Reflections on Christmas 2017

Christmas 2017 has come and gone, lights and Christmas decorations around the neighborhood are coming down and it's almost time to began the post-holiday winter grind.

Some noteworthy moments for me, some good and some not so good, from the Christmas season -

• As always, playing hide and seek withe Jude and the boys in the Christmas trees at Santa's Trees (Hillsboro HS) was a highlight of the season.  Also as always, I end up wishing we had done it more than once.

•  The Elf on the Shelf.  Moving him every night, which this year was my responsibility, and watching the boys look for him every morning.  It's a joy that they still believe wholeheartedly in the Elf on the Shelf and Santa Claus.  I wonder if that will be the case, for J.P., next year.

• The weather has been nice, for the most part, and too cold until the last few days (14 degrees this morning).  That's allowed for a lot of outstanding running for me, including the other day after work when I saw a white squirrel in Pinkerton Park.

• Our last Governor's Christmas Party at the Governor's Mansion and our last Christmas tree lighting and party at the State Capitol.  We've all felt a little bit special attending these events that last six or seven years through Jude's job as Director of the Children's Cabinet.

• For me, seeing my favorite coffee shops and houses in my neighborhood decorated for Christmas has been great.  It always is.  The share sense of celebration and anticipation is reassuring.

• On a lark, the boys and I going to the Evergreen event organized by my friend, Courtney Little, as a benefit for Renewal House.  It was outside at a vacant lot he owns near Houston Station.  While kids cavorted in the dark and adults huddled around the fire, others (including me) bought handmade Christmas ornaments.

• Spending Christmas afternoon with my side of the family at my sister's house in Franklin was a memory to cherish, especially since I'm not sure how my mom will be doing next Christmas.

• It was great to spend time with James and Megan (Jude's brother and sister-in-law) over Christmas.  Watching them navigate the landscape of having two children 3 and under brought back a lot of memories, mostly good ones.

• I organized our annual office Christmas party and dinner, which was held a couple of nights ago.  Having it after Christmas really worked well.  Drinks at Bastion were fantastic and dinner at Hemingway's Bar and Hideaway was good.  It was a good time, as we recognized Alisha Warner's decade with PNM.

• In what has become, for me, a holiday tradition, I played hooky from work one day after Christmas.  I saw "Ladybird," a great movie, at the Green Hills movie theatre, followed by a beer at the Smith & Lentz craft brewery in East Nashville and coffee at Bongo Java East.

• When - sadly - the inflatable Santa Claus "in a hot air balloon" that the Elf on Shelf brought the boys a few Christmases ago died, I was prepared.  Christmas morning, Santa Claus delivered another inflatable for Jude, since she had sent a note up to him with the Elf ("Cooper Allen Elf," by the way) on his nightly trip to the North Pole.  I think I outdid myself (see below).

• The highlight that topped them all was watching the boys on December 26, when they opened up the X-Box Jude and I had gotten them.  J.P.'s reaction was priceless and I'm so happy I videotaped it.  Knowing that Jude and I are not fans of video games, he was shocked and stunned as he unwrapped the box and realized we had given them an X-Box.  Initially speechless, he jumped up and tackled Jude in a bear hug.  It was priceless.

And, last but not least, our Christmas tree.  

Christmas with Mom

I'm grabbing a quick cup of coffee in a nearly deserted Box on 10th Avenue before I head down to see my mom.  Jude, the boys and her family are planning a trip to the Opryland Hotel this morning.

My sister, Tracy, hosted our family at her house in Franklin yesterday afternoon to celebrate Christmas.  Earlier in the day, she and Alice picked up my mom from NHC Place and brought her over to Tracy's house.

The significance of the event in the context of our family history wasn't lost on me, given the relative certain of the continued decline of my mom's health.  I had to at least acknowledge the possibility that it might have been our last Christmas together, as a family, at least with my mom semi-cognizant of what was going on around her.  I hate to write that, but it's true.

For the first coupe of hours after we arrived, my mom was alert and in good spirits.  She sat contentedly in her wheelchair and seemed to enjoy interacting with her grandchildren, J.P., Joe, Kaitlyn and Matthew.  Christmas in our family has always been somewhat chaotic, particularly when it comes to opening presents.  You see, we're not an "open on present at time family," like Jude's.  We're an "everyone opens their presents at once" family.  Yesterday was no different, although perhaps a little subdued under the circumstances.

Resurrecting a tradition that my mom always acted like she loathed (but secretly loved), I tossed balled up wrapping paper toward her after I opened up one of my presents.  She looked up, surprised, saw me, then grinner ear to ear and laughed as she weakly threw the ball of wrapping paper back toward me.  For just an all too brief moment, the veil of sadness, anxiety and confusion that constantly envelopes our lives lifted and we reverted to our old Christmas selves.  Me, in the role of joker and prankster and my mom in the role of witting victim, laughing all along the way.  Just like the good old days.

Trace and Alice transferred my mom to the couch after while.  Unfortunately but predictably, the veil lowered again too soon, and I noticed my mom taking short breaths like she does when she's getting anxious.  I tried, but there was nothing I could say or do to help her settle down.  She no longer laughed at my jokes or the funny faces I made to her.  Likely, it had something to do with night falling or, maybe, she was just tired.  I walked into the kitchen and gave Tracy a knowing look and she nodded, got up, and began to wind down the gathering.  Within a few minutes, Jude, the boys and I were packed up and in my trusty 12 year old Yukon traveling north to our house in Nashville.  And Tracy, Gary and Alice took my mom back to NHC Place.

Not to be trite, but often times if you watch and listen, really listen with an open mind and open heart, there's a moment in times of sadness or trouble that you can learn from or that is uplifting.  I had just such a moment yesterday evening before we left.

As we were saying our goodbyes, I stepped into the kitchen to say goodbye to my sister's husband, Gary, and to thank him for hosting and cooking for all of us.  He stopped cleaning the kitchen for just a moment, looked at me genuinely and openly and out of the blue, quietly said a word or two to me.

"Remember to enjoy the time you have with her.  Even the tough times."  I nodded, knowingly and appreciatively, then gathered my boys and walked outside as Gary resumed cleaning the kitchen.

Gary lost his dad a couple of years ago.  His mom died this year.  He spend a great deal of time in Oak Ridge, Tennessee, helping her and spending time with her the last few months of her life.  "Gary knows of what he speaks," I thought to myself on the drive home.

And that's what I'm going to do, I decided, in 2018.  I'm going to try to enjoy the time I have with my mom.  Every single minute.

Reflections on the Morning of Christmas Eve

I'm sitting at the Frothy Monkey having a quick cup of coffee before the day begins in earnest.  The boys and I are going to go see my mom, then we'll head to church for the 4:30 p.m. Christmas Eve service.  I have some wrapping to do and some organizing of presents, but I think I'm finally done with shopping other than picking up some items from Walgreens for Jude's stocking (an old joke b/w us - Santa brings Jude and me things like toothpaste, deodorant, etc. for our stocking).

Tentatively, it looks like Tracy and Gary will pick up my mom tomorrow and take her their house, where we'll have Christmas in the late afternoon.  I think they're going to check the weather and see how my mom is feeling before making the final call on whether to take her out tomorrow afternoon.

It's been a bit of a struggle for me this year to get into the Christmas season.  My mom's plight is never far from my mind and my heart.  It's taken away from my usual enjoyment of December.  Normally, this time of year rejuvenates me emotionally and that just hasn't been the case.  I wonder if that will change for me or if this is just the new normal, given that my mom's condition is not going to improve.  In fact, it's only going to get worse.

I'm trying to appreciate the visits I have with her.  I know, at some point in the not too distant future, she's going to be gone and I'm going to wish I had the ability to stop in and see her - to see her smile and hear her laugh - even for just a few minutes.  This ride we're on with her near the end of her life is strange and complex, in terms of how it makes me feel, not just about her but about life in general. 2017 has been a difficult year for me, probably the worst of my 51 on this earth.

We had a nice visit yesterday afternoon.  When I arrived, she was watching a Christmas movie - The Christmas Project - with a few other residents.  I sat down beside her and as we watched, she laughed and laughed at the movie.  She wasn't really following what was going on but she was enjoying herself.  We didn't say much to each other, but we were content, I think, just being together.  And that meant everything to me.  It really did.

Sometimes I wonder why I continue to post on this blog, particularly since the subject matter has changed from J.P. and Joe to my mom.  Writing helps me work things out in my head, I think.  It allows me to verbalize my emotions and feelings, which in turn helps me understand them.  Part of me feels like I'm going to want a record of this time in my life, even though it's painful to experience now.  I think I want the boys to have a record of the end of my mom's journey, too.

Also - and I should have said this long ago, but I'm going to say it now - it gives me a measure of comfort to know that there are friends and family interested enough in me and my family to read this blog, even occasionally.  It feels like someone is listening to me and, I guess, thinking about me and maybe sending good thoughts my way.

So, thank you for taking the time to listen.  It helps.  It really does.

Changes in Latitude, Changes in Attitude

I'm sitting in the library at NHC Place having just visited my mom.  I got up early this morning, got a 4 mile run in before the rain comes, grabbed coffee, picked up donuts and arrived here.  The beginning of a busy, errand-filled day.  I needed the run this morning in a big way.

When I arrived, my mom was sitting by the open kitchen with the caregivers.  In her mind, she is still nurse so she often tried to help the caregivers and tends to hover near them when they're working.  Today, they laughed and told me she often rolls her wheelchair into the nurses' station.  Once a nurse, always a nurse.  Hell, I'll probably be living here one day in the not too distant future thinking the other residence are my clients.

My mom was happy to see me, which is almost always the case.  I got her a donut and we sat at one of the dining room tables and laughed an talked.  She was in an exceptionally good mood, which lifted my spirits considerably.

After a half hour or so, suddenly and for no apparent reason, her mood shifted.  She began breathing harder, which I've learned is a sign she's agitated or anxious.  She stopped smiling and laughing and was visibly stressed.  When I asked her what was wrong, she didn't answer me.  I took her for a walk in her wheelchair - out of Aspen Arbor but still in the building - and that didn't help at all.  If anything, being out of familiar environs seemed to make her more anxious.  I walked her back to Aspen Arbor and asked the caregivers to help her transfer from the wheelchair so she could go to the bathroom, and I said goodbye and left.

Damn, Alzheimer's disease is cruel.  I arrive and am relieved to see my mom alert and happy.  Before I leave, she's confused and anxious.  It's an emotional roller coaster for those who love her the most,   because in many ways, we're on the ride with her.

The Separation of Church and State

The boys' last day of school was Friday, so they're home today.  This morning, I got up way early and got out of the house so I can get a few things done before a 9 a.m. mediation.  A quick note here as I finish my coffee at the Frothy Monkey in Franklin, right behind my office.

Yesterday morning, when J.P. woke up and came downstairs, he hopped in bed with us to read and asked me, "Are you coming to church today, Daddy, to help us decorate for Christmas?"  Decorating St. Patrick for Christmas, the Sunday before Christmas Eve, is an annual tradition in which our family always participates.  The boys love it.

"I'm not sure," I replied.  "I'll be at Meemaw's this morning visiting with her."  J.P. didn't respond but I could tell he was disappointed.

It's no secret to anyone who reads the blog semi-regularly that I have had a difficult time finding an outlet to direct my anger over my mom's health situation.  I haven't lost my faith - which has sustained me during difficult times in my life in the past - but it's been shaken, for sure.  Early on, I met with and talked to our priest, Father David, to discuss my feelings.  I still pray and I've tried to reconcile my feelings while maintaining a close and intimate relationship with God but to date, I've failed.  That's the plain and honest truth.  Maybe I'm not praying and asking for help enough.  I don't know.

Lately, I find myself thinking about the "Footprints in the Sand" poem.  I can't help but feel like for the past year or so, there have been one set of footprints in the sand - mine.  I know that's not true but it sure doesn't feel like God has been carrying me through what has been by far the most difficult time  in my life.

On Sundays for the past few months, I get up early and go to see my mom, rather than going to church at St. Patrick.  On the one hand, I feel like I'm where I need to be when I'm there with my mom and maybe I am.  On the other hand, I also feel like I'm missing out on something by not being in church with my family on Sundays.  What I am doing, I think, is avoiding or postponing the difficult task of closely examining my relationship with God on a weekly basis in church and realizing that maybe my faith isn't as strong as I thought.  That's troublesome, to be sure.

I had a good, quiet visit with my mom yesterday.  We shared a cinnamon roll I picked up at Frothy Monkey in 12South before I drove down to NHC Place.  Mr. Tom, her friend, sat with us and ate part of the cinnamon roll, too.  My mom was in a good mood, confused about most everything but relatively happy as she sat in her wheelchair and I updated her on the boys' basketball games from the day before.  I gave her our Christmas card, too, which she enjoyed.

I left, stopped by my office, then drove to St. Patrick so I could be there to decorate the church for Christmas, although I skipped the church service.  I saw Father David as soon as I walked in and he shook my hand and welcomed me.  We talked about our new bishop and exchanged pleasantries.  It was nice.  Several other parishioners smiled at me and said hello.  It felt good and right to be back at St. Patrick, if only for a few minutes.

J.P. ran up and gave me a big hug when he saw me.  We helped decorate the church, then drove home.

  

The Jet

One of the things J.P. has asked Santa Claus to bring him for Christmas is a new basketball, which brought to mind one of the best Christmas gifts I ever received.  And it was from my mom, of course.

First, a little background.  I played basketball (and other sports) my entire youth.  I played basketball in 8th grade and Northside Junior High School, then made the 9th grade team in the fall of my last year there.  I was one of the 12 best basketball players in the school but, in truth probably not one of the 9 or 10 best players on the team.  I didn't play a lot perhaps because as a back-up point guard, I played behind Clay Whitehurst, who went on to play wide receiver at the University of Alabama.

Much like J.P. today, I was a smart basketball player with good hand-eye coordination but limited athletic ability.  I played hard, was extremely competitive and loved the game.  No quit in me, aggressive and never willing to back down.  Sound like someone?  Yep, J.P.

After I finished at Northside, I matriculated to Franklin High School.  That was the end of my formal basketball career, as there was no way I was going to make the basketball team at Franklin High School.  I didn't have enough game, for sure.

Still, I kept playing basketball in pick-up games wherever and whenever I could get on the court at a gym.  I played church league basketball with friends and, later, when I started my junior year at Brentwood High School, a buddy of mine talked his way into getting the key to the old school gym at Lipscomb Elementary School near our house in Brenthaven.  Eternal thanks to you, Jim Holcomb, wherever you are.  That's another story, but my junior and senior years of high school, my friends and I played a ton of pick-up basketball in that old gym at Lipscomb Elementary School.

For Christmas during my junior year of high school - which would be December 1982 - my mother gave me a Wilson Jet leather basketball.  I don't know where she got it, but it was the same type of basketball used in high school and college basketball games at the time.  Damn, it was a beautiful basketball and my pride and joy.  No more scrambling to find a decent basketball to use during pick-up games.

I cherished that Wilson Jet basketball.  I didn't want to deface it by writing my initials or name on it.  I never, ever dribbled it outside.  It was for indoor, wooden floor use only.  I never let anyone kick it.  And whenever I played in an unfamiliar gym, I watched it like a hawk if was being used - as it often was - in a game I wasn't playing in, when I had "next" and was waiting to play.  When I would walk into a gym - at Lipscomb, the YMCA or on campus at UT in Knoxville, guys always asked to use it in games.  I usually acquiesced but only if I could keep an eye on it.

Man, I dribbled that Wilson Jet basketball in gyms all across middle Tennessee and in the HPER building on campus at UT.  I think we often used in intramural games my freshman year of college, too.  I made a lot of shots, missed a lot of shots and won and lost a lot of games with it.  I can't remember, but I'm guessing someone finally stole it during a pick-up basketball game at UT.

What I do remember, though, is that I always thought of my mom when I played with it.

Changing Expectations

Yesterday, after the boys' Saturday morning basketball games, I was in my truck preparing to head down to my mom's place when my cell phone rang.  It was Alisha, a nurse at NHC Place, calling to let me know that one of the caregivers had found my mom on the floor by her lift chair, sleeping, that morning about 6 a.m.  Unlike how I reacted in a similar situation several months ago when my mom was at Maristone, I took the news in stride.

Most likely, she slid out of the chair during the night and simply didn't have the strength to stand up without assistance.  The concern, of course, is that she might have been on the floor for several hours.  The staff is supposed to check on the residents every one to two hours, so I'm allowing myself to believe that she hadn't been there that long.  Considering the alternative - that my mom had laid in the floor for several hours - makes me want to cry.  That much hasn't changed.

What has changed, though, are my expectations and what I'm willing and able to accept as the new normal with my mom.  Although that in and of itself is kind of sad, it's probably healthy from an emotional standpoint.  On some level, in a way, I've moved into the acceptance phase of what my mom's life - and ours - will be like from this point moving forward.  It's kind of zen, I suppose.

Now, I don't aways feel that way.  I still get upset and angry over the injustice of it all.  For her and for us, her children and especially her grandchildren.  I still can't bring myself to go back to church, which is a problem.  But I think I'm managing my emotions better, at least most of the time, anyway.  Or, alternatively, maybe I'm just growing numb - emotionally - to the whole situation.

I've been running more lately, which over the years has helped me maintain my equilibrium during difficult or stressful times.  That might be part of it, I guess.  It's my favorite month of the year, too - December - toward the end my favorite time of the year - October 1 - January 2.  I'll probably fall into a deep winter depression after the holidays are over.

I may have written this before, but the thing I miss the most is not being able to call my mom on the way to work and on the way home from work.  I used to always telephone her during my 30 minute drive, just to check in and discuss the day's events in my life, the sports world or worldwide.  I miss those talks the were about nothing and everything.  I also miss her unequivocal support in those telephone calls, when I'd had a bad day or something was troubling me.  I miss that a lot.

All right, enough for this morning.  I've had my Sunday morning coffee at Frothy Monkey and it's time to head down to see my mom.

Saying Goodbye to Pat McHale

(I'm sitting at Barista Parlor just off Division St. having a latte.  They play vinyl hear, which is cool.  Actually, everything about this place is cool.  And the coffee is phenomenal.)

This morning, I arrived early to the 6th floor of the Metro Nashville Courthouse for a hearing I had at 9 a.m.  My practice, when I'm appearing in court, is to arrive early because I don't like to feel rushed. It's an old habit.

I sat down on a bench and opened my iPad to get caught up on recent appellate cases and news from the Tennessee Bar Association.  Sadly, I saw a notice that Pat McHale, an older lawyer I knew in passing, had recently died.  I didn't know Pat well at all but he was an acquaintance and we bumped into each other occasionally over the past 25 years.

When we had a case or two together while I was working downtown for a law firm, he was really nice to me.  Those interactions helped teach me it was okay to be nice to and laugh with an opposing attorney in a case.  What we do isn't life or death, after all.  I'd like to think I've taken that lesson I learned from Pat and applied it to the relationships - most of the time, anyway - I have with opposing attorneys.

When I was in court last week in Nashville, I exchanged greetings with several lawyers with whom I have had cases over the years.  It always makes me feel good when that happens and I think it's good for clients to see me involved in those type of interactions, as well.  It makes me feel like, by and large, I'm practicing law the right way or at least the way that I want to do it.

Get along with other lawyers, argue or fight hard when you have to, but with an air of civility and professionalism.  Between the lines stuff, you know, like in sports.  Never hold grudges.

One of the things that Pat McHale and I bonded over was a mutual love of music.  Whenever I saw him, we talked about what we listening to at that particular point in time.  That made our relationship unique, I think.

Pat was his own man.  The last several years, he wore sandals with his suit - Birkenstocks, I think.  Nobody does that, of course, but that was just Pat.  I loved it.

I last ran into Pat when he mediated a workers' compensation case for me a few years ago.  He was working at the Tennessee Department of Labor then and it was nice to see him and spend some time together.

R.I.P. Pat McHale.  Thanks for teaching a young lawyer a thing or two.

  

An Athlete Finds Himself

Yesterday, from the scorers' table in the small gym at Montgomery Bell Academy, I saw something I will never forget.  Cooper, one of J.P.'s buddies, played the basketball game of his life and thankfully, I was along for the ride.

I've known Cooper since he was 5 years old, ever since he and J.P. started playing baseball and basketball together.  The boys are tight and have slept over or played at each other's houses many times.  Cooper's parents are close friends of ours.  Our families just seem to fit well together.  We love spending time with them.

Cooper is a good athlete who will become a great athlete as he gets older, I think.  He's an excellent soccer player and a good baseball and basketball player.  He's also a born leader with the maybe the best attitude, game in and game out, of any boys I have coached.  He's almost always enthusiastic and in a good mood.  He's very coachable and rarely has to be told the same thing twice.  In basketball, he plays guard, usually the point.  His only weakness - if I can even call it that - is that he hasn't yet developed a killer instinct.  He's such a good natured kid that he doesn't always play with intensity.

That all changed yesterday.

Early in the second game of a doubleheader against a pretty team, Cooper was whistled for his second foul.  He didn't like the call at all.  In fact, Cooper was really pissed about it.  From my vantage point at the scorer's table, I saw the expression on his face change from confusion and disagreement to anger.  And I loved it.

As the game resumed, Cooper began playing like a man possessed.  He contested every pass anywhere near him, stealing the basketball on multiple occasions.  He played more aggressively offensively and defensively than I have ever seen him play.  He pushed the ball up the court and set the pace.  He rebounded.  He was an absolute handful on defense, frustrating their players (and coach) at every turn.

When his dad substituted for him, Cooper cheered his teammates on the from the bench, loudly.  As is usually the case, the other boys followed his lead and began cheering wildly when a teammate made a good defensive play or tied up a loose ball.  Watching Cooper on the sideline, I could see that he couldn't wait to get back into the game.

This continued through the second quarter and for the entire second half.  Our boys won handily, beating the other team by 25 + points.  It was by the far the most complete basketball game our boys have ever played, offensively and defensively.  Why?  Because they followed the example Cooper set from the midpoint of the first quarter to the end of the game.  He lead by example and with his enthusiasm.  It was a sight to see.  It was basketball played beautifully by a bunch of 9 and 10 year old boys.

At one point late in the game, Cooper was harassing the other team's best player as he dribbled the basketball and got called for his fourth foul.  Their coach complained - loudly - saying "how many fouls does that kid get?"  It was awesome.

After the game, as is my custom, I read the stat line to the boys, focusing on rebounds, steals and assists.  I asked the group how many points they thought Cooper had scored.  Looking intently at them all, I said "zero."  I paused.  "And he completely dominated the game," I continued.  Because he did.

Truthfully, it was a bit of an emotional moment for me.  I've spend so much time around Cooper (and his family) and he's one of my all-time favorite kids to coach.  Having a front row seat to his greatest basketball game - probably his greatest game in any sport - was special.  Seeing the transformation that took place and realizing that he has it in him to get angry and dominate a game like that was also special.

It's something I'll never forget and, hopefully, a memory I'll share with him many years down the road.

Giving Thanks

It's Thanksgiving and I'm sitting at a Starbucks, collecting my thoughts after visiting with my mom for a few hours.  There are two days a year and two only that I go to Starbucks.  Thanksgiving and Christmas Day, when all of the independent - good - coffee shops are closed.  Today, this is a quick pitstop before I head home to hook up with Jude and the boys.  This afternoon we're going over to the Walker's house for what has become the traditional family Thanksgiving feast.

My mom was in a good mood day, although she didn't realize it's Thanksgiving.  That's probably for the best, I guess.  Before this all began, I never imagined a Thanksgiving where we would not be with her at her house or where, at least, she would not be with us.  It makes me a little - okay, a lot - sad to think of her alone on Thanksgiving while we get together with all of Jude's family, even though she doesn't realize the significance of the day or that she's missing anything.  Alice is visiting her this afternoon and Tracy tonight, but it's not the same.  It's just not.

What I'm thankful for, I think, is the grace to accept my mom for the way she is and not to be too bitter about her plight.  Controlling the bitterness is, for me, a work in progress for sure.  On Sundays, I go to see her rather than go to church, which is a problem.  My faith has been and is being tested and I'm probably failing the test, at least at present.  Maybe that will change in the coming months.  I hope it does because I miss going to St. Patrick with my family.  I miss it a lot, actually.

I'm also thankful that there is still some of my mom left.  She laughs a lot, which always and forever will make me smile.  Her sense of humor is intact.  Her ability to make others laugh is still there, which is a large part of what always has made her who she is as a person.  And she loves me.  God, does she ever love me.  Her face lights up when I arrive and she still, even now, tells me to "be careful" when I leave.  Her motherly instinct is so ingrained it will be the last part of her personality to leave, I think.

I'm thankful for my sister, Tracy, and Alice.  I couldn't do this without their support and knowing that they're seemingly always on the way to see my mom or have just left seeing her.  I'm also thankful for my mom's friends, especially Patti Sparks and Jan Baker, who have given so much of their time to sit and talk to my mom.  They're simply the best friends anyone could ever have and my mom is so blessed to have them in her life.

And last, but certainly not least, I'm thankful for my family.  Jude covers for me with the boys, always, when I leave to go see my mom.  That's not easy and I'm grateful to her and I love her for that.  My boys, J.P. and Joe.  They will probably never understand how much they have meant to me that last year as I've tried to navigate, emotionally, through these waters.  Without their unconditional love, the constant reminder from them that I have to be present and there for them and that I can't feel sorry for myself all of the time, I would be a lost soul.  I would be unmoored and adrift with them.  J.P. and Joe keep me anchored and give me an identity.  They make me smile, laugh and occasionally angry, but really, they make me . . . feel . . . so I'm alive emotionally and not numbed and deadened inside because of the hand of cards my mom has been dealt.

It's a tough day, for me, but a day to be thankful and to reflect, as well.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Tom Petty Lives On

Slowly but surely, I'm coming to grips with Tom Petty's death on October 2, 2017.  As trite and hackneyed as the saying is, life goes on.

What's really strange, though, is that I hear Tom Petty songs everywhere, in the background, at the most random times and places.  Working late night at Fido (multiple times), walking through the shortcut hallway in Main Street on the way to lunch at work in Franklin, at Frothy Monkey in 12South and Franklin, etc.  It's like he's haunting me, but in a good way, letting me know that his  music will always be there for me and that thinks will be okay.

I've given this a considerable amount of thought, actually.  Maybe more people (and businesses) are playing more Tom Petty and his music since he died.  Or maybe he was there all along and I just wasn't hearing him.  If it's the latter, it makes me a little sad that perhaps I took him for granted and didn't appreciate the music enough before he died.  If so, there's a lesson there, I think, about living life and making sure to appreciate what you have when you have it.

One of my friends in music and life, Will, gave me a Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers' double CD he burned from a recording of a concert in Hamburg, Germany in the late 1990's.  Don't ask me how he got it, but I'm glad he did and more glad he burned one for me.

Man, I wore those CD's out in the weeks after Tom Petty's death.  What was really cool about it was that I had never heard it before - obviously - so it was like discovering an old recording of the Heartbreakers that I didn't know existed.  I devoured it, spending days on certain songs, like "Walls," "American Girl" and "Room at the Top."  Will selected this particular concert recording for me because he knew how much I love the "Echo" album.  This tour was in support of "Echo," so the band played several songs off the album.

What's even more cool is that the boys fell in love with the recording, too, especially the band's rendition of "Gloria."  It's really phenomenal and is Tom Petty at the peak of his powers.  Joe, especially, loves Petty's version of the song and can recite, line by line, the parts of the song where the music slows down and he talks the lyrics.  Lately, Joe and I play "Gloria" almost every day on the way to school.  It really is a reminder, even to me at this point in my life, of why I fell in love with Tom Petty and his music in the first place.

To have the opportunity to share Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers with my sons is more special to me than they will ever know.    

The Guys

Here's a photo of the boys while we watched the Titans last Sunday at M.L. Rose on 8th Avenue, near our house.  Just because.

Letting Go Just a Little Bit

The last few times I've been to visit my mom at her new place, she's been sitting at a table with "Mr. Tom."  Just the two of them.  As I approach, it's hard to tell what they're talking about or, really, what they're doing.  But as I sit down, my mom seems relatively content and I guess that's what is important.

To get some alone time with her, I wheel her away in her wheelchair - after saying goodbye to Mr. Tom - and we leave Aspen Arbor to go look at the aquarium in the sitting area or just to relax in the sun room.  Sometimes, when it's nice, we sit outside the front entrance.  Usually, after a few minutes, she starts to get a little bit anxious and wants to return to the more familiar surroundings of Aspen Arbor (though she doesn't call it that, of course), and we do.

Yesterday, I ran down to see her in between the boys' basketball games.  Joe played at 8 a.m. and J.P. played at 11 a.m.  After exchanging greetings with Mr. Tom, I wheeled her out of Aspen Arbor and into the library.  I've discovered it's a nice, quiet place to sit for a few minutes.  Books line the built in bookshelves, although it doesn't appear that many of the books are ever removed and read.  I could be wrong about that, though.  As we talked quietly and I made my mom laugh - something I'm still able to do - a National Geographic magazine sitting on the table caught her eye, so I handed it to her.  She thumbed through it was we reminisced about all of the National Geographic magazines we used to have at the house.  I smiled wistfully as she commented on some of the pictures in the magazine.

We said our goodbyes a few minutes later after I asked one of the caregivers to help her transfer so she could go to the bathroom.  She's struggling with incontinence issues and she's too weak transfer from the wheelchair to the commode herself without falling.  For the first time in a while, she was disappointed I was leaving and a little mad that I wouldn't take her to J.P.'s basketball game.  It made me more than a little sad, as I drove back to Nashville, to think that she likely would never see my sons play sports again.

Throughout the day, I reflected on our most recent visits and how something with my mom seemed to have changed lately.  It's been gnawing at my subconscious mind the last week or two.  When my sister, Tracy, and I talked on the telephone last night, she said something that brought things into focus for me.

"Mom doesn't really need us as much as she did."

I let those words sink in for a minute, then nodded to myself and told her I think she's right.  And I do.

The "why" is what I went to sleep last night and awoke this morning puzzling over.  Why doesn't my mom need us as much as she did?

Certainly, she's living in a better place, one more suited to her needs.  Aspen Arbor at NHC Place is just a better fit for her than Maristone.  Now, that may well be because she is in memory care now, which is simply where she needs to be.  The caregiver-patient ratio is lower, there are more planned activities and her apartment is smaller.  She's rarely alone in her room, at least when I go to see her.  At Maristone, she was always alone in her room.  I think that made her a lot more lonely.

She's made a friend or two, especially Mr. Tom.  While I don't understand the relationship and I have no idea what the two of them talk about, I'm comforted by the fact that she appears to be content and at ease sitting and talking with him.  Yesterday, one of the caregiver told me my mom still believes she's working as a nurse, so it may be that she thinks she's taking care of Mr. Tom.  That makes sense, because above all else, my mom always took care of others professionally and personally.

So, maybe she's just more comfortable at NHC Place.  Maybe that's why she doesn't need us as much as she did.

On the other hand, there's the very real possibility that my mom's mental state has gradually deteriorated to the point that she's lost, or at least losing, the ability to connect with us on an emotional level.  That, of course, make me very, very sad.  If true, it's further evidence that we're losing her and that our time with her while she still has some vestiges of her true personality is limited.  Maybe very limited.

It's a bit of a paradox, for me, anyway.  Selfishly, I'm glad it's easier to leave my mom when a visit is over.  I feel a little better - okay, a lot better - that she's relatively content and getting good care when we're not around.  Conversely, it seems like we're headed to a place where my mom is not going to be able to express her love for us in any normal, customary way.  And that's going to be hard to take, I think.

It's a lot to process and I lot to think about, for sure.

The World's Biggest Sports Fan

While tailgating before a Titans' game several years ago, during a part of my life when that was a thing, a friend of mine in describing me said, "Phil knows more about sports than anyone I know."

Sadly, my life's orbit (or his) has taken Big D. out of my life and I miss him.  We shared a lot of good times together, most revolving around, of course, watching or playing (city league softball) sports.

And, now, as I view the world through my 51 year old eyes, I see my sons, 9 and 5, and they are two of the biggest sports fans I know.  This is the story of how that came to be.

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My mom left Jackson, Tennessee, for Memphis to attend nursing school in the 1957 or 1958.  To my knowledge, she never played high school sports, not that there were a lot of options available for girls in those days.  What she had going for her, however, was height - 5'8", sharp elbows and, I think, a love of competition.  

I'm not exactly sure how or when it happened, but at some point Jim Stockdale, the coach of the women's basketball team at the University of Tennessee School of Nursing in Memphis (the original "Lady Vols") found her.  Or maybe she found him.  I'd love to know the real story if anyone who reads this blog knows it.  At any rate, she joined the basketball team as a defensive player.  As I understand it, in those days, women still played 6-on-6 basketball and my mom was one of the two players on the court who played only defense.  Over the years, I've heard Coach Stockdale - who has forgotten more about basketball than I will ever learn - say my mom had 5 fouls and sharp elbows and she wasn't afraid to use either one of them.  

I'm meandering a bit here, but bear with me, please.  Many, many years later, my mom, Coach Stockdale and a few other of the other original "Lady Vols" alumni scheduled an annual reunion in Nashville to coincide with the Lady Vols - Lady 'Dores (Vanderbilt) basketball game.  Often time, my mom hosted the entire group at our house for chili and drinks before or after the actual game.  Through those dinners and by attending the games with my wife and later, children, I got to know a lot of my mom's old teammates and friends.  To say it's a special group is an understatement.  Several of them have reached out to Tracy or me the last year to share an anecdote about my mom or just to tell us how much she means to them.  That, in turn, means the world to us, I promise you.

My mom married my dad, Howard Newman, who was a sports fan and, in fact, played high school football and a year of college football at Case Western Reserve.  They me while he was in medical school in Memphis and eventually moved to California where I was born in 1966.  My mom became a hug Lakers fan and used to religiously listen to Chick Hearn broadcast the game on the radio.  Jerry West, Elgin Baylor, Gail Goodrich and Wilt Chamberlain became the heroes of my infancy through stories I heard about my parents being Lakers' fans.  I think - but can't confirm - that my parents actually shared season tickets with three or four other couples and that I may have attended a game or two.  

After my dad died in 1972, we moved back to middle Tennessee.  I grew up a diehard Lakers fan at a time when no one, and I mean no one in Tennessee, cheered for them.  It was part of my identity, particularly during the halcyon days of the Magic Johnson-Larry Bird Lakers vs. Celtics rivalry.  Magic was my guy and I was a hug NBA fan long before it was in vogue for kids my age to follow the NBA.  My mom encouraged my fandom and we cheered together for the Lakers from afar.  We celebrated the Lakers' titles in the 1980's.  We commiserated together - from afar - when Magic announced in 1991 that he was HIV+ and was retiring from basketball.  We celebrated together - again - during the Shaq-Kobe championship years, as I was back in town after law school.

When I was a kid, my mom and I good-naturedly fought over who got dibs on the sports page every morning and evening (Nashville was a two newspaper town in those days with the Tennessean and the Nashville Banner).  We both read Sports Illustrated every week and anticipated its arrival in the mailbox.  My mom got me a subscription to The Sporting News when I was eight or nine and I absolutely reveled in reading it each week, particularly the columns by national sportswriters like Bill Conlin, Art Spander and Dick Young.  I loved to peruse the baseball box scores.

My mom was huge - I mean huge - Vanderbilt men's basketball fan so, of course, I was, too.  We had season tickets - first two, then later, four - for more than three decades, I think.  I bet I went with her to close to 200 basketball games at Memorial Gym.  Together, we lived and died with Vanderbilt basketball.  She was so superstitious that she sat in the same place at Vanderbilt basketball games and ate the same food at the same time, game after game.  I can talk more old school Vanderbilt men's basketball than anyone I know.  

My mom loved the NCAA basketball tournament.  In retrospect, it was the highlight of her sports viewing year.  It was the same with me.  Captains of her "All-American" team over the years included Steve Kerr, Steve Alford and Wally Szczerbiak.  You know, the good looking basketball players.  I started a NCAA tournament pool in my fraternity house at college before that was really a thing.  We called my room "Tournament Control Center," a send up of  ESPN's early, around the clock coverage of the tournament.

Truly, if there was a sports team or event - World Series, NBA Finals, Super Bowl - she chose a side and rooted for one team or the other.  She simply loved sports.  And she instilled that love in me, for better or worse.  My mom indulged my love of sports as a child in that she allowed me to cover my bedroom wall with  Sports Illustrated covers and other posters.  

My mom encouraged me to play sports, which I did throughout my youth.  I was (and am) an average athlete at best, one with good hand-eye coordination who was smart and knew the right play to make at the right time.  I could play almost anything okay, but wasn't great at anything.  J.P. is the same way, I think, and Joe probably will be, too.  My mom attended every game I ever played in any sport as a kid.  I vividly remember sitting down at the kitchen table after late baseball games on weeknights and having a snack and drink, going over the details of the game with her.  Her support and interest in my accomplishments athletically - as modest as they were - was a constant.  I inherited that from her and I want to honor her by being there for my boys when they play sports.

My mom took so much pride in Alice's accomplishments in sports, particularly in middle school and high school, as we all did.  Alice was below average athletically but she worked her ass off to become a good basketball and volleyball player.  Softball came more naturally to her and was her best sport.  After I left for college, my mom and her friends traveled across middle Tennessee in the middle and late 1980's to watch Brentwood High School's girls' basketball, volleyball and softball teams play.  And I know for a fact that she loved every minute of it.

When I graduated from law school and returned home to work in Nashville in the early 1990's and later opened my own law practice in Franklin, my mom's love of sports was stronger than ever.  It was the hay day of the sports talk radio era in Nashville and my mom was a devoted George Plaster listener, literally for years and years.  We talked on the telephone almost every day to discuss the sports topic of the moment on George Plaster's afternoon sports talk show.  Later, after I was well established professionally in Franklin, my mom called me often in the afternoons to report on breaking sports news as reported by George Plaster on his show.  She loved to scoop me on the latest sports news.  It was a point of pride for her to tell me something about a sports story I didn't already know.

My mom loved the Titans, too, especially in the Eddie George-Steve McNair era, when they were contenders every year.  On more than one occasion, Steve McNair visited her floor at Baptist Hospital  and spent time with the patients, many of whom has been there for quite a while.  At one point, she and a fellow nurse made a bulletin board on her floor highlighting the Titans and their accomplishments.  It had pictures of the players, newspaper articles, etc.  I remember that when Titans' players stopped by her floor, they always enjoyed looking at the bulletin board.  Similarly, the walls in the playroom at her house were covered with sports memorabilia, a lot of it related to the Titans.  In fact, she had framed the front page of the newspaper from the "Music City Miracle" and it hung proudly on the wall.

This just occurred to me, as I thought about my mom's Titans' bulletin board on old 3500 floor at Baptist Hospital, which is now closed (the floor, not the hospital).  The only time she ever got in any trouble in 17+ years working there was when another nurse - on her own, not at my mom's request - clocked her in for the night shift when my mom was running a few minutes late, on the way there from a Vanderbilt men's basketball game.  My mom had planned to mark herself late but the other nurse wanted to cover for my mom when it wasn't necessary.  That story has always been a favorite of mine, because it says so much about my mom, her love of sports and how much her co-workers loved and respected her.

When Tracy's kids, Kaitlyn and Matthew, grew older and began to play recreational sports, my mom of course rarely missed a game.  Soccer (in the early days), baseball and basketball, she was there for almost all of their games.  She took great pride in their accomplishments and, I think, enjoyed the fact that they share her love of sports.  She loved going to Matthew's baseball games and Kaitlyn's middle school and high school basketball games.  Ironically, I realized for the first time that my mom had a real problem - probably dementia or Alzheimer's disease - when Tracy called me in a panic one night about 10:30 p.m. and told me my mom  had gotten lost going home from one Matthews' baseball games Franklin.  She ended up at a store on Nolensville Road, across from Southern Hills Hospital in Nashville, and I found her and drove her home.  That was the night everything changed for her and for us.

One of the low points for me, if I'm being honest, occurred last fall when I picked my mom up from Maristone and took her to one of Kaitlyn's basketball games at Overton High School in Nashville.   She got so confused on the way home and started crying when I arrived back at Maristone to drop her off after the game, because she wanted to go home to her house.  It was one of the worst nights of my life and, possibly, the last time I drove my mom anywhere.

My mom attended many of J.P.'s early soccer, baseball and basketball games, although with three grandkids playing sports by then, she had to divide her time between them.  She saw many of J.P.'s games, though, and a few of Joe's.  By the time Joe started playing baseball and soccer, it was tough for my mom to get around well enough to get to his games.  On at least a couple of occasions, my friends at the West Nashville Sports League were kind enough to help her into the 4-wheeler and drive her down to the baseball field from the parking lot to watch J.P. or Joe play baseball.

Much to my chagrin, both of my boys are Vanderbilt fans, in large part because of my mom's love for Vanderbilt athletics and the fact that she bought them Vanderbilt gear almost from the day they were born.  T-shirts, sweatshirts, shorts, posters, etc.  When she still had her men's basketball season tickets, J.P. and I went to a handful of Vanderbilt games and sat in her seats.  That just intensified his love for all things black and gold.  Joe loved Vanderbilt because J.P. did and, probably because I didn't.  That just the way it works.

Which is probably as good of a segue as any to my boys and their love of sports.  They are crazy - and I mean crazy - about sports.  They would watch or play sports 24 hours a day if Jude and I would let them.  They love the Predators, Titans, Dodgers, Lakers (J.P.), Warriors (Joe), Braves (Joe), Cubs (Joe) and Seahawks.  Many, many nights, they beg for us to have a "sports picnic" for dinner, which means we eat dinner in the den and watch sports on television.  J.P. reads about sports constantly, whether it's his favorite magazine - Sports Illustrated for Kids - or a library book about a sports figure.  The boys play football or hockey upstairs it he playroom constantly.  Other times, they quietly look through their hockey/football/basketball/baseball cards and sort them in notebooks, just like I did at their age.

For more than 20 years, Jude and I have been part of the Foodbrothers - a weekly college and pro football pool started by Jeff Williams (aka "El Jefe"), one of Jude's best friends from her days at Tulane University.  My mom was in the pool for several years.  I even took her to Las Vegas for the annual Foodbrothers' Summit on fall.  She always was great at picking winners, against the spread, in football.  When I asked her how she did so well, all she would say is that "she consulted her sources."

It breaks my heart, now, to look back at the Foodbrothers' historical records on the website and see that as recently as 2012, she finished in third place for the season.  Amazing.  By 2014, which is when we know now that her problems began to become apparent, she stopped making her picks each week, likely because she had a hard time operating her computer.  As I recall, now, she started telling me that she felt it was too much pressure to have to make football picks every week.  I should have known then that something was going on with her, but I probably didn't want to believe it.  Prior to that year, she and I would talk on the telephone throughout the weekend and compare our picks or tease one another about who was doing better that week.  At one point, my sister (Tracy), my cousin (David), my mom and Jude were all in Foodbrothers together, picking games against each other every week in the fall.

Last spring, J.P. joined the Foodbrothers' NCAA tournament basketball pool.  And won the entire pool, straight up, at the age 8.  I've won the basketball pool exactly once in 20+ years.  Jude has never won it.  More importantly - to J.P., anyway - he won $500, which we'll probably hold on to for him until college.  He was so proud of himself.  Last fall, I won the Foodbrothers' football pool, so J.P. and I held the football and basketball titles at the same time, keeping it all in the family.

Which brings us to this fall.  J.P., at 9, became the youngest ever Foodbrother when he joined the weekly football pool.  And here's where it gets crazy, or maybe not so much, given who his grandmother is.  He was the weekly winner the first two weeks of the season (winning $100) and he's been in first place for the entire season so far, leading wire to wire.  That's out of 41 people, all adults, most of whom have been in the Foodbrothers and picking games for a long time.  In second place, 17 points behind him, is his old man.  The competition is fierce in our house, for sure.  Jude and I have joked that the the "P" in J.P. stands for "point spread," as in "Johnny Pointspread."  It's crazy and it's fun and if there's one thing I do know, my mom would absolutely love it.

Sports, and the love of sports, is the tie that binds our family together.  That much is clear to me.  And is started with my mom, a single parent likely searching for a way to bond with her oldest child, a boy who found himself without a father at age 5.  Was it a deliberate decision on her part?  I'll suppose I'll never know.  But what I do know is that sports was a currency in which my mom and I traded and a language that we shared.  And now I've passed a love of sports along to my sons and that love brings us closer together.

It all started with my mom, the biggest sports fan I've ever known.

  

Mom Finds a Friend

You know you're a neighborhood regular when you sit down at a coffee shop for a Sunday morning and recognize the woman's English accent sitting next to you from time spent at your favorite neighborhood bar.

That was me, this morning, at Frothy Monky in 12South this morning.  I immediately recognized the voice of a woman I've sat next to at the bar at Edley's on a few occasions.  I don't know her name but she's always in a good mood, laughs a lot and has a heavy (and cool) English accent.

It's Sunday morning and I am about to head south to NHC Place to spend some time with my mom.  I stopped by yesterday afternoon in between two basketball games, a trip with the boys to Lucky Ladd Farm and Saturday night Predators' game vs. the Islanders.

When I arrived I used the code to let me into Aspen Arbor, and walked down the hall toward my mom's apartment.  I glanced through the kitchen and saw eight or ten residents sitting together watching television.  My mom was one of them, which made my happy.  When she's involved in a group activity, I normally don't interrupt her because I think it's good for her interact with others.  I think she needs that and, I hope, it causes her to think, reason and use her mind more than just talking quietly with me.

I slipped into her apartment and spent a few minutes straightening up.  She's still tearing pages out of coloring books and leaving them lying around the apartment.  I left out some cookies I brought for her then stopped to talk with a couple of the caregivers before I left.

They told me a funny story or two and reiterated how much they like my mom.  Already, she's making a mark with her sense of humor, which has remained intact in spite of everything else she's lost mentally.  She laughs a lot, which is something I have to remind myself to appreciate now, because it likely won't always be the case.

Anyway, one of the caregivers pointed out that she was sitting next to "Mr. Tom" and, further, that they normally sat together.  They had become friends.  That comment - that one comment - made me want to smile and cry at the same time.  Literally.

At Maristone, my mom never seemed to be able to connect with any of the other residents or make new friends.  One of the cruelest things about Alzheimer's disease - at least in the way that it's affected my mom - is that her ability to make friends and to be comfortable around people she doesn't know well has vanished in the wind.  Watching this woman who had so very many friends and was so involved socially struggle to talk with another resident has been heartbreaking for me.  Maybe that's changed in her new environment, just a little.  I need to believe that it has, anyway.

I'm off to pick up donuts for the residents and staff this morning, a Sunday morning tradition I've been thinking of starting.  

A Moment's Peace

Yesterday, I finished a mediation at my office earlier than expected.  With a couple of hours more or less free - there is always more work to be done - I drove to NHC Place to spend some time with my mom.

When I arrived, she was sleeping comfortably in her lift chair, reclined, nestled under a blanket.  I sat down in the other chair, took a figurative deep breath, and unplugged for a little while.  For almost an hour, we sat together with her sleeping and me reading articles about Tom Petty's death and the aftermath that I had saved on my phone.  She occasionally stirred but didn't wake up and I was perfect content to sit with her.

It's interesting - to me, anyway - but something about being there put my mind at ease.  I didn't feel conflicted or guilty, because I was where I was meant to be.  It was a bit of a zen moment, as I was totally present and within myself, in control of my emotions, just kind of being.  Especially lately, those moments are few and far between and, in truth, hard to find.  Somehow, though, I tend to find t them in my mom's presence.

After giving it some thought, what I concluded was this - even in her diminished state, when she's quite literally a shell of her former self physically and mentally, my mom has the ability to comfort me and to make me feel safe and at peace.  That's true love, I think.

It's special and a bit of a miracle to me and probably to me only, that my mom still has the ability to wrap me in the cocoon of her love.

I suspect I'm going to miss that most of all.

The Best Saturday Ever

Yesterday was one of those days.  One of those great, memorable, happy days you wish would never end.

As are all of our Saturdays in the fall, it was packed with the boys' sports, a pair of soccer games in the morning and a pair of baseball games in the afternoon.  We were on the go from 9 a.m. at Joe's soccer game to almost 5 p.m., when J.P.'s baseball game ended.  The Saturday sports gauntlet and, as always, I loved every minute of it.

Joe's young soccer team, mostly l5 year olds, played a team of boys that looked like they were two grades older than them.  I could tell from the minute the game started that Joe's team was going to get pounded, and they did.  Midway through the second half, Joe's team was probably down 15-0 when Joe kicked the ball from his teams end of the field, well in front of the midfield line.  It bounced the length of the field and went through he goalie's legs for his team's first and only score of the game.  Classic and a big moment for Joe.

At 11 a.m., J.P.'s soccer team had a grudge match against the USN team.  I called it the "sweep the leg" game.  It was J.P. against all of his classmates from USN, several of whom had given him some grief on the playground at school about in the days leading up to the game.  J.P. wanted this game.  Hell, he needed this game, because he sure didn't want to have to listen to all of his buddies talk trash on the playground for the rest of the fall.

The USN team scored twice early to go up 2-0.  Their best player - one of J.P.'s good friends - ran down the field popping his jersey after his first goal, which I didn't like.  Later, when the same kid scored in the second half, he ran down the field popping his jersey, again, and holding his index finger to his lips to quiet the crowd, like he was playing in the Premier League.  I would have benched him if he were my son or if I was coaching him.  

Late in the first half, J.P. hammered a ball from long range that hit the goalie in the face, bounced off and was kicked in the goal by a teammate.  Assist, J.P.  A minute or so later, J.P. took a nice pass from a teammate and scored on the goalie - his good friend referenced above.  2-2 score.  Now, it's a ballgame.  

The USN team scored early in the second half to take a 3-2 lead.  After that, J.P. literally took over the game.  He was everywhere - contesting shots all over the field, pressing the action, bumping and jostling other players and just leading his team.  It was glorious, just glorious, and one of my proudest sports moments as a father, to watch him lead.  From 25 yards away or so - with Jon and Uncle Carley watching - J.P. took a cross field pass, settled the ball, and pounded a shot over the goalie's left shoulder into the upper corner of the goal.  Amazing!  Jon and I looked at each other in disbelief.  J.P.'s teammates went nuts, chest bumping him and high fiving him.  It was a big time play.  3-3.  A few minutes later, J.P. led a two on one break and made a perfect pass to a teammate for the go ahead goal. 

The final score was 5-3 or 6-4.  J.P.'s buddy - the one popping his shirt and quieting the crowd - fell on the ground in tears at the final whistle.  And J.P. held an index finger pointed toward the sky with a satisfied look on his face.  He had left it all out on the field and led his team to victory.  A big moment for him, for sure.

At 3 p.m., J.P.'s baseball team - the boys I have coached in fall and spring since they were 5 years old - played a team of 10 year olds who had moved down from the majors to the minors (our league) after getting boat raced by the 11-12 year olds all fall.  Their team is comprised of a bunch of kids from a local private school.  Our boys play most of these kids in basketball, soccer and baseball every year and there's a bit of a rivalry there.  Their players (and siblings) tend to be a little obnoxious and, in fact, taunted our boys after a 1 point loss in the finals of the league basketball tournament last winter.  For the Saturday baseball games, they picked up a travel player who played with us when he was 6.  A good kid, good player, almost a head taller than anyone else on either team.

The Dodgers took an early 4-0 lead with Benton pitching and pitching pretty well and J.P. at shortstop.  By the end of the second inning, J.P and the boys were up 5-3.  in the bottom of the third inning, they stretched the lead to 9-3, with one of the runs coming when I gave J.P. the straight steal signal when he was on second base.  It was a gamble, but J.P. slid into third base and popped up and ran home to score, sliding into home, when the ball got away from the third basemen. 

J.P. came into pitch in the top of the third inning.  His control was okay, not great, and got out of the inning after giving up one run.  In the top of the fourth inning, he struck out the first batter, then ran into trouble after he walked a couple of players and the other team scratched out an infield hit.  Our boys got another out, then a run scored and J.P. walked a runner home.  Suddenly, the score was 9-6 our way, with the other team's ringer at the plate with the bases loaded.  A grand slam would have given them the lead.

The ringer worked the count to 3-1 in his favor.  "J.P.," I said.  He looked over at me.  "Dig deep."  He threw a strike.  Full count.  My assistant coaches - who are my good, good friends - and I looked at each other, enjoying the moment.  "Dig deep" I said again, as much to myself as to J.P.  He rocked, lifted his knee and lunged toward home plate, released int the ball as he did.  Right down the middle. The ringer swung the bat, missed the ball and it was strike three!  Game over.  J.P.'s teammate erupted and ran to him as he walked calmly off the field, toward the third base dugout, smiling just a little bit. They hugged him and pounded on his back, then we lined up to shake hands with the other team. 

What a memorable day for J.P.  It's one he will undoubtedly forget about in a week or so, but that I will treasure forever.

   

Saying Goodbye to a Car

I'm sitting on my back deck on Sunday morning, listening to Lucinda Williams and enjoying a few minutes of peace and quiet before I head down to spend some time with my mom at NHC Place.

Jude and the boys have been in Chattanooga since Friday.  I spoke at a CLE event late Friday, so I couldn't leave when they did.  Truth be told, I needed some alone time to gather my thoughts and recharge my batteries and Jude was kind enough to understand.  So, I stayed here and spent some time alone.

I've had my mom's car - a light blue Honda CRV - for a month or two.  It was sitting in her driveway - obviously not being driven - and we needed an extra car for a few days while Jude was having some body work done on her Honda Pilot.  Once I got it up here, I started driving it a little bit around the neighborhood.  I even drove it exclusively for a few days while my truck was in the shop.  I've had it washed and detailed a couple of times which, for some reason, made me feel good.

I helped my mom purchase the Honda CRV a few years ago by talking to the general manager of the dealership.  He is very close friends with a attorney friend of mine.  They took care of my mom when she bought it and I was happy to help her, of course.

Tracy's son, Matthew, recently turned 16, got his drivers' license and needs a car to drive.  Tracy and Gary wanted to buy it from mom, but I wouldn't hear of that.  I want Matthew to have it and it makes not sense for them to pay for it, particularly after all that Tracy has done and continues to do for my mom.  Most importantly, my mom would want Matthew to have the car and wouldn't hear of Tracy and Gary paying her for it.

The last couple of days, when it hit home that I wouldn't be driving the Honda CRV any longer and that it wouldn't be parked in front of my house, I've been a little sad.  Strange, I know, but driving it has made me feel closer to my mom.  Closer, really, to the person she used to be, before Alzheimer's disease and other complications kidnapped her from us.

There are vestiges of my mom and earlier, happier days, inside the Honda CRV.  There's still a booster seat left over from when she used to occasionally keep J.P. for us.  She often drove him down the street from her house to the Brentwood Public Library.  That stopped, I guess, about the time he turned five years old.  I don't recall her ever keeping Joe on her own.

Although I've cleaned it out for the most part, there are still a few Wintergreen Lifesavers in the car.  My mom always had those in her purse, probably to keep her from giving in to the desire to smoke.  She quit smoking more than two decades ago.  There is loose change which, at some point, my mom handled when she could still make change.  I found a few handouts from an old Sunday school class she attended.

I'm happy for Matthew to have mom's car.  I remember what it was like when I got my first car, a 1966 Ford Mustang, also light blue.  It was one of the greatest moments of my life.  That Mustang represented so much to me.  Freedom.  Responsibility.  Leaving childhood behind.  Fun.  Work.  Promise.  Independence, most of all.  I'll never, ever forget my 1966 Ford Mustang and all that it symbolized for me.

On the other hand, though, it makes me sad to close another chapter of my mom's life.  And to know I won't be able to open that chapter again.  It's gone, forever lost except in my memory.

Damn, this is hard.  Hard and hopeless.            

Appetite for Destruction

On Tuesday morning, I stopped by NHC place for a quick visit with my mom before work.  When I walked into her apartment, she was sitting in her wheelchair with the bound version of year 1 of this blog in her lap, tearing it apart page by page.  I was crestfallen.

More than 8 years ago, on J.P.'s first birthday, I painstakingly printed out all of the entries from the blog, including photographs, for the first 1 1/2 years of its existence, then made copies and had them bound.  I gave one of the bound versions of year 1 to my mom.  She was tickled to death to receive it and delighted in showing it to her friends.  She often thumbed through it and commented to me about particular entries and photographs.  Truly, it was one of her prized possessions.

When we first moved her into Maristone last November, my mom spent a lot of time coloring in coloring books with colored pencils.  It was interesting, because she was quite good at it and seemed to take a lot of pride in completing pages in coloring books Tracy, Alice or I picked up for her.  She especially liked a couple I had found for her, one that featured Nashville landmarks and one that featured Franklin landmarks.  It was a little bit sad for us, at times, to see her concentrating so intently on an activity that children 70 years younger than her enjoy.  Still, it gave her something to do, which was good.  She called it her "work."

By February or March of this year, she had stopped coloring as much.  Instead, she began to her pages out of the coloring books.  Often, she tore the pages into smaller pieces.  It was tough for us to see her destroy some of the beautiful work she had done.  I wish I had saved a few of the pages she colored, but I didn't.

I hid the bound version of the blog in her apartment at Maristone the first time I noticed she had torn a couple of pages out of it.  I mistakenly thought my sister, Tracy, had taken it with her to her house last week when we moved my mom to NHC Place.  That wasn't the case, however, which brings us back to Tuesday morning and my mother destroying one of her most prized possessions.  I carefully took it out of her hands, distracted her, then put it away.  I wanted to cry, for her and for me.

Instead, I gave her a cookie I had picked up the morning for the Bongo Java bakery, took her for a walk, then drove to work.  

Settling In (Again)

We moved my mom from Maritstone of Franklin to NHC Place in Cool Springs yesterday.  Alice, Tracy and I all took off from work to handle the logistics of the move.  Tracy picked up my mom early and took her for a drive, while Alice and I were with the movers at Maristone.  My mom's close friend, Jan Baker, met Tracy and my mom at NHC place, where my mom had her hair done, then ate lunch.  Jan sat and talked with my outside while Tracy and Alice supervised the movers and set up her apartment.  Then, I met the movers at my mom's house and directed them as they unloaded the furniture my mom won't be using her new place.  A lot of logistics and a lot of moving parts, but we got it done.

It was funny, in a way, but mostly sad, when two of my mom's longtime neighbors walked over to see if everything was okay.  When they saw the moving van, they were afraid my mom had died.  That's just where we are right now, I guess.

Almost exactly like when we moved her into Maristone last November, the move seemed to go well  until the evening.  After she ate dinner with Alice - Tracy had slipped away to see her children - my mom refused to go into her apartment and insisted on going "upstairs."  She lived on the second floor at Maristone.  She was kind of ugly to Alice, then to Tracy, as well, when she got to NHC Place after dinner.  Fortunately, she calmed down and seemed to settle in with Tracy for the night.

Often times I feel guilty because Tracy seems to get stuck with hard stuff when it comes to dealing with my mom.  Last night, for example, I had to coach J.P.'s baseball game at 7 p.m., so I was otherwise occupied for the evening.  We're in different places in our lives - all three of us - so our work and family schedules allow us to be involved at different times.  Alice is not married and sells real estate, so her schedule during the week is a little more flexible.  Tracy's works during the day as a physical therapist but her children are older, so she has more evening time free.  I work, of course, as a lawyer but my children are younger, so I don't have as much free time in the evenings.  Doing trial work, my professional life is quite stressful at times.  I think it all evens out.  At least, I hope it does.

I am grateful, truly grateful, for the many ways Alice and Tracy have cared for, helped and loved my mom during these dark, sometimes hopeless days.  I couldn't do it on my own and I couldn't handle it, emotionally, on my own.

If you read the blog or maybe just read this post, please stop by and see my mom or send her a card.  Also, please share her address with others who know her and ask them to send her a card.  She loves to get cards from friends.  Her new address is below:

Jane Newman
c/o NHC Place
211 Cool Springs Boulevard
Apt. #307
Franklin, Tennessee  37067

The Day the Music Died

Tom Petty died Monday and here I am, two days later, trying to make sense of it all.

After Jude and the boys went to bed Monday night, I walked through the neighborhood past midnight, listening to random songs by Tom Petty, Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, the Traveling Wilburys and Mudcrutch.  I needed to be by myself, somehow, to process the loss.  It felt, and still feels like, my world shifted.

A few of my oldest friends reached out to me because they knew how I felt about Tom Petty.  As I was walking, I got a text from Jay Miller in San Francisco.  We went to high school together.  His text was simple and to the point - "RIP Tom Petty.  That show we went to at the Opry is one of my fondest HS memories."  I convinced 12 or 13 of my friends to go to that show in 1982 or 1983 (my junior year of high school).  My mom and I waited in line at Port-o-Call in Harding Mall to get tickets and Doug Brown and I sat on the front row.  When the band was playing "Refugee" for the encore, we rushed the stage.  As Tom Petty played guitar, he walked up near the edge of the stage, reached down, and grabbed my hand.  True story.

Here's an early MTV video of "Refugee:"  dhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fFnOfpIJL0M

Tom Petty had already been my dude for four or five years at that point.  I fell in love with the Heartbreakers in 1978, when they released "You're Gonna Get It," their second album.  "Damn the Torpedoes" came out in 1979, when I was 13 years old, and I was off on a ride with Tom Petty that I never thought would end, at least not this soon.

I worked from home yesterday and, for the most part, sat on our back deck and listen to a Tom Petty playlist on Sonos on our outdoor speakers.  It was a beautiful fall day but as I listened to so many familiar songs, I was in a fog.  It still didn't seem real, somehow, that Tom Petty would never make any more music.  Our next door neighbor, Maureen, also working from home, leaned over the fence and we commiserated and exchanged Tom Petty stories.  Last night, I went down the rabbit hole and read obituaries and tribute pieces on the internet.  The obituary in the New York Times was excellent.

https://www.nytimes.com/2017/10/03/arts/music/tom-petty-dead.html?_r=0

I knew - I always knew - that when Tom Petty died, I would be profoundly affected.  And I was right.  There is no other celebrity whose death could seem so personal to me, so life altering.  And, yes, I didn't know Tom Petty and he didn't know me but, still, his music was the soundtrack to my life for almost 40 years, from my early teens to my early 50s.  It feels like I lost an old, longtime friend, as strange as that sounds.

I've spend a considerable amount of time the last couple of days trying to understand what it was about Tom Petty that resonated so deeply with me, so early and for so long.  Tom Petty stayed relevant for me, and for so many others, for four decades.  Why?  Those are two different questions, I think.

For me, as a 12 or 13 year old, Tom Petty just seemed so fucking cool.  I can remember staring at the album jacket inside "Damn the Torpedoes" over and over again.  I think it was a profile shot, with Tom wearing dark sunglasses and smoking a cigarette.  The background was green, I think.  He would have been around 28 or 29 years old at the time.  But he just looked so fucking cool, insouciant, really.

And he stayed that way for the next 35 + years.  Cool, rebellious and anti-establishment.  He fought with record companies.  He refused to allow the record company to raise the price of "Hard Promises" to $9.98, rather than $8.98.  He threatened to change the name of the album to "This is $8.98" until, finally, they relented and didn't raise the price.  That's the kind of shit he did.  Tom Petty always seems to stand for something, to stand on principle, even if it meant suing his record label and going bankrupt in the process.  That happened.

I think I identified with the fact that Tom Petty was not a good looking guy, certainly not in the classic, lead singer/movie star sense.  He was average looking.  And, though I loved - and I mean loved - his voice (I still do) - he didn't have a beautiful, traditional singing voice, not by any stretch of the imagination.  I identified with that, too.

Tom Petty taught me, on some level, to listen to the words of a song and not get caught up in how the voice singing the words sounded.  As a result and no doubt because of Tom Petty, I became big fans of artists like John Hiatt, John Prine and Lucinda Williams, to name a few.  As my longtime legal secretary, Lisa Johnson, once said, "you like all of the same artists - strange sounding voices but great songwriters."  Damn, she was right on the money with that observation.

I think I grew to appreciate great songwriting because of Tom Petty.  He wrote amazing songs all the way until the end.  "Trailer," a song he wrote and sung a year or so ago with Mudcrutch, his original band from Gainesville, FL, is fantastic.

As Rob Harvilla wrote in an obituary on The Ringer, everyone knows probably 25 Tom Petty songs by heart.  "'Know by heart is a very different notion than 'have them memorized.'"  Damn, that is so true.  I can play a Tom Petty song I haven't heard in years - and I've done that a lot the last two days - and its lyrics and the music come back to me immediately.  Why?  Because I know them by heart.  They're ingrained on my heart.  Here's a link to Rob Harvilla's obituary:

https://www.theringer.com/music/2017/10/3/16407332/tom-petty-dies-obituary

I also think in high school and later, in college, I enjoyed being identified as a huge Tom Petty guy.  Everyone knew he was my dude.  In every dorm room, fraternity house room and apartment I had in college, I had the same five Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers posters on my wall.  People gave me some shit about it, but they admired me, I think, because I stuck by him.  They knew I didn't give a shit if anyone else liked Tom Petty or thought he was cool.  It turned out, of course, that in the end, almost everyone liked him and thought he was cool.  I was just in on him early and never left.

I saw him in concert several times, of course.  I'll regret, though, for the rest of my life, not seeing him at Bridgestone Arena when he came to Nashville a few months ago.  At the time, I looked on Seat Geek and saw I could buy a ticket on the second row for $500.  It was his 40th anniversary tour and I thought I would treat myself to a night with Tom Petty on what might be his last big tour.  Ultimately, I decided not to go because I was busy at work, had a mediation the next day, etc.  I'll catch him next time, I thought.  Well, there won't be a next time.  Shit.

At every important time in my life, Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers were there.  As a teenager, on MTV when it was new, learning to drive, working my first job at Wal-Mart, going off to college, going to law school, getting married, getting divorced, getting married again, having children, turning  40, turning 50 - all of that.  Tom Petty was the soundtrack for all of those important events in my life.  Jason Isbel, who is an amazing songwriter in his own right, felt the same way and said it much more eloquently:

https://twitter.com/JasonIsbell/status/914938291400708096

When Ann and I were getting divorced 1997, and for the year or so after, I was in a dark place.  So was Tom Petty.  He and his first wife were divorce in 1996 and out of that divorce came the album "Echo."  It is, without a doubt, the band's darkest album, but it's one of my favorites.  Then, when I listened to "Room at the Top" or "Echo," it felt like he had written those songs for me.  That was comforting for me at the time, really comforting.  Hearing him sing those songs - those songs he had written during a difficult time in his life - helped me get through my difficult time.  I don't know why, but I know it did.  After the tour to support the album, Tom Petty quit playing songs off "Echo."  He said it was just too hard and brought back bad memories.  Here's is a video of "Room at the Top":    

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nQFCF9KESic

Tonight, while Jude was at book club, J.P., Joe and I watched a baseball playoff game (Arizona - Colorado).  Before bed, I switched over to Youtube and played some Tom Petty and the Heartbreaker videos.  When I played a video of "Refugee" live, in concert, from 1982, J.P. watched and listened intently, like he does when he hears a song for the first time.  I smiled as I watched him, watching Tom Petty.  Maybe Tom Petty will be his dude, too.

I could ramble on forever about Tom Petty and how his death has hit me so hard.  I've listened, really listened, to so many of his songs the last two days.  Some of the lyrics haunt me now that he's going.  This, from "Walls (Circus)", for example:

Some things are over.
Some things go on.
Part of me you carry.
Part of my is gone.

R.I.P. Tom Petty
October 20, 1950 - October 2, 2017