Grandpa, Not Howard

Today's Entry is from a Guest Blogger...my daughter Emily. This is the unedited version of a story she was asked to write about someone and the effect that they had on her.




His name is Howard. But to me he was always Grandpa, not Howard. When I was younger we would always go visit him. We’d pull up his long driveway, to the cozy shelter she shared with his wife, Margaret. When I walked in the first thing I could smell was the lingering scent of the cigarettes he had quit smoking. The first thing I could hear was the cough of the cancer we knew wasn’t going away. Though he knew his months were numbered he always had a smile on his face for his son, daughter-in-law and grandchildren.

He told us stories, some funny some sad, and many in between. We would just sit and talk sometimes, me waiting impatiently looking at the time. I was little and I wanted to get away from the adult chatter.

Now looking back, I wish I would’ve spent more time with him. That final day I spent listening to him talk couldn’t have gone faster. His voice was raspy and sometimes he stopped to catch his breath. But I knew this was the last time, so I sat quietly and listened.

It was getting dark and it was time for us to head home. Leaving him was the hardest thing I will ever experience. But I have comfort knowing that I finally said what I wish I could’ve said sooner. “I love you Grandpa” I said trying my hardest to hold back my tears. “I Love you too Emily” he replied.

I don’t know if he fully understood that that small connection had made a big impact on me. Even if it was short and sometimes shaky I will always remember the relationship I had with my Grandpa. Not Howard.

Playing Catch with my Dad

It was just a small round object of white, with a core made of cork or rubber, wrapped in yarn and covered with leather. When I was young you could buy one for 50¢ at the local department store or you just took a used one home from the ball bag of the team you played for. But in the hands of a young man it was worth a million dollars and later became the vehicle for communication when there was none.

I struggle to remember at what age baseball caught my fancy, but every memory I conjure up from my youth seems to somehow end up with images of a baseball cap, a glove and a ball. In reality my very first ball and bat was not wood and horsehide, but made of plastic (both ball and bat) and were purchased to ensure my safety and that of the windows in our small Mosby home. But most every night it was my older brother Randy and I pretending we were big-time Major Leaguers with one pitching the plastic ball to the other brother who had bat in hand swatting “home runs” into the next driveway.

When we got big enough, and our aim a little more true my Father convinced our Mom it was safe and they invested in leather gloves and a baseball for us to play with. While it wasn’t safe to add a wooden bat to the mix, Dad knew that by giving us the gloves we could play catch and for the time we would be happy. And with that he continued a tradition still handed down every day in some front yard or back yard….playing catch with your Dad.

For my brother and me it began after Dad got home from work. While Mom was cooking dinner, Dad would stand at the driveway in front of the car, defending it like a catcher defending home plate from the errant throws of 2 young boys still getting the feel of a heavier ball. And with it he would talk…back then it was nothing major or earth-shattering, just normal father-son talk about the players we all loved and the hapless Kansas City Athletics.

And so it grew from there. I remember waiting impatiently to see my Father’s car pull up to the Stop sign down the street and then turn right onto South Road to come to the house. We would be there, gloves in hand. And each night, even after a tough day of driving a truck, he would stop and play catch.

With those games of catch my Father instilled in me a love for the game of baseball, but he also started what would be our best way to talk to each other. Playing catch became the sedative for calming us as we discussed events both positive and negative. I think the first time I realized that my Father was using the psychology of the “game of catch” was after a particularly disappointing Saturday morning church league game. You see, my Dad loved Coaching and when we were kids he volunteered to be the coach for our local church team. I know it couldn’t be easy for him, with 2 sons on the team, to be fair and impartial but he still treated everyone the same. I got just as many reminders as the next player and many times he expected more of me.

That particular day not only had I struck out 2 times, but I had booted a couple of easy grounders and in frustration I threw my glove to the ground. Bad move! My Father had one particular rule when you were on the baseball diamond….”Never lose your cool”….and I really violated it that day. He stopped the game, walked out to my position and calmly told me to take a seat on the bench. I know I looked absolutely astonished that MY DAD, of all people would pull me out of the ballgame. But there he was, arm around my shoulder walking me off the field and sitting down with me on the bench. We said nothing…..he coached from the bench and I sat there with tears running down my cheek. I didn’t know till many years later that inside he was crying as much as me.

Normally after a Saturday morning game the ritual was to go home, grab a bath and wash off all the dirt and sweat from the ballgame and prepare for lunch. But that day my Father grabbed my brother’s glove and said to me “grab the ball and let’s play catch”. I was still pouting and wasn’t really in the mood, but he insisted. We stood out in the front yard just simply playing catch for a few minutes until he decided to speak. That was the first of the “Father-Son” lectures that seemed so effective because it was over a game of catch.

My Father was our Coach for 4 years from the time I was 8 till I was 12. By the age of 13 I had grown too old for our town church team and was playing elsewhere, and my parent’s divorce had made getting to the ballgames a little tougher for Dad. But Sundays became the day we would visit with my Father at my Grandma and Grandpa’s house just outside of Mosby. And that day would be what I would label in my teen years, “lecture day”.

But in hindsight it really wasn’t. You see, my Father with all his imperfections, was still a man who required a sense of integrity and decency in his sons. Life had handed him a set of circumstances that had dictated some unfortunate choices on his part and he never wanted us to have to travel the road that he did. So, while struggling to bring his own life to a center of purpose, he gently guided all of us through our teens in our own special way. For me, it was with sports.

Trying to paint a picture of my Father as the perfect Dad would not be fair either to me or to his memory. Dad knew his own set of imperfections and he knew the boundaries of where he could best be my guide and what I would truly listen to his counsel about. When he knew it was out of his comfort level he would suggest people he knew in my life that he hoped would influence me. Dad, with the knowledge of my love for football, basketball and baseball always directed me to talk to my coaches because he knew of the admiration that I had for certain ones of them. He knew that I would listen to them because at that time in my life I had grown closer to them because of their proximity to my everyday events.

But even in those days we still had the Sunday game of catch. Somehow, even when I thought we were so far apart in our beliefs, we still managed to rekindle the bond of Father-Son magic. Even if just for those few moments it appeared we were cosmically transported back to the small front yard on South Road in our little town.

As cliché’ as it may seem to be to say, time marches on for us all. Graduation brought changes for us both and the normal Sunday games of catch drifted into memories. Only occasionally would I come back to town to visit in those first years away and most of that time would be spent seeing old friends and visiting old haunts. But every once in a while my Father would want to talk and we would drift outside with a ball and softly toss it to each other. Gloves were not necessary then because it wasn’t so much about throwing the ball as it was about “catching up” and my Father dispensing his wisdom. And it was in those years that I realized that playing the game of catch with my Dad would take on a different form as we grew older together.

The hardest part of growing up yourself is realizing as you become an adult your parents age too. And the frailties we all avoid talking about manifest themselves in our parents. The physical distance from each other also forces you to alter what was a time-honored experience to one that meets the need you both have. So, for my Dad and I, phone conversations became our “game of catch”. Just like the days when we would physically play catch, our conversations would be about the latest on the Royals or the Chiefs, but would somehow manage to morph into conversations about the grandkids, jobs and how life was going for myself and my family. The more things change, the more they stay the same.

The last few years had been rough for Dad….lung cancer had been diagnosed several years back and his heart condition was getting worse, but being the strong-willed man that he was, he beat the odds each time. Several times I would rush from my home in Columbia, MO to Liberty Hospital with the fear that I was seeing his last days. But each time, with the resilience of Popeye after eating spinach, my Dad would slowly but surely beat back the foes of time and poor health.

But like all things physical you can only stand so much before the body is no longer strong enough to fight, or you decide the dignity of living outweighs the longevity. In April of this year my Father called me “just to talk”….he knew my wife and kids were going to be in KC for the Spring Break period and he wanted to make sure and ask me to come with them. He had some things he wanted to talk about and he felt they needed to be said in person. At first, I didn’t think much of it, but the sound of his voice made it obvious that this conversation would be much different than the others. So, I changed my plans and flew to KC to chat.

I woke that Friday morning to an overcast sky, a sign I should have noted as an ominous one. On my way over I mentally prepared myself for a conversation I knew was inevitable. But even with the fair warning from a prior night’s conversation with my sister, I wasn’t prepared for it. My Father had been to his Dr. the prior week and had been told that the cancer had spread enough that there was no longer anything that could be done that wasn’t extraordinary to prolong his life. So, with the firm resolve that quality of life is more dignified than quantity my Father said “No more”.

With the Dr.’s prediction of a 30-60 day timetable my Father set out with the task of finishing things to him left undone. He wanted to make sure that the burden of tasks left to his children was minimal, and the plans for his wife of 37 years suffering from the onset of Alzheimer’s disease, were set in stone. But like so many times before my Father managed to stretch everyone’s timetable and make all of us believe he could be invincible. And that was why when the call came from my sister in late July that I should plan to come home I was still stunned.

I left my home in Kentucky that Wednesday morning for the 9 hour drive to KC. The worst part of a long trip like that is the worry that the phone would buzz and the caller at the other end would tell me I was too late. “Too Late” was something I did not want to be…for these would be important moments for me.

The next day I arrived at my sister’s house to meet them. We drove Dad first to NKC Hospital, and then checked him into NKC Hospice House where he would remain until his passing almost a week later. It was those few days that we spent together alone in his room that I will cherish. We talked about everything from the Royals to the Chiefs, to the Good Times gang and his Fantasy Football League, to his life as a trucker. But it was one special conversation that will stay with me forever.

I had never told him “thank you” for giving me the gift of the love of sports, but I needed to that day. I wanted him to know that the many lessons I learned in life came from the field of play and those people who I interacted with, played with or against. I wanted him to know that when he and I played catch I never felt closer to him, and somehow I wished that we had done it more. And that I appreciated all the time he had been there watching me play in High School. I wanted him to know that I would be OK, and that I wanted nothing between us unsaid or regrettably not done. And with no more words to be said and with nothing more than a squeeze of his hand my Father and I said our goodbyes.

My Father passed away quietly in his sleep 2 days after that conversation. On my plane trip back home I found myself not feeling regrets, but smiling over great memories we shared together.

But like the Kevin Costner character in Field of Dreams, I dreamed there was some way to magically go back to the old Mosby home I remember. I would stand on the edge of the property of 412 South Road and look down the street to the stop sign. I would watch for the old Blue Ford Galaxie to come down the road and pull into the driveway.

And just one more time I could play catch with my Dad.

A Thank You…..

On Tuesday of last week, after a long struggle with lung cancer, my Father quietly passed from this world free from the pain that had been his constant companion here in his last days. And the kindness and generosity that myself and my family have seen since then has been a bit overwhelming. To this end, I would like to take a few moments to say “thank you” to some people who have made this time of sorrow a bit less painful….

To the Nurses at the NKC Hospice House…..thank you for making the last week of my Father’s life free from pain and full of love. The kindness and consideration that you showed him, the care you gave him as if he was your very own family is a true reflection of your dedication to your craft. And the fact that you are able to do this for each and every patient that comes to your House shows a level of compassion and love most of us are not able to muster.

To Dad’s friends at the Good Times…..if I could for just one week, I would stand at the door and give a hug to each person who was in my Father’s circle of friends there. Since I do not live in town my Father and I would talk frequently over the phone. And in most every conversation we had, we discussed the great times and the joy he had there. Whether it was with his Fantasy Football league or just an afternoon spent with his many long-time friends regaling them with stories my Father had an undeniable joy when talking about his favorite haunt. I would be remiss if I didn’t humbly thank you for the impromptu surprise birthday party that you hosted for him. When I spoke with him later that day, the joy he had in being with friends and family that day was unmistakable. There was a bit of energy in his voice and for once I could hear the emotion in his voice that belied his gratitude.

Personally to Dad’s buddies at the Good Times….a Thank You for making yourself a part of his life, listening to his stories, sharing a few of your own, and being there for him. You made him feel like family and nothing was more important than family, whether by blood or chosen part of his close circle.

Personally to Denny at Good Times…..a big thank you for the food on Friday and the friendship you gave my Father all these years.

To my friends here on Facebook…..a simple and heartfelt “Thank You” for your prayers and well-wishes for my family and I. There are many of you that have reached out, both publicly and privately, that I am a bit overwhelmed. I do not take lightly that you took a few moments of your time to say a prayer, send a note, send flowers, call me or even come to the Visitation or Services.

To my Mosby friends…..thank you for the dinner on Friday afternoon for our family and friends. The food was wonderful, but more than anything seeing old friends warmed the heart. To be able to walk the halls of the Mosby school and relive the flood of loving memories surrounded by friends and family was overwhelming. To Sally, Betty, Sherry and Julie (if I left out anyone else please forgive me) we thank you for all your hard work planning and setting up the dining hall. A special “thank you” to Betty for letting the Kilgore Boys take a peek at our old church haunt….you’re lucky the ladder to the church bell was not working….otherwise one of the Kilgore boys might have snuck up and rang the church bell like he did in one of his misspent days of his youth.

To Billie, Sherry & Norman, Gary and Terry, Terri Dawn, and the rest of the Kilgore family……thank you for being there for us, and with us, during this time of grief. Your love and support for all of us at a time that you were also feeling the loss of your Uncle/Brother-in-Law is not forgotten.

I know that as I write this I am probably forgetting someone, and for that I apologize. But please know our family deeply appreciates all that you have done.

The House....That Built Me

"I know they say you can’t go home again
I just had to come back one last time
Ma’am I know you don’t know me from Adam
But these handprints on the front steps are mine

I thought if I could touch this place or feel it
This brokenness inside me might start healing
Out here it’s like I’m someone else
I thought that maybe I could find myself
If I could just come in I swear I’ll leave
Won’t take nothing but a memory
From the house that built me”

The above lyrics are from the song “The House That Built Me“, a big hit for Country singer Miranda Lambert in 2010. The song is about a person who got completely lost in their success of their career and forgot who they really were…and has now decided to go back to their roots to discover who they really are.

The song achieved popularity because what it really did was touch on something we all go thru at one point in our lives….look at where we are and wonder how we got there. and if it’s not comfortable what can we do to get back to who we really are.

Sometimes it is hard to pinpoint any one thing that stops us dead in our tracks and makes us realize that we are a runaway train. For me the journey began last year after a conversation with a long time friend who called just to say hello. We had known each other for many years, followed each other from a distance, and occasionally touched base to reminisce. In the middle of the conversation, my friend asked how I was really doing, as if he almost sensed there was something amiss. What was initially intended to be a few minutes of catching up, turned into an hour of “friendly counsel”.

It was something that he had said in our conversation that had me wondering all day….who was I now and what had I become? Was the persona that people see in me every day, the real me, or one that I created to make sure I could reach the success I thought so important? And just how important had “success” become in my life? And it was the honest answer to that question which was the hardest pill to swallow. Looking in the mirror I didn’t truly like what I had become all in the name of “success”.

Funny how life can sometimes be such a smooth road, so much so that you put your “car” on Cruise Control only to be bumped back to reality by a set of giant personal potholes. Pretty soon you are going from a sleek cruiser to a rickety Pinto and wondering how you got there. You find the personal road map you are using is out of date and the left turn you took leads to an old abandoned road going nowhere.

Well…I found myself at the end of that abandoned road. And it was the small piece of imparted wisdom my friend gave me in that conversation that day which led me to where I am now. His comment? “Sometimes when you find you are on a Dead End Road, you turn around, go back to where you got lost and find the correct path.” And in the end…it was that bit of wisdom that spurred me on to create this blog “A Middle Childs Road”.

Like the person portrayed in the above song, I have often wanted to go back to the house where I grew up and look around. To touch the walls of every room, and let the memories come flooding back of the good times that made me laugh and the struggles that made me stronger. It may not have been, at times, the perfect domicile but for me it was home.

It wasn’t a very big house for a family of five, and many times it felt very crowded. But in that house is where some of my best memories were born. And the life lessons I learned while growing up there are still as relevant today as they were 45 years ago.

Our living room was the largest room in the house and it was there I would recall both celebrations and heartbreaks. It was in that room where we celebrated most birthdays and all of our Christmas’. It’s also where we watched the networks bring us Neil Armstrong’s Walk on the Moon, The KC Chiefs only Super Bowl Win, and sadly the news of the assassinations of John Kennedy, Robert Kennedy and Martin Luther King. It’s where my Mom and Dad would inspect Report Cards, or sometimes dispense lectures to me after a day of mischievous behavior . It was in that room I experienced my first kiss and first broken heart. It was also a room of wooden floors sometimes laden with splinters which required the tender touch of a Mother to remove amidst all the tears.

I remember the kitchen and the formica table where my brothers and I would eat all our meals. Like all siblings it was either a place to discuss the “cool things” that happened that day, or the inevitable mini-DMZ where a Mom-prescribed truce seldom held up long. And the inevitable chore of washing the dishes of the day…..

There were only 2 bedrooms in our house, one for my Mom and Dad, and one for all 3 of us boys. And as you can imagine, it was all that you could picture in a boys bedroom. Hardly ever clean for more than 2 hours, it was full with 3 beds, one set a bunk bed and a single for the other. Most of the time my younger brother got the single bed because he was smaller and our parents were always afraid of him falling off the top bunk. My older brother and I took turns sleeping on the top bunk sometimes by choice and sometimes by parental selection. I remember one time being punished by my parents for kicking the bottom of the mattress so hard that my older brother flew off the top bunk and onto the floor. And I still remember vividly how hard it was for my Father to keep a straight face while lecturing me on how I could have hurt my older sibling, and how my younger brother Cody kept giggling and saying “do it again Mark, do it again”.

Our bedroom was also, like many young boys in my time, a repository for collected baseball cards and comic books. We would spend our allowance on cards trying to get a collection of the whole team and then store them away in a shoebox. We would memorize every player on every team and then picture them batting in old Municipal Stadium as we listened to the announcer call the game on our AM radios in our beds.

These are all good memories for me….but that is what they will always have to be for me. You see, the little house that my brothers and I grew up in no longer exists in actuality. I’m not sure if it was the wear and tear of time, or the many floods that hastened its demise, but at some point it was demolished. But the one day I drove thru my old hometown, I stopped and looked at where it used to be. And for a moment, just a moment, (like we sometimes see in a movie) I pictured the house with myself and my brothers running out to play with the voice of our parents telling us to be back in time for lunch/supper.

And then, in that same instant it faded into my distant memory…but the smile remained. You see, I learned the truth that we all come to know. That no matter what the ravages of time may foist upon the physical manifestations of our history, it can never erase the “house” that forever remains in our minds.

And it was that small revelation that led me to start this blog and reminisce with so many of you. And what started out as a simple homage to a small town I once knew, has also grown to include you, my old friends. It is your memories and mine of times growing up in Mosby and Excelsior Springs that, when I forget who I really am, bring me back to center. Each time I have written something I felt led to impart, so many of you have been kind enough to respond with encouragement and with stories of your own. And it is so many of those small memories that we share together that grounds me again…brings a happy tear to my eyes….and then makes me smile.

You see, for all the importance I tried to put on myself and what I think I have achieved in this life I remind myself that I’m still just a small town country boy at heart.

“You leave home and you move on and you do the best you can
I got lost in this old world and forgot who I am”

I thought if I could touch this place or feel it
This brokenness inside me might start healing
Out here it’s like I’m someone else
I thought that maybe I could find myself
If I could walk around I swear I’ll leave
Won’t take nothing but a memory
From the house that built me”

What really saddens me most of all about this journey I am making is that the friend who helped point my compass back in the right direction passed away a short couple of months after we talked. Now I won’t be able to share with him some of the things I have realized about myself and how a simple conversation reminded me that a facade only covers up the true person underneath it.

But instead I have you as companions….and I couldn’t be in better company.