Ten years on

My mother died 10 years ago yesterday. Her given name was Catherine, but everyone -- everyone -- called her Honey.

Maybe that's why I was a sucker for this video:

http://www.emailthis.clickability.com/et/emailThis?clickMap=viewThis&etMailToID=1038394309

I feel like I should add some comment here, but I got nothin'.

Miss you, Mom

My sister told me that since I wrote about my dad on his birthday I'd better write about my mom on hers, or I'd never hear the end of it through eternity.

That's where Mom is right now: eternity. She left the confines of time 10 years ago this month. I remember my brother Tom calling with the news that morning; I think it was a Thursday.

Mom had been in the hospital for more than a week after developing a painful blood clot in her leg. The hospital gave her Heparin, a powerful blood thinner. It worked too well.

We were told the drug caused a rare reaction, breaking up the clot into thousands of tiny clots that bombarded her kidneys and destroyed them. After several days of dialysis, sometimes several times a day, the rest of her body just shut down.

It was probably for the best, given the circumstances, but it was painful for all of us who loved her and were loved by her.

MLW called one of our pastors, with whom we were pretty close. She handed me the phone, and he asked me how I was doing. I told him I was OK. "You know it's OK to cry," he told me. "I know," I said, unemotionally. "It's OK to cry," he repeated. "I know, I know," I told him. "I'm just not feeling that way right now."

We waited a day before heading to Michigan, which I later concluded was a mistake. I should have been there with my dad and the rest of the family as soon as I could get there, but we only got there in time for the viewing and then the funeral.

My best friend from high school, Gonz, showed up at the viewing. I was shocked; I hadn't heard from him in years. But Mom used to drive him and me to school every morning, and at the viewing he and I laughed as we fondly remembered her utter inability to make a right turn without clipping the curb.

She and Dad also attended Gonz's wedding in Muskegon. Although he is emotionally rather clueless, I think he was touched that they made the trip. And they -- especially Mom -- seemed to have a great time.

Mom was a people watcher par excellence, which made wedding receptions and similar gatherings fun for her. While I wouldn't go so far as to say she spied on the neighbors, she did keep an eye on them and delighted in making up stories to explain what she saw in the absence of actual facts.

There's a lot I could tell you about Mom, but this post would go on forever. But I'll just say she's one of the funniest people I have ever known and illustrate the point with this one BBAA (Brief But Amusing Anecdote):

While Mom was in the hospital, MLW and I went to visit her. Mom wasn't always fully conscious or entirely present, but there were some exceptional moments. At one point while we were in the room she said she needed a Kleenex. The box was on her tray across her bed from me, so I reached across her to put it within her reach. As I did so, she noticed that my thumbnail was black.

"You hurt your thumb," she observed in a sleepy voice. I explained that I had smashed my thumb with a hammer.

"Oh," she said softly, "... stupid."

Godfather's Day

OK, so today is Father's Day. Kind of a neutral day for me most years. My dad died 10 years ago, and I'm not a father myself, so ... pfftht.

This morning our church put on a lovely little sketch, playing out the Steven Curtis Chapman song "Cinderella" onstage. Here's the official Chapman video on YouTube:

Let's just say I was glad I stuffed a couple of tissues in my pocket before leaving for church this morning.

The pastor at my former church makes a point every year of telling people we shouldn't glibly go around and wish every man we see a happy Father's Day. For some it's a very painful day because they didn't have a father or because the father they had was a lout (or worse).



And then there are those who, like me, feel a sense of loss at never having become a father, at knowing we'll never experience the reality of that song.

This certainly isn't a matter for pity or self-pity, since the no-kids decision was one MLW and I made jointly and consciously. And our reasoning for the decision -- there are enough mouths to feed on this planet already -- still stands up.

Nevertheless, I still feel a certain emptiness at not having had (or taken) the opportunity to raise a child.

But here's the thing. God isn't limited by our decisions or our ideas of what a family is.

And my God will meet all your needs according to his glorious riches in
Christ Jesus. (Philippians 4:19)

At the beginning of May, my nephew and his wife and their three children -- who had started in Michigan, lived the last three years in Florida and the last five months in Marietta, Ga. -- moved into a house three blocks from ours. The youngest of those three children is a 7-year-old blue-eyed blonde named Savannah who is my godchild. And she is CRAZY about her godfather. And I'm pretty crazy about her, too.


God has given me my Cinderella.






Don't you just love a happy ending?

Happy birthday

Today is Memorial Day, an especially poignant one because it is also my father's birthday.

Dad would have been 88 today. He died 10 years ago -- can it really have been that long?

When I think realistically about how old he would be getting now (and my mother as well), I realize it's a little absurd to go down the road of "If only ..." I mean, how many people live to be 88 anyway, and what would his quality of life have been at that age, with his diabetes and high blood pressure and brushes with cancer? And worst of all, no Honey (my mom).

But I still miss them both, and I'm not one bit ashamed about it.

We always had his birthday party on Memorial Day, whether it fell on the 26th or not. He would (over)cook hamburgers on the grill, and we'd have Jay's potato chips and baked beans and Vernor's ginger ale, and of course cake and ice cream. Some Frisbee, some Jarts, some "NBA" (that's what we called basketball the rough, physical way we boys sometimes played it in the driveway), a couple of shoving matches and lots of laughter until long after the sun went down.

And the flag hanging from the big front porch. My folks flew the flag every day, not just on national holidays -- one of those Bennington flags, with the big "76" on it. Dad was a Navy veteran of World War II. He served aboard the destroyer USS Patterson in the South Pacific, which thankfully didn't see a lot of heavy action. I'm sure they had their moments, but Dad didn't really dwell on it or talk about it much. He had a family to generate and raise and a God to serve.

I have a flag that has been furled in a corner near the front door ever since I moved here. Yesterday I finally got around to finding the mounting bracket and installing it on the front of the house. First thing this morning I unfurled the flag and set it out there to wave in the sun.

Yes, I did it for our nation's honored dead. But mostly I did it to honor Dad. Happy birthday. I still love you.

Old friend, new life

So I was reading the local paper (the Atlanta Journal-Constitution) one day last month, and I saw an item about a band called Blue Flashing Light from Athens, Georgia, that had just completed a two-week tour of China.

The item quoted the band's frontman, Ian Schwarber, who said a Chinese cultural committee had sought out bands from Georgia to help celebrate Chengdu's peach festival. Apparently the famous Georgia peaches are in fact a variety that originated in Sichuan Province, where Chengdu is located.

(Chengdu is the place where Monday's devastating earthquake occurred. Please join us in praying for the folks there, and donate to a relief organization if you can.)

Accompanying the article was a tiny headshot of Schwarber. I glanced at it and kept reading. Then I stopped and went back to the photo. Then back to Schwarber's name. Then back to the photo.

I asked My Lovely Wife, who was sitting nearby, "What was the name of that kid who worked at that coffee shop back in Ohio and had a band?"

She thought for a moment but couldn't come up with it immediately.

"Was it Ian?"

"Yeah, Ian. Why"

I showed her the paper. "Isn't this him?" (I know, I should have said "he," but who talks that way?)

Her eyes grew wide and she grabbed the paper out of my hands. "That is him!" she confirmed. (Ditto.)

See, not only does Ian make a nice caffe latte and write pretty song lyrics, but he's a good-looking sonuvagun too. Here's proof:

Anyway, it turns out Ian and the boys moved from Ohio to Georgia about the same time we did, starting over in a booming college town known as a cradle of talented bands. And things seem to be going well.

You can learn all about Blue Flashing Light and hear samples of their songs at http://www.blueflashinglight.net/ or http://www.myspace.com/blueflashinglightEMup .

One of Ian's little secrets is that he is obsessed with Buffy the Vampire Slayer. A deeper secret is that it was My Lovely Wife who first turned him on to Buffy through some coffee-shop evangelism.

After we discovered they were here in Georgia, MLW Googled the daylights out of BFL and learned they had an upcoming gig in the ATL. We determined to go to that show and surprise Ian. MLW even had a T-shirt made that says "Buffy Y BFL."

By the time the show date came around (last Friday night), MLW had spoken with Ian and he knew we were coming, so the element of surprise was lost. Yet and still, as they say down here, he was thrilled to see us and our faces were rocked.

Then on Monday Ian went solo and competed in the famous open mic night at legendary listening room Eddie's Attic (http://www.eddiesattic.com/) in Decatur. There were 21 singer-songwriters, and Ian unfortunately went first. He wasn't chosen as a finalist, but Eddie took him aside and said he was exercising his authority to invite Ian back to the summer shootout as a wildcard.

I don't think Ian's going to make us any more cappuccinos, but he's making great music and that's even better. And we've reconnected with an old friend who is a really good guy, which is best of all.

Fugly is as fugly does

I broke my fugly lamp.

This … thing … was sitting under a tree next to a huge pile of leaves when we moved into our house in December 2006. I think the previous owner had set it out there hoping that thieves or coyotes would carry it off, but no one would have it. It’s a big responsibility to bring that kind of ugliness into your home, and not everyone is up to the task.

Still, for some reason I stuck it in my shed rather than get rid of it. That sort of bulky grotesqueness has a burlesque attractiveness all its own, and over time I began to believe someone out there might not only want it but be willing to pay for it.

While moving it out of the way for the tenth time last week, I noticed the base was stamped FALKENSTEIN 1919. Hey, I thought, maybe I do have a find here. A quick Google search revealed that Claire Falkenstein was a lamp designer from the late 1950s to the 1970s, and collectors aren’t especially impressed with her work.

Finally this week I took it to an antique shop in Decatur that specializes in mid-20th century furniture and décor. The proprietor there acknowledged that she had never heard of Claire Falkenstein and agreed that the lamp was, indeed, very ugly, and no, she would not be interested, thank you and have a nice day.

On the way home I stopped at another antique shop for a second opinion. The woman there also had never heard of Claire Falkenstein, also agreed that the lamp was, indeed, very ugly, and oh, by the way, it’s broken.

“Broken?” said I. “How can you tell?”

“There’s a big hole in the globe -- there, on the other side,” she informed.

And, sharp-eyed appraiser of antiquities that she is, she was right. Big hole in the shimmery red globe. Brand-spankin’-new one.

“Well, there goes that eBay lottery hit,” I lamented. My fugly dream had gone aglimmering.

But hey, now I have a lot more room in my shed.

Out to lunch

Dear Reader (you know who you are),

Please accept my apologies for not posting here for the last seven weeks. Today's excuses of choice include spring-related busyness and, paradoxically, an extended bout with fatigue.

While I'm not so foolish as to promise to post every day henceforth, I will pledge to be better about it than I have been lately.

Thanks for waiting me out.