[Bloggers Note: When I first started this piece I had every intention of a different direction. But as differing versions of this came about, with pieces being added and deleted, the story becoming longer and then shorter, I realized that this was more than just something I could fit in just one column. And instead it has become a journey…one that I want to impart with those who have shared my life in one form or another. I hope this new direction will be as refreshing for you as it has been for me to plan.]

The Footprints You Leave

It is the time we all dread as human beings. When someone you love is nearing the end of their life and we face the prospect that, like many before us have, we must think about life without them. It’s never easy and many handle it more gracefully than others.

It is said that in your last moments your life flashes before your eyes replaying like a fast forward version of a 3 hour movie. But what no one talks about is what happens in the minds of those you leave behind as they face the prospect of moving forward without you.

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I was sitting alone with my Father as he slept peacefully that hot August day in the room at North Kansas City Hospice. I had come back to Kansas City because my sister had called me to let me know that Dad wanted me to be there and because quite frankly I felt I needed to….not just for him, but also for me. It was one of those quiet peaceful moments that leave you the opportunity to think of the many things you want to say in those last hours of someone so important in your life.

As I looked out the window my mind drifted back to all the things my Father and I shared in common and what were our differences that so shaped our relationship over the years. Memories flood my thoughts of baseball games played and baseball games attended…..Sundays glued to the TV set watching our beloved KC Chiefs…..and the times we couldn’t agree.

Somehow in the middle of all these memories something came to mind that I had heard in a lecture in my youth that seemed to resonate for once in my life. The lecturer had created the image in our minds of our life journey being one that was both a walk on the beach and a hike thru the forest. In each case people come into our lives for various reasons leaving either a path that they join/lead us thru or the proverbial walk on the beach where we sometimes walk side-by-side and other times in their footsteps. In those moments I envisioned paths journeyed and walks on the beach my Father and I had taken and my thoughts were interwoven with both tears and smiles…from the smile on his face when I made my very first home run at 9 years old to the tears on our faces when he told me that it was time to stop fighting the ravages of cancer and live a life of quality not quantity.

In those last few days we both lived a lifetime of memories, walks and hikes, through our lives together. There are many things we said to each other those few days that I will forever hold in my heart, and I am confident that it was that time that allowed both of us peace in our hearts that we both seemed to be chasing throughout our life together.

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In the many months since my Father’s passing I have had moments where I pondered the impact others have had on my life and whether or not they fully understand how each has helped shape the man that I have become. I think many of us suffer from that malady….not out of a desire to be that way….just that we all believe that we have so much time to do it that “right now” it doesn’t seem important to do so. And also, quite frankly we don’t stop to think of the footprints we leave on others lives or the paths that we travel with those same people because we have become to live a life that sometimes is on fast forward. So, as a part of reminiscing on my life…the paths I have taken and the footprints that I am leaving and those that are left in my life by others….. I try to take time each day to think of those who have been in my life and those who are still helping shape me as a person.

So, it lead me to this quandary……and to another story I once heard of a man, who having lived his life thought about all who had helped him become the man he turned out to be. And how he felt the desire to let those people know what they had meant to him over the years. So he made a list, planned a journey and set out to see those whom he could. Along the way what he found was that not only had they changed his life, but in different ways he had changed theirs also, some good, some not-so-good.

With this story in mind I thought to myself….how many people whose paths I have crossed and have influence my life really and truly know what they have meant to me. The obvious ones are friends and family who are near and dear to my heart, some of whom are no longer with us. I’ve always wanted to mirror the journey of the aforementioned gentleman and thank those who may not know that a simple act of friendship changed the direction of my life. But knowing that I have a job to maintain, and a family to feed, how do I accomplish the same task?

So, what I decided instead is to take my journey in the easiest way I can….here on my blog and on Facebook. What my goal is, over the next few month/years, is to take time to thank those of you who may not know that you have left a footprint in my life that has not been forgotten. For some of you it will be a private message you might receive on Facebook, and for some it will a simple story here on my blog. For some it will be no surprise and for others it may come as a bit of a surprise how something small and simple to you made a difference to me.

I hope that in some way that I might even spark some of you to think back to those in your life who may not know how they positively changed your life……

So….those of you who are my Friends here, you might want to check your Messages off and on. You never know when you might get a message from a friend.

The Change Starts With Me

It started out as a simple Sunday afternoon trip to one of my favorite restaurants, Cracker Barrel. Every Sunday the special is one of my favorites, Homestyle Chicken, and whether I eat in or take out I always look forward to when I get a chance to stop in there. It had been a particularly good morning getting up and going to church, hearing a good lesson and seeing smiling faces. On this particularly pretty day it seemed like one of those “Mayberry” types of days where a good meal could be followed by a nice afternoon of watching football or taking a nice walk around the park.

But it wasn’t....in fact something happened that day and again later in the week that are perfect examples of what is wrong with our society. And that my friends, is what I want to write about today. I know I am not the first, and pretty sure not the last to make these observations, but for now you are stuck with my column.

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So let’s rewind backwards to last Sunday and start there. I had pulled into the parking lot of Cracker Barrel and as most of you probably already know finding a parking space there at lunch time is its own test of will and patience. Luckily for me I had waited till a little after 1 PM so the crowd had thinned out a little and there were a couple of parking spots open. I pulled to the parking spot that had just come open right “on the front row” and was getting ready to pull in when I noticed an elderly gentleman and his wife coming my direction looking for that same spot. Now my immediate reaction was “first-come, first serve”....but something inside of me kicked in (I can always hear my conscience I just sometimes deny it) and made me drive to the 3rd row where I pulled into the open spot there. I padded my ego by telling myself that not only did I do the right thing, but that I am sure I would get brownie points at my next Dr’s visit by telling him I walked that extra 20 or 30 feet.

Climbing out of my truck I smiled as I passed by the elderly gentleman who smiled back at me as he helped his wife out of the car. Stopping to let a car go by, I then walked up to the door, turned around to see if anyone was behind me, and noticed the elderly couple slowly but surely making their way to the door. Knowing that I wasn’t in any hurry that afternoon, I stood there waiting and holding the door open. I was feeling particularly good about myself at that time (thinking I’m building up some good karma today) when out of the corner of my vision came a young couple scurrying in just ahead of gentleman friend and his wife. Now, the kind person in me wanted to believe they were just in a hurry to get inside because they were late for meeting someone. At the very least I think I should have heard a “thank you” as they whisked by me....but not a peep from either of them. And the remarks I heard them say while waiting for the Hostess to seat them didn’t make soothe my anger at their behavior.

So let’s fast forward to Wednesday around lunchtime. I decided to take a walk from the office to grab a fast food lunch at the downtown Mall. While waiting in line at the Chick-Fil-A, a man in an “Arrest Bush” t-shirt decided to walk to the counter and engage the Manager on duty about the recent Chick-Fil-A controversy. Never mind those of us who were in line either to be waited on or served our food, his moment to engage the Manager was more important. To the Managers credit he politely answered him, went about directing his staff and the rude gentleman went on his merry way. Now, I am all for everyone’s right to express their beliefs in the proper place and time, but not while you are affecting others ungraciously. (Just for arguments sake...had he stood in line like the rest of us, I might not have been so irritated. But I guess he felt he didn’t have to)

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I’m not sure whether it’s just this season of nasty politics or the normal lack of personal decorum lately that has me more irritated, but it seems we are a generation lost in a lack of pure decency. Everywhere you look these days we find behavior that should be considered intolerable. What happened to the idea of treating people with respect and dignity? Or acting like civility and humility are characteristics of good people? What happened to the idea we can have a good discussion or debates without resorting to character assassination?

You can’t walk around the block, visit your favorite web page or even try buying a meal at a fast food restaurant these days without being bombarded with what I label “guerilla warfare politics”. Hit fast, hit hard and assess the damage later. Don’t agree with someone? Throw a label on them and you’ve “won”! In our present generation it seems the more outrageous the behavior the more we look the other way or just rationalize it.

It’s not a moral compass we need to find....its just plain and simple human decency! I’m tired of hearing people use the phrase “we need to find our better angels”, when in fact all we need to do is remember who the better person is inside all of us.

And before any of you rightfully point it out to me, I’m just as guilty as the next person. But for some reason it’s started bothering me more because as a parent I think we have taught all the wrong values to the next generation.

So....how do we fix this trend? How do we change what has become “acceptable” behavior and get back to setting the example for others by practicing kindness and humility. Now for those who have already snickered and thought to yourselves, “what a Pollyanna”....I don’t disagree. We didn’t get this way overnight and there’s no way that we get back to truly acceptable behavior overnight.

I think first we start with ourselves and then look no further. Ask yourself, “What am I tolerating now that shouldn’t be considered acceptable”? Do you smile and laugh when an inappropriate comment is made about an overweight person, a person with special needs, or someone whose situation is less fortunate that yours? Do you feel so sure that you are completely right about something that you refuse to see the possibility that someone else has a perfectly acceptable contrasting opinion? Do you feel like the only way to “win” is by resorting name-calling and labeling?

Nothing has turned me off more this year than our coveted political process. By nature political elections are a contrast in ideas and values and will always bring about some discourse. But it seems these days the election is less about who has the better direction for America and more about who has the best campaign strategy to denigrate your opponent. As a still undecided voter I can honestly say the personal attacks on both sides of the table are not making me any more comfortable that either candidate is the right person. And even more honestly, it’s not just the campaign strategists who seemed to have taken a leap off the cliff of sanity, it’s “we the people”. I’d actually just once like to visit my Facebook page without having to wade thru the endless barrage of posts telling me a somewhat slanted version of “the truth”.....or to see someone’s innocent post asking a harmless but honest question turn into a litany of put-downs by both sides of the ledger. I’d like to see less of my radio and television airwaves being littered with commentary from both sides of the argument that have more to do with put-downs than facts.

But it’s not just the political bickering that needs a change. It’s the 2 recent events in my life that made me stop and think...”just what is wrong with us?” I’d like to think that more people are like me now wondering what happened to the kinder, gentler person in all of us. Determination and hard work are highly important traits in all, but is it really necessary to climb over the backs of others to get there? Isn’t there enough room for us all to enjoy a decent life without having to make others feel less of themselves so we can feel better about ourselves?

There are way too many real struggles in life we face as human beings. Let’s find a way to keep kindness and civility from becoming a struggle, and more a normal way of behaving.

And maybe...just maybe.... by being just a little more human we will find the answers to some of the other issues that are truly more important.

And for me, I think I’ll try to remember to practice tomorrow what I am preaching today. The change starts with me.

Surrounded by Memories….


Part 1

“For some reason my memories of our small town don’t seem anything like what you recall or what you write about…”

“I love what you write about our small little town…when time allows, I read your stories and they make me smile about a time that was good to me”

Two simple messages….and each a complete opposite of the other. The above are messages that I received from old friends from the town I grew up in expressing how they felt when they read my stories.

I don’t expect that everyone will see or remember the town of Mosby the way that I did. For some it was a town that trapped their dreams and hid them from fruition, and for others it was an oasis.

While I was growing up it seemed so much like the former…..and now that I have grown older (and hopefully a little wiser) I realize it truly was the latter for me.


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It was a hot summer day, the kind that drove all of us kids to eventually find the local creek or pond to swim. Back then we never thought of what was in the water, we were just glad to have a place to cool off.

When you were young and wanted to earn money there were only a few ways to get it…..have a paper route, mow yards, work in the cornfields, babysit, or go searching for pop bottles to take to Bill Due’s Bait and Tackle for a nickel a bottle. For me, I had the Daily Standard paper route that was my main source of income but occasionally I would fill in for my brother who, along with my friend Bobby would do most of the mowing in town.

On this particular day I had agreed to fill in for both Bobby and my older brother who were out of town for the week for differing reasons. This was the week I waited for during the summer because it meant a cash windfall for me, and I was already planning on marching into Bill Due’s shop to make my big purchases whether it was baseball cards, banana bike candy, Cherry Mash candy bars, or a new fishing lure to add to my newly acquired tackle box I had gotten for my birthday. I didn’t know it at the time, but that day would give me something more than money could buy, and would teach me a valuable lesson that I wouldn’t understand better till the most recent years of my life.

I got up early that morning, deciding I was going to try and get my mowing done early enough I could get an afternoon swim in the local Fishing River before having to come home and start my afternoon paper route. I grabbed my bicycle and the metal gas can and headed off to George Cox’s Garage and Filling Station to spend my .25 to get a gallon of gas. (Back then we thought that was highway robbery….little did we know)

I pulled up to the station and something was odd….the garage doors at George’s station normally were wide open, but on this day, they were still closed. I walked over to the regular door and noticed a handwritten sign that read “ I will be running late on Wednesday and the station will not open until 10 AM”. Well, so much for getting my mowing done early that day. Rather than ride back home and have to come back in another 30 minutes I decided I would walk my bike over to Bill Due’s store to sit and chat with him while further pondering what would be my purchases with the extra money I was earning that week.

Walking around Bill’s store was always fun…..you would go from the Candy/Soda/limited groceries at the front of the store to the back section which held all the fishing supplies. I had focused of course on the pop and candy when Bill made the comment that if really wanted to get the most out of my money, I should buy something that would give me more than just fleeting pleasure. For Bill that was a profound statement….rarely did he say much of higher nature as Bill was pretty much a down-to-earth type of guy with all us kids. I didn’t really think much about it at the time, but his words would be a harbinger of what that day would bring me.

I left his shop and walked my bike back over to George Cox’s station, which was open by that time. George came out from the back of his garage where he was working on a car from one of his customers in town. While George was pumping the gas into the can I regaled him with all my plans for the day and what I planned to do with my money. After filling up my can George looked up with a smile….I handed him my quarter and he said to me….”you make sure that you keep cool today, it’s going to get hot”.

Smiling back and acknowledging what he said, I took off and headed home. Once home I hopped off my bike and grabbed my lawnmower and started walking to begin my day of mowing. My first 2 yards were smaller and easy to complete without breaking much of a sweat. Both were well-shaded so the sun wasn’t beating down on me and sapping my strength yet. Between each I would stop and get a drink of water from my customer, sit and chat with them a little, then move on knowing I wanted to get my work done so I could go swimming.

I was at my last yard and it was 1:30 in the afternoon already. I had gotten so busy that I had forgotten to stop and eat my jelly sandwich I had fixed for lunch and brought along with me. So I pulled my mower up to Georgie George’s house, put it in the shade of the tree in her front yard and started to walk over and sit under the big tree in front of the church. As I started to walk thru the gate I heard a familiar voice and turned to see Mrs. George calling out to me. She asked me where I was going and when I explained she said to me…”why don’t you come on in here, eat your sandwich and cool down before you start my yard. You look like you need to get out of the sun a little while or you’re going to get burnt.” I hesitated at first, and then when she repeated her request I changed my mind and went into her house.

For some reason that day there seemed to be something different about her house as I walked in. I had been the paperboy for our small little town for several years and had been inside her house many times. During the winter she would always leave the door unlocked so I could bring the paper into her, just like I would with all my customers who allowed me to. But today…it seemed so different, from the arrangement of the living room, to the smell of her home. I looked around and hesitated, almost as if I was paralyzed because things had changed. I’m pretty sure that she sensed that I was a bit startled; as I’m sure the look on my face told the story. She looked back and said “come on in here to the kitchen table and I’ll fix you a glass of lemonade and some Ritz crackers to go along with that sandwich you have there.”

I walked thru the living room and into her kitchen, looking around at how some things had changed and how clean and neat everything was. Not that her home wasn’t that way normally, but for some reason today everything seemed a bit polished and new. As I sat at her table and took my sandwich out of the baggie she said…

“So you noticed I’ve been doing a little cleaning and re-arranging today Mark?”

“Yes Ma’am”, I answered.

She said... “Well it seemed like a good day to clean, and since it was so hot outside that made it even a better reason”. As she walked over with a plate of Ritz crackers covered with peanut butter and a glass of lemonade I spotted a box in the corner of the room. Inside were some items I had recognized that had filled her cabinets and shelves before.

Being ever the inquisitive young man I asked, “whatcha gonna do with all those things?”

She replied… “I’m going to put those up in storage with all my other memories”

“But won’t you forget about them if you put them in storage?” I asked.

“Oh, I won’t forget about them” she replied. “I just think it’s time to put those in with the other great memories I’ve kept and let them talk to each other. Right now about all they are doing is getting dusty on my shelves and I don’t seem to have the time or strength to clean them as well as I should”

I was completely puzzled by what she had just said, and once again I was pretty sure my face belied my state because she had a bit of a smile on her face. She walked over and grabbed a small memento from the box and walked back over. It was a small piece of wood that had a picture of Mount Rushmore on the front that had been lacquered over. To a teenager it would just have seemed like another of those useless items that adults picked up while on vacation that we could never figure out. We wouldn’t have touched one, much less spent our money on it. But to her…it held memories and not just of Mount Rushmore.

For the next few minutes she would regale me of the memories of that trip. And while she talked about all the little details that were coming back to her, I could see a small glimmer in her eye. It was like she was transported back some 20 or 30 years before and I was being offered the honor of sitting in the back seat of her memory as she relived it with a smile. After she finished that memory she walked back over to the box and picked up yet another item and imparted the memories that it brought to her.

For the next hour I sat there completely engaged in her stories as she took each item out and told me the significance of it and what memory returned. Some of her memories were a bit wistful but most were accompanied by a smile and a look in her eye that told me they were precious.

The bell of the clock brought me back to reality as it chimed 3 times and reminded me that it was now 3PM and that I needed to finish her lawn quickly so I could get back home so that I could start my paper route when the papers arrived at 4 PM. As I excused myself and took my plate to the sink I told her I needed to hurry and finish her lawn so I could make sure and get my paper route started on time. She said….”It’s not going to hurt my lawn to wait one more day. Why don’t you come back here tomorrow morning and mow then? I know all you boys like to go swimming over there on the creek bank about this time each day.”

I smiled and thanked her….and headed off home to grab my shorts hoping to catch about 20 or 30 minutes of swimming. But when I arrived home I was a bit surprised to find that the papers had actually arrived a little early. I was a little disappointed but knew that my obligations to my customers came first so I sat down to fold the papers and put rubber bands around them.

Oddly enough as I delivered my papers to each of my customers I couldn’t seem to get my mind off the conversation I had earlier in the day while sitting with Mrs. George. I was thinking about the memories I already had in growing up in Mosby and would I look back as fondly as she did on her memories. I was pretty sure at that age I wanted to escape this small town and never look back and that the only good memories would be the ones that I would make once I escaped.

Little did I know how wrong I would be…..

Sweet 16..And Where Did The Time Go?

It’s 5 AM in the morning on January 16th 1996 and my wife is trying to wake me up telling me.....”Mark, you need to get up and take me to the hospital…..I think it’s not a false alarm this time.” I’d heard those words several times in the prior 2 weeks and each time it would be a false alarm and we would head back home. But not this time…..you see, my unborn daughter decided that after a couple of weeks of playing tricks on her Mom and Dad she would try to sneak into the world when we least expected it. Still a little groggy and probably wary of my unborn daughters’ precocious nature over the prior couple of weeks, I took my time getting ready. Driving to the hospital my very pregnant and in pain wife was urging me to “speed it up unless I wanted to deliver my daughter myself”. (Knowing my weakness for seeing blood and fear of anything medical my wife was using her best warfare to stress to me her condition)

I got my wife to the hospital, got her checked in and to her birthing room. And after a few hours of on-again, off-again labor pains, my lovely little girl came into the world early that afternoon. And since then, my world has never been the same.

Where did time go?

I sit here on the eve of my daughters 16th birthday, what is a special time in a teen's life. They go from being just a regular teenager to being able to get a permit to drive and suddenly becoming mobile. Instead of coming into my study or going downstairs to ask Mom to drive her, now I am sure I will hear…..” Mom/Dad can I borrow the car keys……. (insert best friends name here) wants me to meet her at (insert favorite place to hang out).”

For most of you who read this, you have probably already experienced this, and come out of the other side of the tunnel unscathed and breathing a sigh of relief. You will tell me that everything will be OK because we have taught her all the good values, judgment skills, and life lessons that will help her as she moves into the next stage of her young life. So….why do I feel a small sense of loss?

I should be happy….smiling that my little girl is now a beautiful young lady. Luckily for me she inherited her mother’s beauty, common sense and passion to help others first. From me…well she got her sense of adventure and thirst for continued knowledge. (That sense of adventure is what keeps me up at night sometimes).

But for me, I start to realize that there is no turning the clock back anymore. Suddenly the little girl who cuddled up next to her daddy while we watched Disney movies, the Disney Channel, or the Christmas movies has now become so much more. She no longer needs me to carry her upstairs to her room because she has fallen asleep…or come sit by her bedside and talk to her a little while before she tried to go to sleep. Now…all she needs from me is a hug, a kiss on the cheek and to turn off her light as I leave the room. (What was I thinking those nights when I just wanted her to stop asking so many questions and go to sleep so I could do the same? What I wouldn’t give to have a few of those moments back)

I know we can’t keep our sons or daughters young forever, any differently than our parents could keep us from growing and changing either. But that doesn’t make it any easier to have to acknowledge another stage in the growth of my daughters’ life. It’s bad enough that I had to come to grips with boyfriends and dating, now I have to worry about driving and boys and dating.


So…what does that leave me to do? Well, like the rest of you have already discovered, all we can do is love them, hope for the best, and love them some more.

But you see….I still have a million memories and they flood my mind every day. I remember the little girl who loved dressing up as Cinderella and going to Disney World with her daddy in tow looking for the next Disney Princess to have her picture taken with and to get her autograph.

I remember a Valentine’s Day Daddy/Daughter Dance that ended with Daddy having to carry her from the truck to the house because she had so much fun she fell asleep on the way home. But not before telling me she had so much fun….and just before nodding off, saying “Daddy, I love you”.

I remember a very little girl jumping up on stage and doing an impromptu dance because she thought no one was watching. And I remember watching as a young lady left the house headed to her very first formal dance.

All these stages I remember and each one makes me smile….and each one brings a tear to my eyes.

So, for you Emily……may the beginning of this new time in your life be as rewarding as it was for me when I was your age. You will have so many questions and so many new experiences. And each will be another step to growing into the young woman your mother and I hope you will become.

I leave you with this one quote from my favorite author and one that you have heard many times, but takes on a special meaning as you grow up:

"Dance like nobody's watching; love like you've never been hurt. Sing like nobody's listening; live like it's heaven on earth."- Mark Twain

Happy 16th birthday Emily!!!

With Love,

Dad

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.