Joe and Bruiser, Belmont University's mascot, during the Belmont-Western Kentucky game.
Sunday, November 27, 2016
Joe and Bruiser
Joe and Bruiser, Belmont University's mascot, during the Belmont-Western Kentucky game.
Sidewalk Alumni
As I've mentioned before, I love living so close to Belmont University. Our house is 3 blocks from campus. Bongo Java, where I spend so much time (and where I'm sitting as I write this), is directly across the street from campus. I'm constantly running into Belmont students, whether it's at Bongo Java, in the neighborhood or on campus.
I think there's an energy, a vibe, that comes from spending so much time in and amongst college students. I've never been able to put my finger on it but it seems like there's an underlying sense of optimism and possibility that permeates a college campus and the surrounding neighborhood. The students are young, obviously, getting their first taste of life as adults, away from home. They're generally happy and that's contagious in a way.
Last Saturday night, J.P. and his basketball teammates got to serve on the "paint patrol" for the Belmont basketball team's home opener vs. Western Kentucky University. We met for dinner at Martin's BBQ on Belmont Boulevard beforehand. Then, several of us parked at our house, had a quick beer, and walked to the Curb Center for the game. I have 4 basketball season tickets and we had additional tickets through our group.
Before the game, I ran into my friend, Scott Corley, who was fairly recently named Belmont's athletic director. Some of the boys, including J.P., got their picture taken (by me) with Belmont's legendary coach, Rick Byrd. Most of the boys attended Coach Byrd's basketball camp last summer, so it was a special moment for them to see him.
The boys worked in shifts, with 4 working the first half and 4 working the second half. 2 of the boys were under each basketball goal, mopping and sweeping in the foul lane at each dead ball. The families, including siblings, were seated together in the stands to the left of Belmont's bench. It's such a special group of people, as I've said many times. It was such a great night and everyone was having such a great time, I hated for it to end.
On the walk home, I hid from J.P., Braden and Benton, leaping out to scare them at various places as their parents laughed. The perfect end to a perfect night of basketball and friendship.
Wednesday, November 23, 2016
The Morning After
After returning from Maristone late Friday night, I got up early Saturday morning and drove back down to Franklin to make sure my mom got up for breakfast. I was hoping that her first night sleeping alone went well, and it did for the most part, which was a relief. When I arrived about 7:30 a.m., she was up and dressed, which I thought was a good sign. We sat down, talked for a few minutes and played a game of Trouble, believe it or not.
Trouble is a game of significance for me, as one of my early and fond memories from childhood is my mom playing Trouble with me at our house in La Mirada, California, every morning before I walked across the street to go to kindergarten at Cling Elementary School. We laughed as we played then, when I was 5 years old, and we laughed as we played Saturday morning before breakfast, when I was 50 years old. The more things change, the more they stay the same.
We had breakfast together in the dining room, which was nice. There is a hierarchy among residents that impacts who sits where and with whom, strangely enough. More on that later, though. Patti Sparks stopped by and relieved me at 10 a.m., so I could go to J.P.'s basketball team and accompany he and his teammates to the Belmont-Western Kentucky game Saturday evening. I left with a heavy heart and a few pangs of guilt, as I felt, in a way, like I was getting time off for good behavior.
I need to say a word about Patti Sparks and Jan Baker, two of my mom's closest friends. Friendship, true friendship, is difficult to define. But I know it when I see it, and I see it in the relationship between my mom, Patti and Jan. The selfless way they treat her, care for her, talk to her and simply love her renews my faith in man and, really, in God. Patti and Jan have been a sounding board for me and have given me invaluable insight and advice.
When my mom was still living at home the last few months - and really struggling - Patti and Jan were a constant presence in her life (along with their husbands, Ben Sparks and Don Baker). They were at her house almost every day, checking on her, taking her to the grocery store or out to dinner. What means the most to me, I think, is Patti and Jan didn't forget about my mom when she began to fade away. In fact, they did the opposite. They took time away from their families (husbands, children and grandchildren), and continue to do so, to spend time with my mom when she needed t them the most. That's true friendship and I can never thank them enough for that.
I get emotional thinking about the two of them and writing about them because of how special they are to my mom, and to Tracy, Alice and me.
My mom is adjusting to her new circumstances, to her new life, and I am, too. I have needed to write the past few blog posts - to vent, if you will - to help me try to put what has happened to her in perspective. There will be more venting, but there will more posts about my boys in happier times. My mom would want that.
Trouble is a game of significance for me, as one of my early and fond memories from childhood is my mom playing Trouble with me at our house in La Mirada, California, every morning before I walked across the street to go to kindergarten at Cling Elementary School. We laughed as we played then, when I was 5 years old, and we laughed as we played Saturday morning before breakfast, when I was 50 years old. The more things change, the more they stay the same.
We had breakfast together in the dining room, which was nice. There is a hierarchy among residents that impacts who sits where and with whom, strangely enough. More on that later, though. Patti Sparks stopped by and relieved me at 10 a.m., so I could go to J.P.'s basketball team and accompany he and his teammates to the Belmont-Western Kentucky game Saturday evening. I left with a heavy heart and a few pangs of guilt, as I felt, in a way, like I was getting time off for good behavior.
I need to say a word about Patti Sparks and Jan Baker, two of my mom's closest friends. Friendship, true friendship, is difficult to define. But I know it when I see it, and I see it in the relationship between my mom, Patti and Jan. The selfless way they treat her, care for her, talk to her and simply love her renews my faith in man and, really, in God. Patti and Jan have been a sounding board for me and have given me invaluable insight and advice.
When my mom was still living at home the last few months - and really struggling - Patti and Jan were a constant presence in her life (along with their husbands, Ben Sparks and Don Baker). They were at her house almost every day, checking on her, taking her to the grocery store or out to dinner. What means the most to me, I think, is Patti and Jan didn't forget about my mom when she began to fade away. In fact, they did the opposite. They took time away from their families (husbands, children and grandchildren), and continue to do so, to spend time with my mom when she needed t them the most. That's true friendship and I can never thank them enough for that.
I get emotional thinking about the two of them and writing about them because of how special they are to my mom, and to Tracy, Alice and me.
My mom is adjusting to her new circumstances, to her new life, and I am, too. I have needed to write the past few blog posts - to vent, if you will - to help me try to put what has happened to her in perspective. There will be more venting, but there will more posts about my boys in happier times. My mom would want that.
Monday, November 21, 2016
Settling In
Okay. I need to get the rest of this out of me. Things will get better. They have to.
I arrived at Maristone to relieve Alice at 4 p.m. on Friday, my mom's second day there. She immediately greeted me with pleas to take her home. She was confused and upset, as has been the case more and more at sundown since the end of daylight savings time. I've learned that's pretty normal with people in her condition.
The plan was for me to spend the afternoon and evening with my mom, eating dinner with her in the dining room, then to leave shortly before bedtime. I insisted, and Tracy and Alice agreed, it was imperative to get her used to staying by herself overnight. Plans in theory almost always work to perfection. In reality, though, it's often an entirely different story.
Almost immediately, my mom asked me if I was staying the night. When I told her no, she got agitated. Truthfully, I can't describe it any other way than to say that she pleaded for me stay the night and not leave her alone. I was heartbroken.
I began crying as I told my mom how hard this was for me, for all of us. I told her I knew that she didn't really want Tracy, Alice and me to be away from our families every third night to stay with her. I told her my boys needed me at home at night. Kaitlyn and Matthew needed Tracy home at night, too.
Somehow, when she saw how emotional I was, she became my mom again. "I know," she said. "The boys need you. I know they do." Suddenly, just for a brief moment, my mom was comforting me, like she always has done. I don't know if it was a breakthrough or God's grace, or maybe a little of both.
So, we just hung out together the entire night.
We played checkers. (I picked up some games earlier that day.) It's hard to explain but playing checkers with her was like a summer rain shower, where it rains but he sun peaks in and out of clouds. In other words, I laughed with her as we played but I cried inside as she struggled with the rules and couldn't remember whether she was red or black. I think that checkers game is a metaphor for my life with her moving forward. Laughter and tears, mixed together.
We at dinner in the dining room downstairs. After dinner, we settled in to watch Independence HS vs. Cane Ridge HS in the quarterfinals of the high school football playoffs. Sadly, my mom couldn't keep track of which team was which until I wrote down that Independence HS was wearing white. That was the only way she knew which team to cheer for. Again, laughter and tears.
My mom insisted there was ice cream in the freezer compartment of her small refrigerator, although I told her that simply wasn't the case. Then, she thought there was ice cream in her freezer outside, undoubtedly referring the deep freezer at home or the extra refrigerator in the storeroom at home. Finally, I opened up the door to her apartment to show her that there was only a hallway outside, not the carport and the storeroom. In the end, I drover over to Publix and bought her some Klondike bars.
We sat not on the couch together, still watching the football game, and looked at old photographs of the boys on my computer. Her head began to nod and I let her fall asleep. When she woke up at 10 p.m., I suggested she go to bed, so I could leave and go home to my family. We argued a bit about that but she gave in after a few minutes, and shuffled to the bathroom to brush her teeth.
I helped her into bed, tucked her in and told her I loved her as I tried to fight back the tears. I turned off the lights, closed the door behind me, took the elevator downstairs and walked to my truck, head down and lost in thought. I felt so conflicted, relieved to be leaving but guilty at not being able to do more for her. I planned on returning the next morning to eat breakfast with her and to see how the night went.
The symbolism of tucking my mom into bed was not lost on me. In fact, the significance of the moment overpowered me. The parent had become the child and the child had become the parent. And so it goes.
I arrived at Maristone to relieve Alice at 4 p.m. on Friday, my mom's second day there. She immediately greeted me with pleas to take her home. She was confused and upset, as has been the case more and more at sundown since the end of daylight savings time. I've learned that's pretty normal with people in her condition.
The plan was for me to spend the afternoon and evening with my mom, eating dinner with her in the dining room, then to leave shortly before bedtime. I insisted, and Tracy and Alice agreed, it was imperative to get her used to staying by herself overnight. Plans in theory almost always work to perfection. In reality, though, it's often an entirely different story.
Almost immediately, my mom asked me if I was staying the night. When I told her no, she got agitated. Truthfully, I can't describe it any other way than to say that she pleaded for me stay the night and not leave her alone. I was heartbroken.
I began crying as I told my mom how hard this was for me, for all of us. I told her I knew that she didn't really want Tracy, Alice and me to be away from our families every third night to stay with her. I told her my boys needed me at home at night. Kaitlyn and Matthew needed Tracy home at night, too.
Somehow, when she saw how emotional I was, she became my mom again. "I know," she said. "The boys need you. I know they do." Suddenly, just for a brief moment, my mom was comforting me, like she always has done. I don't know if it was a breakthrough or God's grace, or maybe a little of both.
So, we just hung out together the entire night.
We played checkers. (I picked up some games earlier that day.) It's hard to explain but playing checkers with her was like a summer rain shower, where it rains but he sun peaks in and out of clouds. In other words, I laughed with her as we played but I cried inside as she struggled with the rules and couldn't remember whether she was red or black. I think that checkers game is a metaphor for my life with her moving forward. Laughter and tears, mixed together.
We at dinner in the dining room downstairs. After dinner, we settled in to watch Independence HS vs. Cane Ridge HS in the quarterfinals of the high school football playoffs. Sadly, my mom couldn't keep track of which team was which until I wrote down that Independence HS was wearing white. That was the only way she knew which team to cheer for. Again, laughter and tears.
My mom insisted there was ice cream in the freezer compartment of her small refrigerator, although I told her that simply wasn't the case. Then, she thought there was ice cream in her freezer outside, undoubtedly referring the deep freezer at home or the extra refrigerator in the storeroom at home. Finally, I opened up the door to her apartment to show her that there was only a hallway outside, not the carport and the storeroom. In the end, I drover over to Publix and bought her some Klondike bars.
We sat not on the couch together, still watching the football game, and looked at old photographs of the boys on my computer. Her head began to nod and I let her fall asleep. When she woke up at 10 p.m., I suggested she go to bed, so I could leave and go home to my family. We argued a bit about that but she gave in after a few minutes, and shuffled to the bathroom to brush her teeth.
I helped her into bed, tucked her in and told her I loved her as I tried to fight back the tears. I turned off the lights, closed the door behind me, took the elevator downstairs and walked to my truck, head down and lost in thought. I felt so conflicted, relieved to be leaving but guilty at not being able to do more for her. I planned on returning the next morning to eat breakfast with her and to see how the night went.
The symbolism of tucking my mom into bed was not lost on me. In fact, the significance of the moment overpowered me. The parent had become the child and the child had become the parent. And so it goes.
Saturday, November 19, 2016
No Going Back
I'm stealing an hour at noon at The Good Cup, an eclectic, hole in the wall of a coffee shop in the Grassland community, just outside Franklin. I just want to take a deep breath, figuratively, and contemplate the two most painful days of my life.
We moved my mom into Maristone Thursday morning. It was difficult, though not as bad as I thought it would be, probably because we all were so busy. Because she was only taking a few pieces of furniture and the double bed from the guest room, along with some clothes and frames photographs, the movers were loaded and gone in less than three hours. I ran a couple of errands for her, then met Tracy and Alice at Maristone with the move in well underway.
When I walked into Maristone for the first time, I was overwhelmed with, I guess, sadness. I saw several elderly people quietly eating lunch in the dining room, some of them hunched over with the ravages of old age. It suddenly hit me - they're just like my mom. In fact, she's in worse physical shape than many of them. My second thought him me even harder - they're not leaving here and neither is my mom.
Damn, it's hard to write that last sentence. It's hard to write any of this, but I have to get it out, once and for all, although I'm not sure why. The last 2 days are a jumble of emotions and thoughts.
Jan Baker arrived shortly after noon with my mom and she seemed okay, though confused. She started to settle in and I felt good enough about things that I left and went to the office about 3 p.m., planning to spend a couple of hours there. Just before 5 p.m., Alice texted me and asked me to come back to Maristone right away. As often seems to happen at sundown, my mom had gotten confused and was becoming more and more agitated with Tracy.
I packed up my gear and left the office and got Maristone a little after 5 p.m. When I walked in her apartment, my mom looked up at me from her chair and asked, "Will you take me home?" "No," I answered, and I could feel my heart breaking. "This is where you're going to stay." She gave me a blank stare, totally confused, and asked, "Why would I do that?" She got more and more agitated as I tried to explain to her why she was there.
I suggested Tracy take some things to her car to give her a break because I could see that she was close to despair. Sadly, Tracy bears the brunt of my mom's resentment, much as my mom did when she was taking care of my grandmother in her later years. I quickly realized there was no reasoning with her because she wasn't capable of remembering why she was Maristone or understanding that it was the best thing for her.
Eventually, she settled down and I left Tracy with her for the night. Tracy slept there to keep her company.
Friday morning, I worked from home for a bit then ran some errands for my mom. Her remote was missing and I stopped by her house, our house, to look for it. As I walked inside, the stillness enveloped me and I fell apart. It's hard to explain, but it was like the mostly happy spirit that had inhabited the house for the last 44 years had died. I sobbed to myself as I walked from room to room, memories flooding my mind like images on a movie screen. It was so sad. So much of that house was my mom and suddenly, in less than three hours, she had vanished, gone forever. The spirit in the house died when she left. It was just a house, like any other house, because it was no longer her house.
No more Thanksgiving or Christmas gatherings with family. No more gatherings of family and friends to watch a big football or basketball game. No more anything. Just a house full of junk to be thrown out, cleaned and eventually sold.
I wish I could say I felt better when I left, that perhaps all I need was to let my emotions take control been for a few minutes. No, I felt just as sad, if not more so, when I left the house and drove to Maristone Friday afternoon to stand vigil, so to speak, as mom in her altered state tried to acclimate herself in what she really has no idea is her new, and last, home.
Wednesday, November 16, 2016
Moving Out
This is the post I never thought I would write.
Tomorrow morning, we're moving my mom to an assisted living facility in Franklin. As someone who never has been adept at handling change, I'm paralyzed by my emotions and memories of our lives, and my mom's life, in the house on Brenthaven Drive she has lived in for 44 years. How did we get here so fast?
I know, in my heart, it's time. For my mom, it's gotten to the point that we have caregivers there for 8 hours each day and Tracy or Alice has been staying with her at night. When someone is not there with her, she's lonely, confused and scared, and that wrecks me. She has such a difficult time navigating her way through the house that if she stays there, it's only a matter of time before she falls and injures herself. Saddest of all, perhaps, is that in the mornings, Trace and Alice have had a hard time rousing her from the chair she sleeps in at night.
I am so angry, I guess, with God at giving her this burden to bear. After all she has been through in her life and all that she has given to Tracy, Alice and me - and to many others - why would God take her mind and memories away from her, bit by bit, day by day? Why couldn't she be allowed to enjoy her golden years like so many of her friends, driving herself to her grandchildren's sporting events and hosting holiday gatherings at her home. My faith, always so strong and such an important part of my life, has been shaken. I'm searching for a sense of perspective, now, and unable to find it.
It's so difficult for me to organize and process my thoughts about my mom's move. So many memories in that house, in that back yard and in that neighborhood. It occurred to me as I left the house the other day that virtually all of the stuff she accumulated over the years that is so special to her - photographs, trophies, the latch hook rug of Snoopy I made for Debbie Billings one summer in high school, framed newspaper articles about the Titans' Super Bowl Run - is just stuff that's going to end up in a landfill somewhere, sooner rather than later. Depressing, but true.
This isn't about me. I realize that, for sure. But my mom has been such a vital and important part of my life for so long, it devastates me to see her going through this. I want her to laugh again, to feel safe again, to not be lonely and to enjoy the life she has left to live. Is that too much to ask? I hope not.
Tomorrow morning, we're moving my mom to an assisted living facility in Franklin. As someone who never has been adept at handling change, I'm paralyzed by my emotions and memories of our lives, and my mom's life, in the house on Brenthaven Drive she has lived in for 44 years. How did we get here so fast?
I know, in my heart, it's time. For my mom, it's gotten to the point that we have caregivers there for 8 hours each day and Tracy or Alice has been staying with her at night. When someone is not there with her, she's lonely, confused and scared, and that wrecks me. She has such a difficult time navigating her way through the house that if she stays there, it's only a matter of time before she falls and injures herself. Saddest of all, perhaps, is that in the mornings, Trace and Alice have had a hard time rousing her from the chair she sleeps in at night.
I am so angry, I guess, with God at giving her this burden to bear. After all she has been through in her life and all that she has given to Tracy, Alice and me - and to many others - why would God take her mind and memories away from her, bit by bit, day by day? Why couldn't she be allowed to enjoy her golden years like so many of her friends, driving herself to her grandchildren's sporting events and hosting holiday gatherings at her home. My faith, always so strong and such an important part of my life, has been shaken. I'm searching for a sense of perspective, now, and unable to find it.
It's so difficult for me to organize and process my thoughts about my mom's move. So many memories in that house, in that back yard and in that neighborhood. It occurred to me as I left the house the other day that virtually all of the stuff she accumulated over the years that is so special to her - photographs, trophies, the latch hook rug of Snoopy I made for Debbie Billings one summer in high school, framed newspaper articles about the Titans' Super Bowl Run - is just stuff that's going to end up in a landfill somewhere, sooner rather than later. Depressing, but true.
This isn't about me. I realize that, for sure. But my mom has been such a vital and important part of my life for so long, it devastates me to see her going through this. I want her to laugh again, to feel safe again, to not be lonely and to enjoy the life she has left to live. Is that too much to ask? I hope not.
Saturday, November 12, 2016
The (Almost) Forgotten Legend of Johnny Bag of Doughnuts
One night a couple of weeks ago as Jude and I were going through our bedtime routines, J.P. turned to me as we was getting into bed and said, "Daddy, tell me a story." I paused, smiled and my heart skipped a beat at those magic words spoken by my 8 year old son.
And thus, for one night, Johnny Bag of Doughnuts was back in our lives.
There was a time - a lifetime ago, it seems - when I used to lay on the floor and tell J.P. a story every night after he climbed into bed. It was a special part of the day for me, for sure. The very best part of my day, really. It was a time to unwind and spend a few minutes alone with my son, and to leave the ups and downs of a busy day far behind me. It was a time to engage his imagination and mine, to make up elaborate stories on the fly or sometimes to continue a story from the night before, as he lay on the edge of his bed, facing me and listening raptly.
The main character of each and every story? Johnny Bag of Doughnuts, J.P's alter ego I created after an early dalliance with another character named Johnny Pasta. Generally, the stories centered around some recent activity or event of particular interest to him - the State Fair, the Winter Olympics, Belmont Basketball, the Lakers, the Predators, etc. - with Johnny Bag of Doughnuts playing the starring role in the story.
Through his nightly exploits as Johnny Bag of Doughnuts, J.P. saved the State Fair (probably his all-time favorite); grew giant pumpkins in the front yard of our house on Elliott Avenue; played drums and sang with the Avett Brothers at a street fair in front of Bongo Java; rode in a sled on snow 10 feet high from our house to Bongo Java and back again; welcomed all of the Nashville Predators as they got off the team bus at Bongo Java and showed Pekka Rinne, Martin Erat and Shea Weber how to his "stomp rocket" worked on the Belmont U. soccer field; drove a 4-man bobsled in the Winter Olympics (with E.J., Adam and George from Bongo Java) watching in person and cheering him on; played basketball with Kobe Bryant (many, many times) as a fill-in for an injured or sick player; dunked on Zach Randolph while playing for the Lakers at a game in Memphis (he loved Zach Randolph's reaction when he dunked on him so much that Zach appeared in multiple stories that had nothing to do with basketball); played hockey for Nashville Predators; practiced hockey with the Nashville Predators at a hockey rink underneath our house that you got to through the basement; scored multiple touchdowns for the Tennessee Titans; and played basketball for Rick Byrd (Belmont) or Kevin Stallings (Vanderbilt), often with Jack McDaniel or another friend from Children's House.
And on and on it went. On nights when I was really on my game and my imagination was running in fifth gear, J.P. would yell "NO! NO!" when I stopped in the middle of a 2, 3 or 4 part story right at a climactic moment and said, "to be continued." The next night, we would be back at it, as he insisted on a "recap" to catch us up to where we were ended the previous night before I continued with whatever tale I was telling.
We shared that time together, every night, J.P. and I. I knew it was special at the time and I sure as hell know, now, that it was special then. I miss the innocence of those nights spent together, right before I kissed him good night and he drifted off to sleep. I miss my life a bit from those days, too, when things seemed less complicated.
Here's to you, Johnny Bag of Doughnuts, gone but certainly not forgotten.
And thus, for one night, Johnny Bag of Doughnuts was back in our lives.
There was a time - a lifetime ago, it seems - when I used to lay on the floor and tell J.P. a story every night after he climbed into bed. It was a special part of the day for me, for sure. The very best part of my day, really. It was a time to unwind and spend a few minutes alone with my son, and to leave the ups and downs of a busy day far behind me. It was a time to engage his imagination and mine, to make up elaborate stories on the fly or sometimes to continue a story from the night before, as he lay on the edge of his bed, facing me and listening raptly.
The main character of each and every story? Johnny Bag of Doughnuts, J.P's alter ego I created after an early dalliance with another character named Johnny Pasta. Generally, the stories centered around some recent activity or event of particular interest to him - the State Fair, the Winter Olympics, Belmont Basketball, the Lakers, the Predators, etc. - with Johnny Bag of Doughnuts playing the starring role in the story.
Through his nightly exploits as Johnny Bag of Doughnuts, J.P. saved the State Fair (probably his all-time favorite); grew giant pumpkins in the front yard of our house on Elliott Avenue; played drums and sang with the Avett Brothers at a street fair in front of Bongo Java; rode in a sled on snow 10 feet high from our house to Bongo Java and back again; welcomed all of the Nashville Predators as they got off the team bus at Bongo Java and showed Pekka Rinne, Martin Erat and Shea Weber how to his "stomp rocket" worked on the Belmont U. soccer field; drove a 4-man bobsled in the Winter Olympics (with E.J., Adam and George from Bongo Java) watching in person and cheering him on; played basketball with Kobe Bryant (many, many times) as a fill-in for an injured or sick player; dunked on Zach Randolph while playing for the Lakers at a game in Memphis (he loved Zach Randolph's reaction when he dunked on him so much that Zach appeared in multiple stories that had nothing to do with basketball); played hockey for Nashville Predators; practiced hockey with the Nashville Predators at a hockey rink underneath our house that you got to through the basement; scored multiple touchdowns for the Tennessee Titans; and played basketball for Rick Byrd (Belmont) or Kevin Stallings (Vanderbilt), often with Jack McDaniel or another friend from Children's House.
And on and on it went. On nights when I was really on my game and my imagination was running in fifth gear, J.P. would yell "NO! NO!" when I stopped in the middle of a 2, 3 or 4 part story right at a climactic moment and said, "to be continued." The next night, we would be back at it, as he insisted on a "recap" to catch us up to where we were ended the previous night before I continued with whatever tale I was telling.
We shared that time together, every night, J.P. and I. I knew it was special at the time and I sure as hell know, now, that it was special then. I miss the innocence of those nights spent together, right before I kissed him good night and he drifted off to sleep. I miss my life a bit from those days, too, when things seemed less complicated.
Here's to you, Johnny Bag of Doughnuts, gone but certainly not forgotten.
Friday, November 11, 2016
Trumped
Wednesday, November 9, was a strange day indeed, in a "through the looking glass way." Donald Trump was elected the 45th president of the United States of America.
I don't think anyone saw it coming. The pollsters were wrong. Republicans were wrong. Democrats were wrong. I was wrong. Whether you were for Hillary Clinton or not, her ascendancy to the presidency seemed inevitable throughout the campaign. Well, it wasn't.
The mood, at least in my neighborhood in the Belmont-12South area of Nashville and among my friends, was drastically different that it was eight years ago after Barack Obama was elected president. Then, there was a feeling of hope and pride, I think, that America had elected its first African American president. Change was afoot. Anything was possible. A new day had dawned.
Wednesday morning, I ran into our next door neighbor as she pulled out of her driveway to talk her daughter to school. She rolled down her window, looked up an me and sighed. "Weird morning," she said. She looked like she might be about to cry. It was a weird morning, for sure.
I talked to the husband on a close friend. His wife was devastated, in large part because she believed that in her lifetime, she would never see a woman elected president.
There are so many sides to this presidential election. So much to read. So much to learn. So much to understand.
As I told J.P. when I drove him to school Wednesday morning, we're Americans first, Republicans and Democrats second. I hope people remember that in the coming days.
I don't think anyone saw it coming. The pollsters were wrong. Republicans were wrong. Democrats were wrong. I was wrong. Whether you were for Hillary Clinton or not, her ascendancy to the presidency seemed inevitable throughout the campaign. Well, it wasn't.
The mood, at least in my neighborhood in the Belmont-12South area of Nashville and among my friends, was drastically different that it was eight years ago after Barack Obama was elected president. Then, there was a feeling of hope and pride, I think, that America had elected its first African American president. Change was afoot. Anything was possible. A new day had dawned.
Wednesday morning, I ran into our next door neighbor as she pulled out of her driveway to talk her daughter to school. She rolled down her window, looked up an me and sighed. "Weird morning," she said. She looked like she might be about to cry. It was a weird morning, for sure.
I talked to the husband on a close friend. His wife was devastated, in large part because she believed that in her lifetime, she would never see a woman elected president.
There are so many sides to this presidential election. So much to read. So much to learn. So much to understand.
As I told J.P. when I drove him to school Wednesday morning, we're Americans first, Republicans and Democrats second. I hope people remember that in the coming days.
Tuesday, November 1, 2016
Saturday morning brought to a close the Dodgers' fall baseball season for J.P. and his teammates. I've enjoyed the respite that Tuesday evening practices provided me from my daily life, especially the ever present worries about my mom. Having an opportunity to get out not he field with the boys and several of their fathers - my friends - was the highlight of each of my weeks this fall.
There were times, during a stolen moment or two during practice, when I took a minute to glance around and take it all in. Several of the moms, sitting in camping chairs by the parking lot on the first base side of the field, talking and laughing while the younger siblings played in front of them. My assistant coaches leaning against the fence, holding their baseball gloves, talking amiably. The boys, always the boys, playing catch in left field and chasing missed balls. I knew then and I know now that those are the good times, the times I will miss desperately when the boys are older and have begun to scatter. I love coaching baseball.
As predicted, for the boys it was a fall season of struggling, failing a lot, succeeding occasionally and, most importantly, learning. It was the boys' first season of kid pitch baseball, which meant learning to hit a pitched ball from another boy and learning to pitch a baseball to a boys trying to hit it. I'm not sure which was more of a struggle for them. What I wanted them to learn, though, and what I think they did learn, was to stay in the batters box and not step out when the pitch was coming. I also wanted every boy to pitch in a game if he wanted to and we accomplished that goal, as well. Throwing strikes was s little more difficult, though, but time and again I saw boys fight through control problems to get out of an inning.
Most of all, I saw boys learning and improving, literally from pitch to pitch in the same at bat, which was amazing and rewarding. By the end of the season, the boys had learned to run the bases with proficiency, for the most part, and to steal second or third base on their own when their was a passed ball. Their wasn't as much fielding as in machine pitch baseball because there were so many strikeouts and walks, but that will come with time.
J.P. played well. He slumped late in the fall season, once striking out looking three times in one game and two times the next game. But he battled through it and in the second to last game of the season in the last inning with two outs, he laced a double to right center field. As he rounded first and headed for second base, my heart stopped as it looked like he would be thrown out easily. The baseball gods were smiling at him, though, and as he slid hard into second base, the shortstop dropped the throw. J.P. stood up and brushed the dirt off his pants with huge grin on his face. I looked at Jude and her dad and gave them a thumbs up sign. Damn, J.P. needed that hit in the worst way and he got it.
We worked in a couple of coaches' meetings at Eldey's in 12South, always a highlight for me. One of the moms recently mentioned to me that she loved her "baseball family." You know what? I do, too.
Aidan, J.P., Benton, Wes, Braden, Jonathan, Hank, Ellis, Benjy, Porter, Dylan and Cooper made up one of my favorite groups of boys to coach.
There were times, during a stolen moment or two during practice, when I took a minute to glance around and take it all in. Several of the moms, sitting in camping chairs by the parking lot on the first base side of the field, talking and laughing while the younger siblings played in front of them. My assistant coaches leaning against the fence, holding their baseball gloves, talking amiably. The boys, always the boys, playing catch in left field and chasing missed balls. I knew then and I know now that those are the good times, the times I will miss desperately when the boys are older and have begun to scatter. I love coaching baseball.
As predicted, for the boys it was a fall season of struggling, failing a lot, succeeding occasionally and, most importantly, learning. It was the boys' first season of kid pitch baseball, which meant learning to hit a pitched ball from another boy and learning to pitch a baseball to a boys trying to hit it. I'm not sure which was more of a struggle for them. What I wanted them to learn, though, and what I think they did learn, was to stay in the batters box and not step out when the pitch was coming. I also wanted every boy to pitch in a game if he wanted to and we accomplished that goal, as well. Throwing strikes was s little more difficult, though, but time and again I saw boys fight through control problems to get out of an inning.
Most of all, I saw boys learning and improving, literally from pitch to pitch in the same at bat, which was amazing and rewarding. By the end of the season, the boys had learned to run the bases with proficiency, for the most part, and to steal second or third base on their own when their was a passed ball. Their wasn't as much fielding as in machine pitch baseball because there were so many strikeouts and walks, but that will come with time.
J.P. played well. He slumped late in the fall season, once striking out looking three times in one game and two times the next game. But he battled through it and in the second to last game of the season in the last inning with two outs, he laced a double to right center field. As he rounded first and headed for second base, my heart stopped as it looked like he would be thrown out easily. The baseball gods were smiling at him, though, and as he slid hard into second base, the shortstop dropped the throw. J.P. stood up and brushed the dirt off his pants with huge grin on his face. I looked at Jude and her dad and gave them a thumbs up sign. Damn, J.P. needed that hit in the worst way and he got it.
We worked in a couple of coaches' meetings at Eldey's in 12South, always a highlight for me. One of the moms recently mentioned to me that she loved her "baseball family." You know what? I do, too.
Aidan, J.P., Benton, Wes, Braden, Jonathan, Hank, Ellis, Benjy, Porter, Dylan and Cooper made up one of my favorite groups of boys to coach.
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