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Category: Family
We ain’t right
Shot one. Collective intake of breath, shuddering. Shot two. Sobs break out. Shot three. The men weep. The widow exhales and raises her chin, defiant and courageous. She is presented the flag from the honor guard as the hollow notes weave through the crowd behind her. She is elegant in her good jewelry and navy blue dress, poised on her sharp heels. I can see our breath on the air. The rain continues to fall, indifferent to our tears. The service is over. I can still detect the acrid odor of gunsmoke, silent and invisible now. He brought many of us together today, back in his hometown after so many years spent scattered the four directions the winds blow. Family from all over the world, friends he knew, some he never met through simpletractors.com. I knew one, a former supervisor at the Co-op. He said he’d never met Kent, but wanted to pay his respects. He’d never imagined seeing me there. You never know where I might pop up. Friends from his graduating class and mine, there with our aging parents. People I haven’t seen in many years, old neighbors and people with babies that I remember as babies themselves. There were pictures and his plaques commemorating a job well done for 27 years. A patriot, proud to serve. There were plenty of mourners and lots of handshakes and hugs. There were many…
It wouldn’t hurt so bad if he had been suffering for ages. It wouldn’t hurt so bad if our last meeting hadn’t ended so abruptly. It wouldn’t hurt so bad if he had lived a good long life, if he had been as old as Methuselah. He just had so much left to do. It wouldn’t hurt so bad if he had lived to see the grandbabies. It wouldn’t hurt so bad if she had gone unexpectedly quick, like the wind blowing out a flame. It wouldn’t have hurt so bad if she had known us at the end. It wouldn’t be so hard if we could have said goodbye. It wouldn’t hurt so bad if…if…if, if, if. If. But the truth is, the only way it wouldn’t hurt so bad is if we hadn’t loved them. And if they hadn’t loved us back. But yet we tell ourselves these lies, attempting to masquerade our grief, and make excuses for why we sob as they slipped from this life into the next one. Isn’t this true for anybody you lose? Anyone you cared for? Eight years ago, Colonel Thomas made me a promise via Facebook messenger. “Please don’t die,” I wrote, somewhat beseechingly. I was at KFC with Uncle Dale, immediately following the funeral of Joe…
Usually by the time you find out you’re dying there’s no time to complete your bucket list. Hopefully by the time you are dying you almost welcome it, because you’re tired, or you’ve been sick so long it’s almost a relief. If you’re of the few who have the supreme misfortune of being in your right mind in a semi decent state of health beyond the disease that is killing you quick, all you can think of are the normal plans you had: spending time with your grandkids, where you were gonna plant what in the garden this year, and what car shows you planned to attend with your recently acquired dream machine. But you can’t even do the simple things, let alone the amazing fun things because you’re too damn sick to move. No Alaskan cruise, no trip to Greece, no skydiving. No more trips to your favorite restaurant and no last chance to see your favorite band perform one last time. I would like to write more but my tears will not allow it. While it would be a blessing to have the few days or weeks left with your family and friends… and to know, to be able to prepare and say your goodbyes…it is still a hardship filled with heartbreak. Death touches us all eventually. Please don’t shield your children from it, it is a…
Oh, football weather is once again upon us. And I’m happy. I’ve got veggies, bottles of ranch dressing, and all the fixin’s for nachos. I also bought some sushi, but that can be our little secret. So anyway, the preparations have been underway. We’re flying the colors and sporting our best orange. Mom has been out to the graveyard to get Grandmother ready, too. I approve of this, mainly because it’s cool and I couldn’t do it if I had to. I can still see her, perched on the couch, her back ramrod straight. “Hold ’em boys, hold ’em.” She’d be puffing away on that cigarette and probably wishing for a shot of Jack Daniels. Grandmother was a big Vol fan, as we all are here in big orange country. Knoxville is a sight to behold on game day. Not sure if you can make it out or not, but the little football says “Go Vols” on it. My contribution was the “live, laugh, love” part because Grandmother wasn’t very religious and all the scriptures just felt wrong. She was all for laughing and loving, though. So that’s her little piece of Big Orange Country, about ten miles from Neylabd Stadium. I’d say she can hear the cheering and feel the stands thundering as 100 thousand strong…
Mothers teach us all sorts of things. From the very beginning, they’re teaching us nonstop. They teach us how to walk, how to feed ourselves, how to treat the dog. As we grow older, the lessons get more complicated from the simple “No!” to how to read, write, & tie our shoes. We recognize danger, thanks to the values instilled at every turn (lots of treacherous stuff out there in the world). Before long, the complicated life decisions over which friends are suitable & what grades are passable are upon us. (Although Sevier County School Systems deem a “C” passable, the school of Jody did NOT). We might have to have several lessons more than once. We learn when to push our luck & when to say I’m sorry. They show us unconditional love. My mother decided to teach me about Indians early on. The only thing that separated our house from the school was our cow pasture & pine thicket. The band practiced relentlessly throughout the summer & when we were outside together, the drums would beat ominously & I would shiver & shake with the resonating thumps. Of course I asked my momma what it was. “The Indians are coming to get you,” she answered solemnly every time. This never failed to send me running back into the house, lest the Indians thunder in on their painted horses & scoop me up & carry me away…
So there’s this family I know, & they’re not normal. Allow me to explain. I’m scrolling through all the pictures of smiling faces & homemade cookies & well wishes on Christmas Day. Being as that I have no children to clean up after, I had a fairly relaxing day & could spend it mindlessly trolling the internet, looking at y’alls madness & mayhem. I got to a picture of a home I know, a home I’ve visited, a home that belongs to a family I love. In the picture was a modest tree, decorated with traditional colored lights & homemade ornaments, nothing flashy or showy about it. The tree sat on warm hardwood floors, polished to a shine. Nearby, perched on a low table, was a glass of milk & a plate of cookies. Other pictures revealed stockings hung on the chimney (with care, I imagine). The pictures themselves weren’t perfect, either, kinda blurry. Nothing was staged. But it was perfect in my eyes. I looked closer. And I saw something there. Or rather, a lack of something. Underneath the tree were just a few presents. Maybe six. Maybe there were a few more that didn’t make it in the frame. I was puzzled. Houses with children are usually overrun with presents. Even here, Johnny & I are terrible & have all of ours under the big tree in the living…
I My bestie was looking for an epic shout out on my Facebook for her birthday. I’m not feeling especially epic today, but I’ll give it my best shot. Lisa is a Yankee. Like, dyed-in-the-wool of Cincinnati, Ohio. She once called to tell me that Kroger’s had bagels on sale. “Lisa, for the last time. I am from the SOUTH. I don’t eat bagels & cream cheese, I eat biscuits & butter.” I mean, this was just a few years ago. She’s been here since 1994. My first impression of her was not good. She looked like this other girl that had moved here the year previous & turned out to be a total…you know. But Megan’s goal in life was to make friends with every new person who darkened the door of Seymour Middle School, so by association, I was obligated to make nice as well. Turns out, Lisa was just as big a nerd as I was (am). So we’d hang out for days on end during the summer, playing card games, riding horses, & “cooking” (cooking consisted of what Lisa dubbed “drooling sandwiches” due to the content of mayonnaise & mustard). We also dared each other to eat stuff, like expired chocolates from Valentine’s Day with hot sauce on them. We also fancied ourselves quite the photographers. If it wasn’t equally embarrassing to me I would totally post a few. It was much…
Y’all know how I feel about kids. I don’t want any, & most of the time, I don’t care for other peoples. But I have recently learned something. We need to be praying for mothers. Mothers everywhere. Whether they’re raising their own children or someone else’s. Whether they have one or two or ten or none and just want to be blessed with one. Or, in the case of this month’s “Awareness of the Month”, if they’ve lost a child through miscarriage or death. All these women are mother…s. Mothers are constantly fretting that they aren’t adequate. If they spend all day nurturing their child, they feel that they are neglecting housework or their husbands. If they miss a “Mom watch this” they fear that their child will have development issues & be in therapy for abandonment when they turn 21. They feel that they can never do enough & will never be able to protect them throughout their life. Mothers have a hard time. Most of my closest friends are mothers. Some of them, it’s all they ever wanted, & they are totally immersed in the motherhood thing. But they can’t protect their children from heartbreak. They’ll do anything to avoid problems. Other mothers are living the dream too, but the kids don’t cooperate. You hear these stories of kids that NEVER sleep….apparently that’s true. So that mother definitely needs prayers, as she…
Sometimes you meet people & think, “Wow. They are so nice. I could never be that good hearted.” This also brings to mind the saying, “Wouldn’t hurt a fly.” That sums up my step dad. He is humble, soft spoken, & good natured. He is gentle, kind, & loving. Not at all like me or the woman he married!!! I still can’t believe our good fortune! Haha. Now, he’s not perfect. He’s slow as molasses in January…slow as Christmas…slow as a herd of turtles stampeding through peanut butter…but good things come to those who wait! Love ya Scott. Happy Fathers Day. Happy Fathers Day to all the DADS out there. Happy Fathers day to the MOMS who have to be both. Happy Fathers Day to all the men who helped me grow: Uncle Dale, who patiently explained to me about fish guts & species of trees, Carroll Adams who claims me as his, Richard Montgomery for not killing me & Megan when we used his golf balls for creative purposes…and stole his convertible Mercedes to drive to a class in Morristown…and the old gentlemen I’ve met at work who counsel me day to day. There are many. And Johnny, who’s a disciplinarian to our naughty naughty dogs. Lol. I’m also thinking and praying for the fathers overseas who would like more than…
