The Prodigal Friend: Gotcha Day

 

As young children, we sang together, at the top of our lungs to our favorite songs.

We skipped along, holding hands.
Whenever I called her name, she came close.
We fell asleep sharing secrets and fears.
She listened to me and held me when I cried, like the nights I feared my house would burn with my beloved Bozo inside.
We took turns doing what the other wanted—reading, swinging on the tire swing, or playing school.
We were so close we finished each other’s sentences, reading each other’s facial expressions so words often were not even needed.

My best friend—my lifelong friend—was such a critical part of my life.
We were inseparable.

However, as we grew up, we grew apart, despite our previous closeness.
At first, she ignored me a little, focusing on what others said, what others thought was acceptable or fun.
Instead of listening to me, she took over conversations and occasionally even told me to hush, eventually leading me to talk less and less.
Soon, numerous days passed before she acknowledged my voice, too busy with her own agenda to hear what I had to say.
We spent less and less time together because she acted like a lovesick middle schooler, talking all about all the others in her life, discussing all she was doing for them.
Meanwhile, I was hoping that we could do things for each other.

It sounds like I became bitter.
Resigned might be a better way to describe my feelings.
Hopeless might be another.
It seemed while she grew larger than life, obsessed with impressing others to win their love, I grew smaller and smaller.

The irony is that she didn’t need to do anything to win my love.
I loved her without any reservations.
I was the one who knew everything about her, the one who would never betray her.

She followed that “teenage crush” for all things external.  
She became a busy adult, too busy for me.
Busy impressing.
Busy doing.
Busy caring for others.
Busy mothering and teaching and grading and cleaning and driving and mowing and friending.
Busy.

When my life became difficult, when I was at my lowest, I barely heard from her.
She asked me what I had done to bring this on myself.
She told me to move on, to deal with it, and to put on my big girl panties.
I once again kept my mouth shut, didn’t argue, but picked myself up and kept going, just as she suggested.
I desperately needed to hear other words, but after all, she was my forever friend, so I was sure she was only saying those things in love.
She couldn’t read my mind or finish my sentences any longer.
When I talked, all I heard was an echo.

If only I could have seen how abusive this friendship was.
The best parts of me had been silenced.
I allowed her to rule my actions and guide my thoughts.
I diminished myself.

I became mute.
I was present all along, but she forgot I existed.
I was a silent shadow.

When life became hard for her six years ago, when those who promised to love her created more and more distance,
When they betrayed her,
When she felt like she might be all alone,
I was still there.
Through her tears and confusion at how life had turned out, she looked up and saw me.
She saw my smile.  
She felt my hand in hers.  
Tentatively, haltingly, she spoke a few words.  Then the flood of words poured from her mouth.
We both remembered the ways things had been.
She realized I had been there all along and would never leave her.

To say that it was easy for me to believe the friendship was back would be an understatement.
After all, she had betrayed me.
She had silenced me.
She had blocked me out of her life for years.
But slowly, she earned my trust and allowed me to believe our friendship was stronger than ever.

A little over two years ago, she decided to choose me.
Just the two of us stood beside the Truckee River in Reno and made promises.
She promised to be there for me—-and she has been.
She vowed to listen—and she has.
She promised never to betray me again—and she hasn’t.

It became our "Gotcha Day." 

Now, she and I enjoy the quiet and solitude.
Yes, we enjoy the company of others, but we treasure moments with just the two of us, as we read, listen to acoustic music, watch the birds, play with the dogs, and just sit.
She and I huddle together on the sofa as we watch TV, and she holds my hands or lets me lean against her shoulder and cry.
We cheer for our favorite football and basketball teams, each out-yelling the other.
She doesn’t push me to get up and go.
Instead, she encourages me to let her take care of me.  
She wraps me in the softest of blankets.
We finish each other’s sentences, and we laugh at our own private jokes.
We once again go to sleep telling each other secrets, dreaming of the future.

Friends from birth.
Friends forever.
She’s mine, and I am hers.





Just to make sure you get this, this friend is me.  For a very long time, I ignored myself.  I ignored what I was really thinking and feeling.  I focused on others so much that my true self was silenced and minimized.  Only recently have I become friends with myself again.

I was struck the other day at the way I would have given up on this friend if someone had treated me this way—-and yet, I treated myself this way.  

I am glad that “she” and I are friends again.  I did make vows to myself in Reno two years ago beside the Truckee River.  I even gave myself a ring (the ring pictured at the start of this blog post).

Here are my vows if you are ever interested in doing something similar:



Do you choose to be true to yourself from this day forward?

• To love yourself as best as you can and to be a comfort and a safe place for yourself to live?
• To listen to yourself deeply, to trust your gut, to allow yourself to be sad and angry?
• To learn compassion for yourself and nourish yourself with compassion?
• To love your body as it ages?  To take care of yourself both in body and mind?
• To weigh the effects of the words you speak and the things you do—especially to yourself?
• To take on only today?
• To take on only what is yours?
• To see the amazing person you really are and give thanks?
• To honor the uniqueness of your spirit?
• To cherish those whose love and support helped bring you here today and helped shape you into the person you are today?
• To honor and respect you—who you are—not what you do or what role you play
• To celebrate your victories, rejoice in your achievements
• To give care and comfort, wisdom and truth—to others AND to yourself?
• To always be the best of friends to yourself?

What promises do you make to yourself?

• I promise to be gentle to me, speaking words of kindness and love.
• I promise to leave the voices of my past behind.
• I promise to define myself by being who I was meant to be—regardless of others.
• I promise to silence the internal jury, to encourage and believe in myself.
• I promise to never be with someone who does not make me feel safe.  No more tiptoeing.  No more losing of myself for the sake of keeping someone.
• I promise to only surround myself with those who value me.
• I promise to take time to heal.

Pictures from my "Gotcha Day" in Reno:

      

Of Magical Wardrobes and Yellow Brick Roads---The Time Travel of Trauma

 

It is so magical in movies and books—
A character is living their ordinary life when they are suddenly transported to another world, time, and existence.

For instance, there are the four siblings secreted in the country far away from their parents, escaping through an ordinary wardrobe to the magical land of Narnia
OR perhaps Gulliver who four times finds himself in other lands
OR perhaps Alice who tumbles into the land of the Cheshire Cat—
OR perhaps Dorothy who is taken by a chance tornado and dropped into the land of the Munchkins, traveling with her three companions (and Toto) on their way to Oz.

OR, to think of more recent magical time and space travel, you could hop in the DeLorean with Michael J. Fox or step into the TARDIS with Dr. Who.

All are so magical—-
But as you  know, real life is so different from fantasy.
There are no DeLoreans or TARDIS trips,
No magical wardrobes or rabbit hidey holes.

Instead, as you are living your ordinary, hum-ho life,
All it takes is a smell, a spoken “magical” word, a familiar situation, the sight of a specific item—
AND SUDDENLY,
And without a conscious thought,
Your body—brain—nerve endings—emotions—
ALL are vacuumed into another time and place.
Years disappear.
Confidence wanes.
Once again, you find yourself in fight
OR flight
OR freeze.

That moment . . .
That moment you felt in that single space between tick and tock
The people and place and situation
All flood, surge, overwhelm—taking over every thought and breath,
Breaking open your heart and soul and mind.

Or in that moment between tick and tock,
The people and place and situation all get sucked out in a second in a black hole or wormhole,

Leaving you scared and helpless all over again.


Alone.


Vulnerable.

You stand, straddling the present and the past,
And no one in the present knows or understands this time travel or this space locked in time,
This space stored carefully within the wrinkles and crevasses of the brain,
This space hidden in the muscles and veins of the heart,
This space locked away in the emotions of the soul.

* * * * * *

You are middle aged,
And yet, the sound of giggling girls,
Or the sight of a tall metal trash can,
An image of a gorilla,
The sound of a praise song,
Or the unexpected knock on your front door . . . .

And you have time traveled, and you are suddenly, in a split second,
13 and awkward, stumbling and hiding your true self from vicious attacks,
17 in a band hall, desperately wanting love and accepting abuse instead,
35, feeling helpless and stripped naked of all dignity,
37, leading worship right after you have been threatened by false CPS accusations,
53, facing the reserved and downcast glances of two sheriff deputies at 2:00 a.m.

* * * * * * * * *

Time travel is always unexpected.
It is always incomprehensible,
Mysterious,
Uncontrollable,
You are whisked away in the time it takes for one heartbeat to transition into the next.

However incomprehensible or mysterious or uncontrollable, it is anything but magical.

Instead, it is bewildering,
Confusing,
And utterly debilitating.
In that moment,
You are helpless to stop the time travel.
You cannot halt the way the emotions overwhelm or are frozen in place.
There is no Wizard who will send you on a quest to find those red shoes to happily get you home.

As debilitating as it is,
There is one truth you should know, a truth this time traveler has learned after years of time and space travel: 
Just as the four siblings returned wiser because of their encounters with Aslan and the White Witch,
And just as Gulliver and Alice found their way home, altered by new perspectives,
Or Dorothy awoke in her bed, glad to be back in Kansas,

Just like them,
With time—and with frequent time travel practice—
You can find your way home,
Forever changed,
But perhaps a bit less cocky and sure of yourself,
More empathetic,
And more grateful for your present time.

As you arrive back from the wormhole,
Or step out of your DeLorean,
You see familiar landmarks,
You recognize the beaten-up mailbox and long, windy drive,
And as you follow the turns of this dirt path,
You see the paving stones that lead to your front porch.

You find that your front door is already open,
With Current You standing there with arms outstretched,
Hugging you and welcoming you home—
Just as you are.

The Minus Men

 

 

Like vampires,
The Minus Men suck your life blood,
They sleep in normal beds, dress in khakis and polos,
And put on their underwear the same way as every Tom, Dick, and Harry.
These Minus Men may not sleep in coffins or brush sharpened teeth,
But they drain
and minimize like Dracula.

These modern vampires inhabit offices with oaken desks,
They shelter in place behind computer monitors and office assistants,
Shielded by degrees and job titles,
But their hunger for the spirit and soul of others
Is just as insistent and destructive
As if they were Bram Stoker’s creations.

These Minus Men are feverishly hungry,
Gnawing on any small bits of gristle,
Any small details that they can focus on and then tear apart.
They look for miniscule weaknesses in your defense, and
Instead of teeth, their tongues pick at,
Ridicule,
And suck your marrow by cracking and breaking and destroying—
Your appearance, your laugh, your intelligence, your personality, your mental health, and your heritage are all snacks on the plate.

Minus Men
Target you because your passion and confidence is strong,
And your self-esteem and resilience are the most desired life force
For these little men.

They insert lifts in their Florsheims to increase their stature,
Not wanting you to appear taller than themselves.
They make sure their job title is capitalized, a proper noun,
And the diploma is gold-plated—
Anything to close the door on dissent or new thought.

They dimunitize by referring to “Kimmy,” even though they know you are Kim,
Deny the truth of what you say,
Speak with a megaphone to silence your viewpoint,
Cover the mirrors to keep you from seeing the truth of your image--
The truth of your real height.

They make sure their titles and degrees or their Holy Spirit-endowed gifts
Help those around them feel less than,
Less chosen,
Less valid,
Less important,
Of Less value.

These little men are Minus Men.
They can easily take a 10—
and with each word they slowly drain 1 and 1 and 1 until a 7 stands before them.
Oh, the anger they feel for anyone, especially a female, who would dare for an 8 or 9 or 10.
They make sure to Minus you in front of others,
To ignore your needs or your reality.
They make you question yourself,
Am I mistaken?  Am I overreacting?  Am I really that messed up?  
10 . . . 9. . . . 8. . . 7 . . . 6 . . . 5—
All so they can sit in their big boy chairs.

The Minus Men—   
No garlic, holy water, or stake through the heart can destroy these modern monsters.
They are protected by their ability to camouflage their blood-sucking desire.


So, dear Warrior,
Your fight is a daily one.  
You will need to gear up.
Buy earbuds to block out the seductive minimizing words.
Carry a mirror to remind yourself of your truth.
Wear your heels (if you choose) but remind yourself that you are taller than they are
Even if you are in flats.
Surround yourself with Multipliers, those who reveal the truth,
And slowly . . .
Slowly . . .
Slowly . . .
 

You will realize their Minus Man math makes no sense.
Pythagoras, Alan Turing, and even Stephen Hawking himself would not have understood their logic.  

You will  learn to speak up and maximize your power. 

You will learn to stand tall, refusing to stoop your shoulders.  

You will  look the vampires right in the eyes and dare them to diminish you.

You will remind yourself daily that they are wearing lifts,
That they are hiding their vampire teeth and poisonous tongues.

You are a warrior,
No matter what they say.

Let's Dance---Christmas Letter 2024

 

When I think of Christmas, I still hear my grandfather whistle harmonies to the Christmas classics of Bing Crosby, Nat King Cole, and Frank Sinatra.  To this day, I cannot get through a holiday season without watching Bing Crosby and Danny Kaye dance and sing in White Christmas.

My fantasy would be to have the grace of these dancers, singing and moving in unison with each other. However, when I dance, I resemble Elaine Benes from Seinfeld, spastically moving around the room, always one step off the whole time.  Because of this, whenever I have had a chance to hit the dance floor in the past, I usually sat and watched instead.

Last December, while listening for the first time to “I Hope You Dance” on a Spotify playlist,  I was struck with the way those words reflected my hope for 2024.  Right then, I decided  it was time for me to quit being a wallflower and instead dance my heart out.  2023 had been a year of trudging one step in front of the other, just trying to survive the first year without Anthony.  I wanted more for 2024.  I wanted to live.  I hoped for a booklet to provide me with the secrets to dance, a step-by-step process to find joy again, to dream again, and to thrive again.  However, there is no such book.  There are no Arthur Murray lessons I could take.  Regardless, I tried.  I figured out a few new dance moves, a few new truths of dancing in this life of ours, including some of these:  

• There are moments of utter joy.  I spent numerous days last December in my hometown, soaking up the waterfront views of Lakeland, sitting beside my favorite lake while writing, and visiting childhood friends.  This June, I spent 3 days alone in a little cabin in north Texas writing and reading on my annual Writing Retreat.  I have spent time with family in Illinois and Florida, laughing and loving.  I have sat across the table from my two sons, watching them interact, laugh, and share the events of their lives.  These are the moments where my heart lifts off the ground, pirouettes in the air, and glides in beautiful harmony with life.

 

• There are moments of utter pride.  Nothing could have made me happier this year than to watch my youngest, Jonathan, walk across the platform at Baylor University, receiving his bachelor’s degree in Environmental Studies.  Andy and I whooped and hollered.  Standing beside Jonathan in his cap and gown after the ceremony, I thought of all the challenges he faced with ADHD, dyslexia, and dysgraphia.  Yet, his hard work and dedication had paid off, and he was dancing on his own!

• It is important to listen to your own rhythm.   Jonathan worked as a full-time front desk clerk at LaQuinta for 4 months, even though it wasn’t his dream job.   He continued looking and  got a full-time job at the Waco Animal Shelter this fall.  He has remained true to his passion for the environment and animals.  When he talks of his new job, his joy reverberates because he has found what makes his heart beat and skip and bebop.

• Dancing means knowing when to let go.  Andy is still in Reno, Nevada, with a new job at Tesla.  He is director of new projects, now working on the powertrain for the electric semi-truck, rather than focusing on just the battery.   He has found his own dance moves, snowboarding at Tahoe, driving to San Francisco for a weekend, and camping with friends in the desert or beside mountain rivers.  

• In every dance, there are moments of utter exhaustion and sadness.  If the smile on my face or my dedication to my job were the measures, everyone would think I was fine and happy, completely  “back to normal.”  I don’t think anyone goes through the shocks of my past 4 years without a bit of a limp.  The dance is not the same dance as it was.  Some days are hard.  Some are even harder.  Some days the house is just too empty to endure.  However, as listless as my spirit may be, I still find a way to move to the beat, even if it is just to enjoy the excitement of my dog during her morning ride, to savor the taste of a cold Coke Zero, or to reflect on the waver of the flame on my fire pit. 

• It is OK if your dance moves are different from others.  This year while listening to an audiobook about autism in females, I recognized so many similarities that I found myself in tears.  After a psychological evaluation, I discovered I am neurodivergent, meaning that the way my brain twirls and twists and meanders is that way for a reason:  my brain moves differently than most.  Understanding this has helped me love the way I “dance” even more.  Rather than wondering why I cannot be like others, I am now learning to appreciate me just like I am.  (For a great read, check out the children’s book Giraffes Can’t Dance—I am that giraffe!)

• Dancing with others strengthens the dance.  I am still teaching full-time at Temple College, and I am the department chair of English and Foreign Languages, working with about 32 faculty teaching on 11 different campuses.  I love what I do.  Helping faculty discover their strengths and supporting their endeavors is one of my life joys.  I cannot imagine my life without my work friends/family.

• The dance may change at any moment—and it may not look like the dance you imagined.  Once you have faced the unexpected phone call or knock on your front door with life-changing news, the way you dance changes.  I have stopped worrying so much about what others think, so I have attended a James Taylor concert completely by myself in another state, taken weekly summer antique shop trips headed in a different direction to places I have never been, and literally danced in the rain in my backyard.   I find ways to create spots of joy in my yard and house.

Never would I have imagined life would turn out like it has, but I am invested in this dance—no matter if it is clogging, ballet, or Texas two-step.   I may not do the dance steps like anyone else.  I may be waving my arms up when they should be down, but I am still dancing.   I am still Elaine Benes physically, but I have taken every chance I could in 2024 to move to my own heartbeat around my figurative dance floor of life, to acknowledge and honor my feelings at each moment, and to live with my arms spread open.  I love big.  I feel big, so I am trying to dance big, too.

May your 2025  be one full of foxtrots, jitterbugs, heel pivots, and even some hula.  “And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance, I hope you dance.”   I will be out on the dance floor with you!

Too

 

Too.

A small three-letter word that has

Limited me,

Made me second-guess,

Led me to question myself.

Too.

Too demanding.

Too talkative.

Too quiet.

Too bossy.

Too emotional.

Too perfectionistic.

Too smart.

Too hard-working.

Too busy.

Too strong of a personality.

Too much.

Too.

Other women throughout time, throughout literature, and throughout lessons taught to girls and boys were too . . . .

Eve was too curious,

Too trusting,

Too persuasive.

And look at what happened.

Because she was too (even though Adam was there to hear the whole discussion), she was held accountable and blamed for the doom of mankind forever.

Bathsheba was too tempting,

Too beautiful,

Too alone,

Too willing to obey a king,

And the Man after God’s Own Heart fell.

Guinevere, too, was too lustful,

Too deceitful,

Too unfaithful,

And Camelot ended.

Other women in other times and other cultures were

Too different,

Too weird,

Too something.

So different, so weird, so something they were

Drowned,

Burned,

All to prove their innocence

Or to prove they’re (or their)

Too much.

Too.

Women have been

Too commonly judged for strengths,

Too often held to a different standard,

Too rarely allowed to talk and vote and have a say in things,

Too limited in their opportunities and education,

Too fragile or too helpless to have their own thoughts,

Too criticized for wanting a job and a family,

Too pulled apart by ideals and advice

And remonstrations of

How a good girl acts

And speaks

And dresses

And looks

And holds herself

And runs her family

And  cooks and cleans and irons

And expresses herself

And puts everyone first before herself.

I am, too.

I am too.

But I am proud to be

Too strong to be in a fetal position when life has fallen apart,

Too stubborn to let insecure men (or women) make me feel less than,

Too loud to keep my voice to myself,

Too emotional to be numb to life’s passions and treasures,

Too much of a mother to give up, 

Too unwilling to let another abuse me any longer,

Too loving to give up on love,

Too contrary to let others’ mistreatment of me determine my treatment of others,

Too hard of hearing to believe mistruths,

Too much for some.

I was ashamed for years for being too.

Now I am trying to find more ways to be a more authentic,

More real,

More true version of myself 

With all my too’s allowed to

Whisper,

Speak, and

Shout.

To

Be seen,

Be bold,

Be appreciated, and

Be heard.

To seed,

To bloom,

To flower,

To flourish,

To fertilize, and

To cast wide.

The Gaze

 

 I can still feel his eyes on me—

I somehow knew even before I cracked my eyes a small bit.
I knew he was watching me intently.

Drowsy, but now awake,
Pretending to be asleep,
I barely opened my lids and saw him—
Staring at me contemplatively.

As a child, when my grandfather studied me while I slept on the sofas in their hot living room,
An un-air-conditioned room in Florida with just a fan blowing,
His long-lasting gaze at both my sister and me made me wonder,
What is so interesting about us when we are asleep?
Why watch us?

I now know why.

He loved.
He loved me.
He loved me enough to be enchanted by my breaths,
By my face,
By my fingers and hands,
By my curled figure,
To be mesmerized by my innocence and potential,
By my blond hair splayed on the pillow,
By my stillness.

I was his blood.
I was the daughter of his daughter.
The apple of his eye.

If what they say is true,
If eyes are the windows to the soul,
His soul was awakened by me—the center of his soul.
 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Decades after he left this earth,
I still feel his gaze,
His love.

Grandpa’s presence was beside me
when I gazed at my sons’ faces,
As I sat in the chair beside the crib,
Listening to their deep breathing,
now knowing why he gazed.

I hope my sons know beyond a shadow of a doubt
Even decades later that
I was enchanted by their breaths,
By their faces,
By their fingers and hands,
By their curled figures.
I was mesmerized by their innocence and potential,
By their blond hair splayed on the pillow,
By their stillness.

They were my blood—
The sons I longed for,
The reason my blood thumped in my body,
My essence.

Rocking back and forth,
I felt their heaviness on my chest,
As I grasped their tiny fingers in my hand,
As I tried to comfort their fears and remove tears,
As I held them and sang in the darkness,
Reminding them I was there—-

I wanted them to know they were the center of my soul.

Oh, to be loved like this.
To be the enchantment of someone’s soul,
To be loved so much that decades later there are no doubts. 

My Personal Folk Hero

 

 

Dad loved history—-and he loved sharing his passion with others.
You couldn’t listen to him and not want to know more about the past.
He took us to Vicksburg, Gettysburg, Williamsburg, Jamestown, and Fort Ticonderoga.
Civil War battles and early American life came alive in his eyes,
as Kelly and I could imagine Grant and Lee signing the papers as we stood at Appomattox.  

In addition to historical visits,
Dad shared tales of Wild Bill Hickok and Annie Oakley,
And female heroines like Amelia Earhart and Harriet Tubman.
We even had coonskin caps like Davy Crockett.

He read us folk tales about Johnny Appleseed, Pecos Bill in the tornado, and Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox.
We were astonished at the deeds of a man who planted apple trees wherever he went,
And the thought of an ox who “grew so big that 42 axe handles plus a plug of tobacco could fit between his eyes.” 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

When your dad dies when you are 24–
And when he is at the height of his professional career
And has taught and served as a principal in the same area his whole life–
And when he had over a thousand at his funeral at age 52—

When all those are true,
It is easy to somehow transform your views of your dad
Into someone larger than life—
As a sort of folk hero–
As someone who did no wrong and had a perfect life.

Now, at age 55, three years older than he ever was,
It is much more obvious that Dad was not a folk hero.  
Dad was a normal man who loved big, did all he could to make his students know they were loved, and did all he could to tell his three females at home that they were amazing.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

In thinking how to describe my dad to my sons who never met him,
I could tell of his folk hero-type achievements—
His Teacher of the Year awards for Polk County two different times,
His transition from history teacher to assistant principal to principal,
His crazy antics to motivate his students on the football field (as he wore his Lake Gibson Braves Indian outfit and ran up and down the sidelines)
To his decision to walk 20 miles from Lake Gibson to Bartow to take their test scores to the district office,
To several nights spent on the roof of the school to celebrate state scores.

I could tell of the ways he, like Johnny Appleseed, changed the landscape of Central Florida by planting “seeds” of hope.
I could tell of the times I had to share Dad even when I was little
With the students who ran up to him, hugging him,
With the students who wanted to share their awards and achievements,
And with students who needed a father figure in their lives.
I could tell of his motivational talks, of his encouragement that his students fly with the eagles.
I could tell of his decision to name the eagle as the mascot at his new high school, George Jenkins,
And of his pure joy of dreaming of the new campus and of the way students would enjoy the courtyard.

I could tell my sons of his never-ending energy,
Almost supernatural like the strength of Paul Bunyan.
He moved constantly from 5 a.m. until 10 p.m., eating a meal a day by grabbing small bits of food on his way from one event to the next.
I could tell of his Barney Fife figure, of the power that lived inside that tiny physical frame.
I could talk of his involvement at church, from Sunday School teacher and superintendent, to board member, to choir member.
I could talk of all the help he provided my mom as we set up for children’s events.
I could talk of his solos and of his role as Psalty, a blue songbook in a children’s musical.


I could do all that . . . .
And obviously, I could tell of his almost unnatural end—
Of the sudden heart attack on the way to the football field of the first football game at George Jenkins.
I could talk of the grief,
Of the suddenness of the loss of this life, this man who seemed larger than life.


* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ** *

I could do all that. . . .
But to introduce my personal “folk hero” to my sons, I wouldn’t focus on that.

I would focus on these details of his life:

• He treated everyone with the utmost respect, from the repairmen who worked at the school to the custodians who barely spoke English.
• He loved to sing along with music, regardless of whether he knew the words.  The music itself was more important than getting everything right.  He made up words that Kelly and I called “Slippy Pippy” words.
• He loved to watch things grow—his students, the grass, the trees, the plants.  He loved his yard and having it look just right.  We spent so many hours with Dad out in the yard, mowing, raking pine needles (in Florida) and leaves (in North Carolina).
• He didn’t mind sweat and hard work.  Whether it was cutting down a pine tree that needed to come down, or working an extra job doing construction work during the summer, Dad worked hard.  He wore out the soles of his dress shoes each year from walking so much.
• He loved to teach.  He was passionate about public education and his students.  He was rarely angry, but when he was, it was when his students were hurt or when someone (including loved ones) criticized teachers.
• He loved to encourage others.  He wrote small notes each morning that he would deliver to people he wanted to thank.  I have some of those notes he gave to Mom.
• He loved my mom.  Beyond doubt.  They were true partners, taking part equally in each other’s endeavors.  I still have all their love letters to each other.  It might be expected that she kept his, but true to form for him, Dad kept all her love letters, too.
• He loved Kelly and me.  Each night I was in his house, I got a hug and a kiss from him, and each morning, he kissed my forehead while I slept and wished me a good day.   He was so proud of both of us and was at each of our events.  He never missed a day telling us that he loved us.  And always would.
  
• He loved soft-serve ice cream, and his nighttime treat was vanilla (or chocolate) ice cream with salted peanuts on it.  
• He did not watch sports 24/7, but he always knew the scores so he could converse with others.  I can remember being super excited about Joe Montana and the 49ers and the Pittsburgh Steelers.
• When he got up in the mornings, his ankles and toes popped.  We would tease him with “Snap, Crackle, Pop.”
• He loved making French toast on Sunday mornings for us, and we would read the comics.  He also loved washing dishes.  
• He taught me that real men help clean the house, fold laundry, vacuum, and dust.  Real men also cry at The Waltons and at any other small thing that is important.
  
• He loved going down snowy mountains on a sled, making snowmen, and making snow angels.  However, if you ever got on a toboggan with Dad in the snow, you could plan going backward and falling out.
• He sat with one leg draped over the arm of chairs when he was comfortable.  He loved Christmas Vacation and other Chevy Chase humor.  He loved his Christmas train (he purchased it as an childless adult, and when the toy salesman asked about his little boy, Dad admitted it was for himself), tinsel deliberately laid on branches, and the butter cookies that came in a metal tin.
• He loved sitting on the front porch of the Maggie Valley home, drinking coffee and reading a book.  He voraciously read and had the unbelievable ability to remember characters and plots of books he hadn’t read in decades.
• He loved imagining retirement, something he never reached.  He frequently talked, though, of never sitting on the porch and dying.  He wanted to “run into the grave,” words he said the week he died.  He and Mom drew plans of the expansion of their Maggie Valley home.
• He loved walking in the woods, seeing inspiration in nature, and seeing beautiful natural sights.  He enjoyed watching the chipmunks (Kelly called them "chinkminks") scamper. 
  
• He always had a pad of paper and pen with him.  When we shopped, Dad would sit in a chair or stand at a clothing rack, writing down thoughts for future speeches or a list of tasks he needed to do.   He frequently was mistaken as a manager and was asked how to find an item.  The funny part is that Dad would go along with it and would help the customer find what he/she was looking for.
• We never went anywhere without someone knowing my dad.  We could go out of state, and it seemed like we always saw someone who knew him.
• He was so tired he would fall asleep any time he sat down.  He fell asleep at train crossings, waiting for the train to pass.  He fell asleep in the dentist chair while he was undergoing dental work.  But, he wouldn’t slow down.
• He rolled up his pants and would walk in rivers (and would often slip).  He often mowed his front yard in shorts and dress socks, trying to get the grass mowed before it got dark outside.  He wasn’t afraid of looking like a fool—dressing up for his students, rolling down the hill at Biltmore Mansion, riding a kids’ tricycle at church, and crawling around on the floor with toddlers.  
• He felt like he had a mission—a world he wanted to make better.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * **

My kids may never have met my father.
However, I hope they have seen a reflection of him in me.

He showed me how to love my children.
He showed me how one person’s passion can power a life and can motivate others.
He showed me how to love big—
And how to live with respect for all and with appreciation for the small things of life.

He wasn’t a folk hero.
He was just MY hero.