thru the tougher moments. I only hope that when I depart this world that people will see in me those characteristics that I cherished most in Bill.
Friday, June 25, 2010
A Town Raises a Child
A long time ago before the former First Lady and now Secretary of State Hillary Clinton wrote the book based on the old proverb, “it takes a village to raise a child” the small Midwest town I grew up in was practicing that proverb to its fullest.
To understand what I mean you would have to go back and see my hometown as it was when I was a young boy. In this article I hope to paint for you the picture that still stays vivid in my mind, as if I had inserted the DVD into my player.
I grew up in a little town in Missouri just outside of Kansas City named Mosby. To hear the inhabitants of our town speak about Mosby in its early days, some would say it was the “richest little town in America”. The town was pretty much built upon and surrounded by coal mines that most of the locals worked in at some time or another. As the mines died off or were closed, most of the people traveled to nearby towns (mostly Claycomo and Kansas City) to work in the automobile plants or drive trucks. Mosby was, in the truest sense a predominantly blue-collar town. And from those very roots, most of us who are now labeled “baby boomers” learned our values and work ethics.
I consider myself one of the luckiest to come out of Mosby. You see, I had a very unique perspective of my little town, because for 5 years I was the town Paperboy. Between the ages of 9 to 14 it was my job to deliver The Daily Standard (the paper from nearby Excelsior Springs) to all the inhabitants of Mosby and the houses just on the outskirts of town. I saw many things in those years, some bad but mostly good. And I can say without a doubt it was the experiences of my life and the people who were part of it that molded me as a child.
I inherited the paper route from Steve Cazzell, who like me 5 years later, had grown to an age where delivering the paper was cutting into a burgeoning social life. When he asked if I wanted to take over his paper route, I knew I had to first ask my parents who had recently divorced. Both my Father and Mother separately sat me down and told me that I was taking on a responsibility that could not be taken lightly, and that if I was going to commit to it, then I had to understand what I was doing. They gave their blessing to a 1 month trial/probationary period where I would learn my route and see if it was truly what I wanted to do. I was to take no pay for the month but was still required to perform as if I was being paid. In my mind, all I heard was “yes” and then drifted off to dream about the “big money” I would make that I could spend on just me. Little did I know how completely wrong I was to be….you see, I would not learn till much later in life that the REAL payback I got from the paper route was the life lessons and the people I came to know as more than just customers.
It was a nice spring day when I raced from my house to just down the dusty street to Steve’s house. There, waiting on the porch, was the stack of freshly printed papers wrapped in a plain sheet cover and tied tightly together with string. Steve came out of the house and cut the string with his pocketknife and handed me half of the stack and showed me how to fold the paper properly. And with that also came my first lesson in being a paperboy….know your customers. Half of the papers we folded in one particular fashion, the rest we left unfolded because certain customers didn’t want to have their papers folded and thrown into their yard, they wanted them hand delivered. I murmured something about being unfair, that it would make the job much harder. Little did I know, but it was those personal deliveries that would introduce me to some of the most wonderful people in my life.
The first 20 or so papers were easy…throwing them in the yard or on the porch. As we passed by, most of the inhabitants of those homes would come out seconds after we passed, pick up their paper and go back to the comfort of home to eat their dinner while reading their paper. Our first live contact with one of our customers was a stop at the home of Mrs. Thompson, who was also the Sunday School Superintendent of the local Baptist church we all attended. Stopping to chat with her was a must because it always was accompanied by a glass of lemonade and sometimes a sugar cookie. While there she would remind us of our Sunday School lesson, to remember to read our Bible Verses for the week, and also that she had seen us talking during service last Sunday and that it wasn’t respectful to do that. Apologizing and promising to do better the next Sunday, we departed and headed out for our next deliveries. We turned right onto what was South Road, the sometimes dusty/sometimes paved street that ran in front of my house and further down the street Steve’s delivering papers as we went. It was there we made a sharp left past the 2-story white house of the Mayor, Neil McCrary (who later built a smaller home next door) and headed to our next stop at the home of Roxie, Frank and Lena Gareffa. The Gareffa’s were immigrants from Italy who had settled into our quiet little town as their retirement home. We would hand deliver the paper, knocking only 2 times, and would wait for either Frank or Roxy to answer the door. We would personally hand them the paper, make small talk that usually reminded us that we were late getting his paper to him and then head off. At the Gareffa’s we would turn left yet again and head down our next street criss-crossing the streets to deliver each house a paper. First the Kennedy’s, then the Dove’s, next the Browns…to the Suttons, the Mullins, the Bush’s (not George), the Narramore’s, the Curry’s, the Parsonage, the Dagley’s and then the Carmichael’s. From there we would turn right and head over to the next street where delivering the paper became just a little more interesting. It wasn’t the people…more the circumstances.
As we headed down the next street our first 2 deliveries were calm….the Sisco’s and the King’s. But the next stop always seemed interesting…..the Shelton’s. But it wasn’t the family, but their pet that always made it an adventure in paper delivery. You see, somewhere along the line the Sheltons got a Saint Bernard named Splash. Now, while Splash was young he was fun to play with…mostly because of the novelty of never having seen a St. Bernard in person. It was more when he got full grown that it got hairy. You see, Splash thought the delivery of a paper was play time…and when large St. Bernard’s play, they do so in the only manner they know….with full force. I never got bit, but imagine being 130 lbs and being almost tackled by a dog of a comparable weight. (I think that is where I learned to run so fast)
After escaping the clutches of Splash we were off to the Moore’s, then Mrs. Hecht (my babysitter when I was much younger), then the Ault’s followed by Jack Armstrong. Jack was an enigmatic character and not well loved by many in the town. But for all the bad habits that he had that the neighbors loathed, he was always very kind to me. I remember every birthday and Christmas he would hand me an envelope and caution me not to open it till I got home. There was always a $5 bill in it with a handwritten note thanking me for being so nice, and occasionally stopping to talk to an old man who truly just wanted a friend. From there it was the Crawford’s to the Crowley’s to the Lattin's. It was the next 2 houses that I can say truly affected my life a great deal in their own special way.
Right across the street from each other at the intersection of 3 streets were the houses of Georgie George and Effie Smith. Both ladies were widows, whose roots were deep in the town. And the wisdom and kindness that both of them showed a young boy is still buried deep within the heart. I remember the very first time I delivered the paper all by myself to both ladies. Mrs. George invited me in, asked me to sit down and brought out a glass of tea and pumpkin cookies. She would sit in a chair across from me and talk about her life, her experiences and her family. When she spoke it was with a gleam in her eye, remembering the good times and the bad, and giving advice on how to be a young man of strong Christian character. I remember going in dreading the thought of listening to unimportant conversations and ramblings, only to leave embarrassed how wrong I had been. As I would cross the street, I would almost repeat the same scenario with Mrs. Smith; absorbing with wonder the stories I would be told. Both ladies would call my next door neighbor to have her tell my mom that I had made it to their house and was fine, each assuming a role of “watching over me” as they felt it was their duty to do.
After leaving the home of Mrs. Smith, I would swing around the church head to the Owens, then the Leutjen’s, backtrack to the road and head to Bill Due’s Bait and Tackle Shop.
Bill Due…just to say that name makes me laugh. It conjures up memories of sitting in his shop with a cold bottle of Pepsi and talking about everything from hunting to fishing to baseball and football. Looking back, I am not sure how Bill ever made a living off of running that shop, but when the only grocery store in town closed because of a fire, Bill promptly stepped in and turned a small bait and tackle shop into a combo grocery store/fishing store. And when he added candy and chips, it was the only place for a kid with 50 cents. I can’t remember the number of times kids would come into the store with not enough money to buy what they wanted the most, but none ever left without it. After every baseball game we were all treated to one soft drink free, knowing full well if he got us in the store, candy would be our purchase. Bill was a shrewd business man….but generous with us kids.
From Bill’s place to the next 2 houses, then to George Cox’s Garage for my next stop.
George ran what was, for a while, the only garage/gas station in town. 1 Pump Ethyl, 1 Pump Regular. George would fix all the cars of the locals, probably never for a real profit, and fixed bicycles on the side for free. He also had the largest plate glass window in town that was never, ever broken, until many years after I graduated High School by some kids who slipped into town looking for trouble. Every year for Halloween we would soap his window and then come back the next day to wash it off for him. He always paid us to do it, with a wink and a nod telling us he knew we were the culprits.
From George’s garage I would stop at the home of Don and Barbara McCrary. In my mind they wrote the movie “Field of Dreams” based upon Don’s kindness. You see, without Don giving up part of his field to make a small baseball field for our local church-sponsored Little League team there would have been no field to play or practice on. Whether they were pick-up games or League games, the Diamond was always busy during the summer. I can only imagine how many young men’s life was changed because instead of looking for trouble, we were playing baseball.
My paper route consisted of many people….and all played an important part in helping to mold me into the man I have become today. Each name I have listed here had a part, whether small or large in showing kindness, giving advice, or guiding me thru my childhood.
There are other names on my route I have left out…and for good reason. They played very significant parts in helping me stay on the straight and narrow at a very tough time in my life. I am saving their stories for another time.
Mark
To understand what I mean you would have to go back and see my hometown as it was when I was a young boy. In this article I hope to paint for you the picture that still stays vivid in my mind, as if I had inserted the DVD into my player.
I grew up in a little town in Missouri just outside of Kansas City named Mosby. To hear the inhabitants of our town speak about Mosby in its early days, some would say it was the “richest little town in America”. The town was pretty much built upon and surrounded by coal mines that most of the locals worked in at some time or another. As the mines died off or were closed, most of the people traveled to nearby towns (mostly Claycomo and Kansas City) to work in the automobile plants or drive trucks. Mosby was, in the truest sense a predominantly blue-collar town. And from those very roots, most of us who are now labeled “baby boomers” learned our values and work ethics.
I consider myself one of the luckiest to come out of Mosby. You see, I had a very unique perspective of my little town, because for 5 years I was the town Paperboy. Between the ages of 9 to 14 it was my job to deliver The Daily Standard (the paper from nearby Excelsior Springs) to all the inhabitants of Mosby and the houses just on the outskirts of town. I saw many things in those years, some bad but mostly good. And I can say without a doubt it was the experiences of my life and the people who were part of it that molded me as a child.
I inherited the paper route from Steve Cazzell, who like me 5 years later, had grown to an age where delivering the paper was cutting into a burgeoning social life. When he asked if I wanted to take over his paper route, I knew I had to first ask my parents who had recently divorced. Both my Father and Mother separately sat me down and told me that I was taking on a responsibility that could not be taken lightly, and that if I was going to commit to it, then I had to understand what I was doing. They gave their blessing to a 1 month trial/probationary period where I would learn my route and see if it was truly what I wanted to do. I was to take no pay for the month but was still required to perform as if I was being paid. In my mind, all I heard was “yes” and then drifted off to dream about the “big money” I would make that I could spend on just me. Little did I know how completely wrong I was to be….you see, I would not learn till much later in life that the REAL payback I got from the paper route was the life lessons and the people I came to know as more than just customers.
It was a nice spring day when I raced from my house to just down the dusty street to Steve’s house. There, waiting on the porch, was the stack of freshly printed papers wrapped in a plain sheet cover and tied tightly together with string. Steve came out of the house and cut the string with his pocketknife and handed me half of the stack and showed me how to fold the paper properly. And with that also came my first lesson in being a paperboy….know your customers. Half of the papers we folded in one particular fashion, the rest we left unfolded because certain customers didn’t want to have their papers folded and thrown into their yard, they wanted them hand delivered. I murmured something about being unfair, that it would make the job much harder. Little did I know, but it was those personal deliveries that would introduce me to some of the most wonderful people in my life.
The first 20 or so papers were easy…throwing them in the yard or on the porch. As we passed by, most of the inhabitants of those homes would come out seconds after we passed, pick up their paper and go back to the comfort of home to eat their dinner while reading their paper. Our first live contact with one of our customers was a stop at the home of Mrs. Thompson, who was also the Sunday School Superintendent of the local Baptist church we all attended. Stopping to chat with her was a must because it always was accompanied by a glass of lemonade and sometimes a sugar cookie. While there she would remind us of our Sunday School lesson, to remember to read our Bible Verses for the week, and also that she had seen us talking during service last Sunday and that it wasn’t respectful to do that. Apologizing and promising to do better the next Sunday, we departed and headed out for our next deliveries. We turned right onto what was South Road, the sometimes dusty/sometimes paved street that ran in front of my house and further down the street Steve’s delivering papers as we went. It was there we made a sharp left past the 2-story white house of the Mayor, Neil McCrary (who later built a smaller home next door) and headed to our next stop at the home of Roxie, Frank and Lena Gareffa. The Gareffa’s were immigrants from Italy who had settled into our quiet little town as their retirement home. We would hand deliver the paper, knocking only 2 times, and would wait for either Frank or Roxy to answer the door. We would personally hand them the paper, make small talk that usually reminded us that we were late getting his paper to him and then head off. At the Gareffa’s we would turn left yet again and head down our next street criss-crossing the streets to deliver each house a paper. First the Kennedy’s, then the Dove’s, next the Browns…to the Suttons, the Mullins, the Bush’s (not George), the Narramore’s, the Curry’s, the Parsonage, the Dagley’s and then the Carmichael’s. From there we would turn right and head over to the next street where delivering the paper became just a little more interesting. It wasn’t the people…more the circumstances.
As we headed down the next street our first 2 deliveries were calm….the Sisco’s and the King’s. But the next stop always seemed interesting…..the Shelton’s. But it wasn’t the family, but their pet that always made it an adventure in paper delivery. You see, somewhere along the line the Sheltons got a Saint Bernard named Splash. Now, while Splash was young he was fun to play with…mostly because of the novelty of never having seen a St. Bernard in person. It was more when he got full grown that it got hairy. You see, Splash thought the delivery of a paper was play time…and when large St. Bernard’s play, they do so in the only manner they know….with full force. I never got bit, but imagine being 130 lbs and being almost tackled by a dog of a comparable weight. (I think that is where I learned to run so fast)
After escaping the clutches of Splash we were off to the Moore’s, then Mrs. Hecht (my babysitter when I was much younger), then the Ault’s followed by Jack Armstrong. Jack was an enigmatic character and not well loved by many in the town. But for all the bad habits that he had that the neighbors loathed, he was always very kind to me. I remember every birthday and Christmas he would hand me an envelope and caution me not to open it till I got home. There was always a $5 bill in it with a handwritten note thanking me for being so nice, and occasionally stopping to talk to an old man who truly just wanted a friend. From there it was the Crawford’s to the Crowley’s to the Lattin's. It was the next 2 houses that I can say truly affected my life a great deal in their own special way.
Right across the street from each other at the intersection of 3 streets were the houses of Georgie George and Effie Smith. Both ladies were widows, whose roots were deep in the town. And the wisdom and kindness that both of them showed a young boy is still buried deep within the heart. I remember the very first time I delivered the paper all by myself to both ladies. Mrs. George invited me in, asked me to sit down and brought out a glass of tea and pumpkin cookies. She would sit in a chair across from me and talk about her life, her experiences and her family. When she spoke it was with a gleam in her eye, remembering the good times and the bad, and giving advice on how to be a young man of strong Christian character. I remember going in dreading the thought of listening to unimportant conversations and ramblings, only to leave embarrassed how wrong I had been. As I would cross the street, I would almost repeat the same scenario with Mrs. Smith; absorbing with wonder the stories I would be told. Both ladies would call my next door neighbor to have her tell my mom that I had made it to their house and was fine, each assuming a role of “watching over me” as they felt it was their duty to do.
After leaving the home of Mrs. Smith, I would swing around the church head to the Owens, then the Leutjen’s, backtrack to the road and head to Bill Due’s Bait and Tackle Shop.
Bill Due…just to say that name makes me laugh. It conjures up memories of sitting in his shop with a cold bottle of Pepsi and talking about everything from hunting to fishing to baseball and football. Looking back, I am not sure how Bill ever made a living off of running that shop, but when the only grocery store in town closed because of a fire, Bill promptly stepped in and turned a small bait and tackle shop into a combo grocery store/fishing store. And when he added candy and chips, it was the only place for a kid with 50 cents. I can’t remember the number of times kids would come into the store with not enough money to buy what they wanted the most, but none ever left without it. After every baseball game we were all treated to one soft drink free, knowing full well if he got us in the store, candy would be our purchase. Bill was a shrewd business man….but generous with us kids.
From Bill’s place to the next 2 houses, then to George Cox’s Garage for my next stop.
George ran what was, for a while, the only garage/gas station in town. 1 Pump Ethyl, 1 Pump Regular. George would fix all the cars of the locals, probably never for a real profit, and fixed bicycles on the side for free. He also had the largest plate glass window in town that was never, ever broken, until many years after I graduated High School by some kids who slipped into town looking for trouble. Every year for Halloween we would soap his window and then come back the next day to wash it off for him. He always paid us to do it, with a wink and a nod telling us he knew we were the culprits.
From George’s garage I would stop at the home of Don and Barbara McCrary. In my mind they wrote the movie “Field of Dreams” based upon Don’s kindness. You see, without Don giving up part of his field to make a small baseball field for our local church-sponsored Little League team there would have been no field to play or practice on. Whether they were pick-up games or League games, the Diamond was always busy during the summer. I can only imagine how many young men’s life was changed because instead of looking for trouble, we were playing baseball.
My paper route consisted of many people….and all played an important part in helping to mold me into the man I have become today. Each name I have listed here had a part, whether small or large in showing kindness, giving advice, or guiding me thru my childhood.
There are other names on my route I have left out…and for good reason. They played very significant parts in helping me stay on the straight and narrow at a very tough time in my life. I am saving their stories for another time.
Mark
Monday, June 21, 2010
The Last of the Three
Call me the holdout....or maybe the procrastinator.
In my family the ability to tell a story, fact or fiction, is legend (ok maybe only to our family). I can remember from my earliest days listening to my Grandpa spin tales of life in the hardest of times. Family gatherings at holidays turned out to be a time where, while pretending to be concentrating on something else, I would listen attentively to the Kilgore men (my Father, his 2 older brothers, and my grandfather)who played cards and told tales of work and life in general.
I cannot speak for my brothers, but for me that is where my love of the spoken and written word began. And growing up in a small town where there wasn't much to do except ride bicycles, play sandlot baseball, and think of ways to get in trouble, a rainy afternoon curled up in my room with a book was a welcome retreat.
My brothers and I, like the rest of our friends in the small town of Mosby, went to a small 4 room rock school from 1st to 8th Grade. We were encouraged during those years to read and expand our minds by our teachers. They challenged us with summer contests to see how many books we could read and many of us dove in with vigor. Spelling Bees were often highly contested between my older brother and I, so much so that we often wouldn't speak for the rest of the day.
I've never lost that love of reading and managed to inherit my Father's ability to spin a verbal yarn. But writing has always been the domain of my older and younger brothers. My older brother, even at an early age, wrote poetry and short stories that were published locally or state-wide. He now is a published author/speaker and with his wife runs a business that specializes in how to teach others to practice Christian principles/values in the workplace. My younger brother has his own blog that is not only read here but in other countries as well.
So, it is with much trepidation that I start this venture into the written word. My skillset has always been the spoken word. (Many of my friends swear I could filibuster with the best) Words or stories come easy to me when I am not having to take the time to write them. But in the spirit of competition that is buried into the DNA of my family, I am trying my hand at writing.
Most of what I will write about is more reflection than information. I have been lucky enough to experience life lessons some have not had to, but I would not be the person I am without these experiences.
And maybe, just maybe, I can be as good a writer as my siblings.
Mark
In my family the ability to tell a story, fact or fiction, is legend (ok maybe only to our family). I can remember from my earliest days listening to my Grandpa spin tales of life in the hardest of times. Family gatherings at holidays turned out to be a time where, while pretending to be concentrating on something else, I would listen attentively to the Kilgore men (my Father, his 2 older brothers, and my grandfather)who played cards and told tales of work and life in general.
I cannot speak for my brothers, but for me that is where my love of the spoken and written word began. And growing up in a small town where there wasn't much to do except ride bicycles, play sandlot baseball, and think of ways to get in trouble, a rainy afternoon curled up in my room with a book was a welcome retreat.
My brothers and I, like the rest of our friends in the small town of Mosby, went to a small 4 room rock school from 1st to 8th Grade. We were encouraged during those years to read and expand our minds by our teachers. They challenged us with summer contests to see how many books we could read and many of us dove in with vigor. Spelling Bees were often highly contested between my older brother and I, so much so that we often wouldn't speak for the rest of the day.
I've never lost that love of reading and managed to inherit my Father's ability to spin a verbal yarn. But writing has always been the domain of my older and younger brothers. My older brother, even at an early age, wrote poetry and short stories that were published locally or state-wide. He now is a published author/speaker and with his wife runs a business that specializes in how to teach others to practice Christian principles/values in the workplace. My younger brother has his own blog that is not only read here but in other countries as well.
So, it is with much trepidation that I start this venture into the written word. My skillset has always been the spoken word. (Many of my friends swear I could filibuster with the best) Words or stories come easy to me when I am not having to take the time to write them. But in the spirit of competition that is buried into the DNA of my family, I am trying my hand at writing.
Most of what I will write about is more reflection than information. I have been lucky enough to experience life lessons some have not had to, but I would not be the person I am without these experiences.
And maybe, just maybe, I can be as good a writer as my siblings.
Mark
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