Waffle House Christmas

Dad and I had a Waffle House Christmas this morning.

My only plans for Christmas Day this year were to get over to Debbie's house between 10am and noon for a relaxing day of eating leftover turkey and watching movies. My day started when I got a "Merry Christmas" text from my brother at 6am. I groggily replied back, and ask him why he was up so early. Clearly, I don't have kids of my own. Kirk probably wasn't the only parent of small children up at 6am this Christmas morning. I did manage to roll over and get back to sleep, until my next text at 9:17am, declaring that someone now has that Wii game thing.

I decided to get up at that point, and get in some laundry and a shower, before heading over to Lapel. At a little past 10am, I was probably 15 minutes away from leaving for Debbie's, when Dad came back, and asked if I wanted to go to Waffle House for breakfast, which was a little random, and unexpected.

He explained that we had been out of eggs since my sister was in town last weekend and did some baking, and now that he had a taste for eggs, and Marsh was closed, an omelette at Waffle House was sounding pretty good. He had called to confirm that they were in fact open on Christmas Day, and they were. What he didn't mention was that Mom went into the hospital a year ago on the Christmas Eve, and Dad slept in the hospital for the next seven nights, until Mom died in hospice. He was going to be home alone all Christmas Day this year, so when he asked me to go to Waffle House, I knew it was a good idea for both of us, and I could still get to Debbie's house by noon, about the time her 17 and 26 year old sons got up. No 6am wake up for them.

I was a bit surprised to pull into a nearly full Waffle House parking lot, but we got a decent spot without using the handicap tag, and though the House was rockin', we quickly settled into two stools at the end of the counter, and were soon sipping coffee in good, heavy mugs. I've never seen so many people working behind the counter of a Waffle House, nor have they ever been so festive and friendly, and they refused to let the grouchy Manager/plate set up man bring down their holiday spirit.

The sign on the door mentioned a longstanding Waffle House tradition of being open 24 hours on Christmas and New Year's Day. A sign on a counter card further explained that Christmas Day was traditionally the busiest day of the year for most Waffle Houses. As I surveyed the room, I saw a variety of folk. I saw the expected road weary long haul drivers, but I also saw some older folks, perhaps grandparents or empty-nesters, for whom the notion of opening presents at 6am is a far distant memory. Everyone seemed pleased that Waffle House is always open on Christmas, but still, none seemed as festive as the counter team. I was impressed, especially as an old restaurant manager myself.

Dad and I both had the Toddle House special, although I subbed in sausage instead of ham for my omelette. I'm pretty predictable. Our bill was $18.25, and though Dad insisted on paying, I insisted on leaving the tip. I got the confused look that I expected from Dad, as I slipped a $10
under the salt shaker. I simply said, "It's Christmas, they're working, and they did great."

We got in and out pretty quickly, and we were back home by 11:30am. Dad and I talked for a few minutes about where we were last year at this time, and we had an emotional moment, before I wished him a Merry Christmas, and slipped away for a relaxing day at Debbie's.

As I drove home from Debbie's tonight, and reflected on my day, I was thankful for many things, but perhaps I was most thankful that Waffle House was open today, and Dad asked me to join him for a very special Christmas breakfast.

I think I'll always remember my first Waffle House Christmas.

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dead air

I haven't posted in awhile. This working full-time really cuts into my creative writing time.
I have one thing I didn't quite finish writing a few weeks ago, and an idea written in my head
for something else. I just need to have/take the time to clear my head, and hit the keyboards.

soon.

Toots is dead

Toots died over the weekend.

Toots was not the family dog or my grandmother's parakeet.
(Actually, my Grandma's parakeet was Tweety-bird, but T-bird died in the early Seventies.)
Toots was, and will always be Bernice Luttrell, and she probably hadn't been called Toots
since the 1940's, and probably mostly by my Mom's Mom, Hilma Miller Schofield Bailey Campbell, who was her best friend as they grew up in Colburn, Indiana.
Bernice Wolf Luttrell was 96.

Grandma Hilma and Bernice were still very close when Hilma married Lowell Schofield. Lowell was out of the picture by the time my Mom had turned two years old in 1935, and Hilma worked hard at surviving as a single mother during the Great Depression. Shortly after Mom turned two, Hilma made a difficult decision of family survival; She asked Bernice if she could take in my mom, and care for her, while Hilma worked at least two full-time jobs, and kept the family afloat.

Bernice Wolf had married Bronson Luttrell in 1933, and they gladly stepped forward, and took Mom in, and helped raise her as if she was their own for over a year. The bond grew strong, as my mom would often call them mommy and daddy, and Bernice told me in a letter earlier this year that it broke their hearts when Grandma Hilma remarried in 1936, and brought Mom back home. Naturally they wished for Mom to be with her mother, but they never forgot little Jeanette, and Bernice later named her first daughter Jeanette, after my mom.

I was unable to miss work and attend the funeral service today, but Dad made the drive over to Lafayette to pay his respects. This evening, he told me that there had only been a handful of people at the Monday mid-day visitation, and he did not see a familiar face. However, before he left, a lady had approached, and asked if he was Al Hornocker. She introduced herself as Jeanette, and said she remembered Dad from her parents' 60th Wedding Anniversary party in 1993. Dad gave her the envelope I had sent along, containing a few recently discovered and identified black and white photos of Bernice and Hilma from the 1920's.
Jeanette told my dad that her mom had very much enjoyed the letter I had sent her in January, shortly after Mom had passed, as it had brought back so many fond memories.

It has only been in the past two years that I have become aware of Bernice, and her role in my mom's life. In the summer of 2008, I asked Mom if she would like to drive over to Lafayette and visit with Bernice in the nursing home. She didn't say no, but I could never pin her down on a time. In retrospect, I now realize that Mom's health had already begun to deteriorate, and she just hadn't been up for the trip. Even after Mom died, I had thought of visiting Bernice on my own, but I never made it happen. I would like to have thanked Bernice in person, but I will have to be satisfied with the letters she and I exchanged in January.

I was telling Debbie this story over the weekend, and I had commented that it is a story from a bygone era. I suggested that a situation like Bernice taking in Mom to help Hilma just wouldn't happen these days. But Debbie reminded me that her parents had taken in and adopted a teenage neighbor girl in the mid-1970's, when a terminal medical situation had fractured the family of the girl. And another close friend had stayed with Debbie's family for several months in the aftermath of the divorce of her parents.

Debbie told me of the many close-knit families in Lapel, whose parents look after the other kids, and in some cases, will bring them into their homes to provide a safe and stable environment during some rough teenage patches. And I thought of kids who have been taken in by my
Aunt Rosemary, and by Mrs. Sauer, and other good people I have known.

And then, at church on Sunday, Pastor Dave talked about unreserved compassion for others, and the story of the Good Samaritan, and he told many stories about good people stepping out of their comfort zones to show compassion to others. And I realized that the act of compassion that Bernice had shown my mom and my grandma in 1935, was in fact a timeless act, and not a vestige of a bygone era. It just seems that way, thanks to the Great Depression and the black and white photos.

Bernice Wolf Luttrell died over the weekend at the age of 96, and though we never actually met, her act of compassion nearly 75 years ago causes me to pause, and be thankful for her life.

I wonder if anyone will be thankful for my life when I die in 2057......

Go rest high on that mountain, Bernice.

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lake day

Dad and I drove up to the lake cottage this morning to put the finishing
touches on closing it up for the winter.
Actually, Dad has been gradually closing the cottage for several weeks now,
so the only remaining tasks were to put the boat cover on the pontoon,
and take out the battery to bring home.
We drove a little under four hours to do about 50 minutes of work, but
I got a nap on the way home. I don't think Dad did.
He was driving.

Putting the boat cover on is always a challenge, because it's a tight fit,
and in some places difficult and awkward to reach with dry feet.
The last few snaps of the fading red canvas boat cover were hard to get
snapped from the dock, so I changed into shorts, and snapped the rest
from the knee deep water. October lake water is a bit chilly,
but the feeling in my toes is slowly returning.

After buttoning up the cottage, we stopped at the Oakdale Dam Inn for lunch.
As we walked in past the ice machine in the parking lot,
I looked up at the giant catfish sign, and thought of the classic picture
Kirk, Kristin, Mark, and I took atop the ice machine in 1996. Ironically,
Kristin and Mark were just dating, and my ex-wife snapped the picture.
Somebody knew something. I think it was Mark.

We had a nice lunch in a bar area full of off-season locals. I thought about
getting a burger, but decided to follow Dad's lead, and get their famous catfish,
which they claim is the best by a "Dam" sight. I thought about ordering the
Cheese Weasels for an appetizer, until I realized that they were the featured
Saturday night band listed on the "Specials" calendar.

I've never taken a picture with my new phone, so I made Dad stand in front
of the ice machine, and I took his picture. It was sunny with a glare, and I couldn't see
my phone screen well enough to see that I was too far away from his pose, but if you
look really close, you can sorta tell it's dad....and my thumb.
I tried to take a candid shot inside the Oakdale, but the lighting wasn't good.

I didn't get up to the lakes as much as I would have liked this summer, but
I am really glad I made the trip today with Dad.
It was a nice, productive day trip, and one I'll probably always remember.

Much like the picture we took on top of the ice machine in 1996.

Mom moment

It happened again.

Debbie and I went to the 9am church service yesterday,
and when we ended our service singing "How Great Thou Art",
I started thinking about Mom, and I had a good cry.

After the service, I tried to gather myself, and figure out
what triggered that, and Debbie said she had welled up as
soon as she realized the song, which we sang at Mom's funeral service.
I started crying again, and then a couple stopped by and asked if
they could pray with us, and it turned into a whole thing.

I knew the guy from a men's group I attended there recently, and
when I could talk, I tried to explain that I was just having a "Mom moment".
We talked for a bit, and they invited us to their couple's Bible study.
Not sure we can fit that in at the moment, but it was nice of them.

Two things I learned at church today today:

1. When you cry at the end of the church service, concerned persons
will come to your side and lay hands on you.
(That's a God thing)

2. Little (or big) things still make me think of, and cry about Mom.
(That's a Mom thing....and maybe a God thing, too)

I guess I'm ok with both those things.

text

I was really hoping to get my hair cut today.

I had an entire Thursday off, and though I don't exactly have the nine inches of hair needed to donate my ponytail to Locks of Love (click for link), the edges of the bowl are getting a little ragged, so I called my niece this morning to see if she could fit me into her schedule. My niece is a twenty-five year old single mom, working full-time as a professional salon stylist, as she works hard to raise my nearly two year old nephew. Or is it my grand-nephew? How does that work again?

So I sent her a text from my cell phone this morning and asked if she was working. She seems to have a history of changing phones, so I included "from Uncle Jay" in my text, in case she didn't recognize my number, which has happened in the past. The response I got threw me a little bit. The reply said she was on her honeymoon until Tuesday.

I stared at my phone for a full minute, and tried to process this information. My niece, by her own admission, hasn't been in a relationship for some time now, so the idea of a honeymoon seemed unlikely, or even a secret elopement. I decided that, surely, she must be making a joke, so I replied back, "Honeymoon?", and continued on a confusing exchange.

"Yeah, that trip you go on after you get married! LOL"

"Married?!?"

"Uh, yeah!"
(long pause from me...)
"Ok, I'm very confused. I was just hoping to get my hair cut by my lovely niece."

"Well, I've never cut hair, but I could try."
(another long pause by a further confused me, until she replied again...)
"I just got this phone a month ago, and I don't have an Uncle Jay. Who is this?"

This is when I finally remembered that my niece had told me last time she cut my hair that she had a new cell number, but I had been too busy to write it down, or put it into my phone.
I sent one last text to "random texting honeymoon girl", explaining that I had an old number,
and that I was sorry for bothering her. She didn't seem too bothered.

After all, she spent 20 minutes texting me from her honeymoon.

I called my sister later and told her the story, and she didn't seem too happy with the idea of a surprise wedding by her daughter, and I had to remind her that it wasn't actually her.

As I thought about it later, it occurred to me that this sort of textual confusion could quite easily become embarrassing, if one thought they were texting a loved on, only to find out that they had been hitting the wrong contact. Perhaps even worse, if that contact was actually known to you.

Fortunately, I had only been in search of an honest haircut, so I managed to hang up with my dignity intact. Unfortunately, I never did connect with my niece, so I never got that haircut. Funny thing though.....when I finally got her new number, her voice mail said that she was out of town for a few days.

Wait a minute......

.

Can I help you?

I'm a little over a month into my new job/career as a manager (trainee) at Menards, and I continue to learn something new, not just every day, but with every guest interaction I have, as I walk the hard concrete aisles of the # 3 U.S. home improvement retailer.

At first, it felt a little odd approaching store guests, and asking if I could help them, while my inside voice was pointing out that I most likely would not have the answers they sought. But I have fearlessly walked into these interactions, confident that I could either find the answer, or find someone else who did know, and could actually help.

Retail is a funny dance for the customer, and the customer service associate. I know from my own personal shopping experience, that I'm uncomfortable being "pounced on" too soon in a retail environment. But as soon as I have questions, I get really frustrated if I can't find help.

As a perfect example, I've been shopping for a particular shoe to buy, and wear at work, and I was in the Mounds Mall yesterday, where The Finish Line shoe store might have carried the shoe. As I approached the store, I could see that the only person in the store was in uniform. I really just wanted to stroll in, take a quick look at the selection, consider my options, and walk out when I was done. I almost didn't go into the store, because I didn't want to deal with the salesperson.
It's nothing personal. I'm weird, and I have this unfounded sense of guilt when I leave a store without a purchase, as if the bottom line financial fate of that business depends on me contributing a sale. Earlier this summer, I browsed a new used book store that seemed starved for business, and I bought two paperback books I didn't need, because I felt bad if I didn't support them. I had envisioned the owners' slumped shouldered, frustrated look of desperation, if I walked in and out of their business without a purchase, especially after I had engaged them in conversation about how a small business was surviving in a tough economy.

I guess I got too emotionally invested. I never have this feeling when the store is busy, and I avoid customer service interaction. There have been times that I've actually waited until another customer went into a store, before I entered. Is this a case of extreme, but misplaced empathy for the business owner, or just the fellow worker? But I'd rather have this attitude, than the rude, dismissive, "It's their job" attitude toward sales people that my ex-wife used to unleash on hard working associates, left standing outside the dressing room with an armload of unpurchased garments, and a look of deflated exasperation.

But I digress.....

Where was I going with this? Oh yeah, the retail dance.....I noticed early on at Menards that I would often initiate and offer assistance to customers, who were very quick to give me the "no thanks, just looking" gesture, but then, within minutes, they would seek me out with questions, and we would ultimately work together for a resolution to their search. Maybe it's a control thing. Customers hate to get sold to, so they would rather have a sense of controlling the conversation, especially at the outset.

These interactions have been especially interesting as I continue to learn and navigate a new world of information and wisdom. Some wise customers know exactly what they want, and I just have to translate their request, and find their item in the store. Others have an idea of what they need, but do not have the language or wisdom to paint the picture, and that is a different translation altogether, especially as I am just learning the language myself.

But in all instances, I am quick to let my guest know that I may be new in this department, but I will not leave them until I have either found their answer, or I have handed them off to someone who can better serve them. I am constantly amazed at how understanding and patient people are, when you are vulnerable about your wisdom, yet willing to help. More often than I can count, a guest I have helped has commented that, "Now we both learned something new today."

Wisdom comes from experience, and it grows with every interaction.

Maybe I am more wise than I realize....

gutter ball

Couple of days ago, I was working at my new Menards job, and my training at the moment was to check, reset, and inventory the gutter aisle, which turned into a six hour project. But it looked great when I was done. I had warned my training manager that I might take longer, because I'm kinda meticulous about getting it looking right. He said, "That's why I'm having YOU do it."

About four hours into it, I saw a familiar face round the corner, and he began appraising the polycarbonate roof panels. I called out, Hey Coach Miller!", but he didn't seem to hear me.
I said, "Mr. Miller!", but still nothing. So I got up off my knees, and walked toward him, and
tried again. He looked up, and I was met with a perplexed look of confusion, as Coach tried to process why a smiling man in a blue vest was approaching him. I gave him the easiest way out I could think of, and I visibly pointed to my name tag, and said, "It's Jay Hornocker!". I waited a beat, and finally the recognition came, and he exclaimed, "Horn!!".

Harold Miller was our Phys-Ed teacher at North Side Junior High School back in the mid-seventies, and he was our basketball coach when we won the 9th grade City Championship back in 1976. I was a second or third stringer, and was really on the team for height, more than talent, but the height wasn't helping me that much either.

As I stood next to the polycarbonate roofing panels, Coach chuckled, and told me that he had just thought of me the other day. He asked if I remembered running "Death Valleys" after basketball practice. For the uninitiated, this was, and may still be a common ending to the basketball practices of most young players. Each player takes his turn stepping to the free throw line to shoot two free throws, as his teammates face him on the near baseline. If he misses, everyone sprints forward and back, from the baseline to the free throw line, the mid-court line, the far free throw line, and the far baseline. If he makes it, everyone rests. Practice typically isn't over until the last guy has hit two in a row. Which brings me into the story.

Coach Miller laughed as he asked, "Do you remember how all the guys groaned every time you stepped to the free throw line for Death Valleys?" I may have blocked out that particular memory of Junior High peer pressure and frustration. But I did remember that I wasn't nearly the best free throw shooter on the 1976 North Side Braves 9th Grade team.
In fact, I may have been the worst. This may have been one of the reasons I was the Indian Mascot, and not the Indian power forward once we arrived at Anderson High School.

However, Coach did recall that I never seemed to tire when I was running at basketball practice, and he may have been the one who suggested that I run track in the Spring. I did run, and managed to make a nice little high school career out of the 880 yard run, with a couple trips to the State Meet in Indy.

Unfortunately, I did not qualify for the finals of the "Death Valley".

Coach is now a full-time farmer, and we talked for a spell about this year's crop prospects, and I reminded him of the one summer day that Macy, Funk, and I baled hay for him on a sunny, 90 degree afternoon. Hardest days work I've ever done.

Eventually, we both had to get back to work. Coach, or rather, Farmer Miller had to get back to his farm on West Eighth Street, and I had to finish sorting my Menards gutter aisle.

We shook hands, and I helped him get a twelve foot roof panel off the rack, and he was on his way. But as he walked away, I recalled what a positive influence he had been for us, and how he had helped mold our character and values, and I was thankful that he had stepped up in our lives back in 1976.

And I felt just a bit less guilty for missing all those free throws after basketball practice.

stall

For this new school year at Interactive Academy, Debbie has taken on a new responsibility, as the primary teacher for the newly offered two-year old class. I'm not sure I agree with a two-year old being away from Mom, and at school from 8am till 4pm, but I guess Debbie wouldn't have a job if all the Moms home-schooled their young children, instead of working 9-5.

But Debbie is so good at knowing what they need and perceive of the world at this ripe young age, and she absolutely loves the challenge. And often the funny moments overshadow the challenges. And naturally, the first one happened in the bathroom.

Most of the "twos" are in the process of being potty trained, and may be wearing pull-ups, or straight diapers. Yesterday, Deb had a little boy in the class who insisted that he knew how to potty, and did not need Miss Debbie to help. She let him try the first time, and was impressed when he crawled onto the seat in the stall, did his business, flushed, and washed his hands, as he had presumably been taught at home. When he came out, Miss Debbie said "Good job!", and the boy returned proudly to the classroom.

Later in the afternoon, it was time for him, and another boy to potty, and the first boy once again claimed his potty independence. However, the other boy called for assistance, and Miss Debbie was there in the stall to help him out. As she stepped back from this boy's stall, she caught a curious sight through the crack into the independent boy's stall. He had once again dutifully crawled up onto the seat, and had done his business, however, Debbie now realized that on this trip, and most likely on his first trip, the boy had never bothered to take off his diaper, and he was sitting on the toilet seat dutifully doing his business, just as he had been trained at home.

Except, he was doing it right into a full diaper, as he sat on the seat, and even flushing afterward.

Debbie spoke with the boy's mom when she came to pick him up at day's end, and they had a bit of a laugh over it. Seems that he is on Pull-up's at home, but Mom was nervous about how he would do at school, so she sent him to school in the non-removable diaper.

I'll be curious to hear how it gets sorted out tomorrow.

remembering the season

relax.

Sometimes, after a long day, it just feels good to sit on the couch and enjoy some quality television programming. For many a night, Debbie and I would watch the back-to-back broadcasts of "House" on the USA Network, and we were especially happy when they ran a Sunday marathon.
But it eventually got to the point that we had both seen nearly every "House" at least once, so we dug out the first season of "Grey's Anatomy" from a box, and began watching that. I'd never seen it, so it took awhile to figure out who McDreamy was. Or Grey.

I'm not sure why, but a few months ago, we switched our viewing desires to the half-hour sitcom,
and we rented Season One of "Will & Grace". Actually, we borrowed it from the Lapel library.
We've continued through Season Three, and currently have Season Four on reserve at the Anderson Public Library. I think we may have borrowed and watched the first season of
"Two and a Half Men" recently, and while we are awaiting the arrival of W&G4, I remembered that I had borrowed the first season of "How I Met Your Mother" on DVD from an old Starbucks friend last December, just before I got downsized out. Guess I better get Joe's address, and mail this back to him. After we get through Season One.

Last night, we had a productive evening of hanging two key pieces of drywall, and a few rows of insulation, as well as, completing some installing and wiring of outlet boxes in Samuel's renovation-in-progress room. Actually 75% of the house is a renovation in progress, but Sam's room is the focus right now, so he can have his bedroom back for at least some of his Senior year.

After we put our tools down, we popped some popcorn (real kernal-popped on the stove, not microwaved in a bag), cracked open a couple bottles of frosty beverages, and we turned on
"How I Met Your Mother". The last episode we watched for the evening was set on New Year's Eve in New York. The main characters were determined to make it the best, most fun NYE ever, complete with the midnight kiss. It was a funny episode, but what made it memorable for me, was that it made me stop and try and remember where Debbie and I had spent New Year's Eve earlier this year.

It took a moment for me to recall that we hadn't really celebrated New Year's, or any of the holidays, for that matter, because I had lost my job on December 22nd, and then Mom had gone into ICU on the 24th, and she never came home. On New Year's Eve, we were in the process of admitting her into Hospice in Indy, and she had died in her sleep the morning of January 2nd.
I know I spent the night of Christmas Eve, and most of Christmas day in the ICU waiting room, and I may have been with Mom on New Year's Eve in hospice, but I really don't remember.

All this hit me, as I watched the sitcom characters kissing at midnight, and I broke down and had my first good cry on Debbie's shoulder in at least a couple of months. I was reminded how difficult the 2009 holidays may be for the Horn family, but I was comforted knowing that I'll be spending them with Debbie this year. And as much as I'll miss Mom over the coming months, I know how much I'll treasure kissing Debbie at midnight on New Year's Eve 2010.

God willing.

I got a job

Seven months after I was downsized out of my position of Starbucks Store Manager, I have been accepted into the Manager Trainee Program at Menard's, the #3 home improvement retailer in the U.S., behind Home Depot and Lowe's, but more impressive because Menard's is mostly Midwest regional, and privately held.

I haven't been the best of company in person, or on this blog for quite a few months, so I promise to improve on that, as I begin this new and exciting career journey. More later....

breaking news...

new guy in our Bible study

I love my Monday evening Bible Study/ Men's small group.

I have really been enjoying our study of the Gospel of Luke, among other books, and learning how God speaks to us...well, me, though words written 2000 years ago.

And I also enjoy the back end of our evenings, when the four or five of us are able to share what's going on in our lives in a safe, non-judgmental environment. For the most part, if one guy is dealing with a particular issue, at least one other guy in the room has been there before, and can offer support and encouragement from experience.

We had new guy join us tonight. I think he sometimes attends the church where we meet.
We had an interesting discussion about Jairus and his daughter, from the first chapter of Luke.
Someone snuck a grab at the cloak of Jesus, and it turns out that the daughter was only sleeping.

When we transitioned into our personal sharing time, the new guy went first, and kept going for nearly an hour. He was clearly in some fresh, raw pain, and he had chosen to join us tonight to share and vent, instead of drinking at home. His life situation is complex, confusing, and painful, and we shared and encouraged as much as we felt our limitations would allow.

But I remember having a regrettable thought after the new guy had been talking for at least thirty minutes. I remember, for a moment thinking that this new guy was taking up too much of our Bible study time, and he was cutting into the time I needed to talk about MY stuff.

But about as quickly as I had that thought, I was struck with a moment of Spiritual wisdom.

I realized that God had a hand in drawing the new guy into visiting our group tonight, and it seemed clear that God wanted our group to give the guy our unselfish and undivided attention and support. No guarantees on how it all might turn out for him, but he was aching to be heard,
and it was much less important tonight for me to speak, than is was for me to listen.

And I did listen. And parts of his story were achingly familiar to me, and after I listened, I was able to share with him some insight on the time I had spent in that same hole.
He listened, and he heard, and he may have even taken some valuable nugget with him that will help him in his next vulnerable moment.

I have been struggling with some life issues recently, and I often ask God as I pray to show me what my purpose is supposed to be here on Earth. But I also have been asking Him to show me how I can be serving Him here on Earth.

Tonight He showed me a glimpse of His answer, and His Grace.

He asked me to be still, and listen.

it's in your blood

This blog post won't really be my usual fun, cute, or poignant posting.
Ok, I hope they are at least cute. Usually.
But at least this one has a happy ending.

Debbie has two grandchildren from her eldest daughter, Angela. Abigail is 5 1/2,
and Jacob is 2 1/2. Abigail has some medication that she is given daily, which comes
in a small bottle of orange cough-syrupy kind of liquid.

Thursday evening, Jacob quietly climbed up onto the counter, grabbed the bottle,
and drank some of the medication, recapped the bottle, and put it into the silverware drawer.
No one was the wiser until a few hours later, when he appeared to be unusually groggy and
unresponsive at bedtime, which is when Angela and husband Graham called 911, and Jacob
was rushed to the PICU of a northside Indy hospital.

Unfortunately, the the liquid cause of his condition was not immediately known, so for over
12 agonizing hours, Jacob was treated for what was thought to be a seizure. On Friday, a new
doctor visited, and deduced through reasoning, questions, and blood work that Jacob had accidentally nearly overdosed on his sister's medicine.

I cannot imagine the mixed reactions and emotions of any parents, given this news.
On one hand, the accidental ingestion of medicine could be relatively easily treated and neutralized, hopefully with no permanent residual effects. And this also rules out what might
have been the onset of some new, or genetic and lifelong medical challenge.
So this is really good news, at least after the child gets home from the hospital.

On the other hand, in this situation, it is very difficult for the parents to not feel guilty for accidentally leaving medication in an accessible place to a young child. But judging by the many stories I've heard this past weekend about children getting into stuff, despite good parents doing their best to protect them, I'd guess there is only so much you can control.

I am told that the doctors and nurse that Angela and Graham spoke with were extremely
kind, capable, and even vulnerable. In addition to telling them several stories of children going to unexpected lengths to get into medicine and chemicals, each had a personal story of their own children creating similar medical situations. The doctor even told of the "poopy pill box".

It seems that the child of the doctor had found a small round plastic pill box on the bathroom counter, containing several pills. I don't recall how the doctor discovered that the child had swallowed the pillbox whole, but in the end, it was a waiting game, and eventually, the child pooped out the intact pill box, pills contained, unscathed, and undissolved. The doctor retrieved the pillbox, cleaned it up, and has kept it for a keepsake, and a reminder.

I don't know if it helped or not when Graham called his Mum in Liverpool, and told her the story.
She replied with her own story about how a very young Graham had found a bottle of pills in his childhood home, and convinced his younger brother, Bobby, to take two for every one Graham took. Fortunately, the hospital took care of them, and all turned out well.

After three days of PICU and prayers, Jacob returned home on Sunday, and has improved immensely. He will have a couple low-key days of DVD camp in the TV room, while he regains his footing, his strength, and full muscle control. The ice cream should help...so I'm told.

This might have been the feel-good end of my version of Jacob's story, except that Debbie called her vacationing mom today, who is out visiting Debbie's sister in Montana. When Grandma Dixie heard the story, it turns out she had one of her own to tell.

Dixie reminded Debbie that when she was very young, but still the oldest of six children, she had gotten into a bottle of children's aspirin, and not only helped herself, but she shared with her brothers and sister. When Dixie discovered Debra Jo's aspirin distribution, she called the family doctor, Dr. Kiely, who told Dixie to have the kids drink mustard water, which would make them all regurgitate the pills, and other assorted snacks.

Now that I think of it, I can't recall Debbie ever putting mustard on a sandwich.

Jacob, it's in your blood.

rounding third

Last weekend, Debbie and I took a day trip up to the family lake cottage on Lake Freeman. It was a wonderful day, sitting on the dock, grabbing some sun and some nap time.
And we even took a long boat ride to the dam and back.

While we were there, Dad mentioned the answering machine message from 8 year old Zack, his grandson, and my nephew. And Kristin's son, as long as we're at it. I had a big grin on my big face listening to Zack tell Grandpa about pitching in his game, and striking two people out, and throwing two others out. I decided that I needed to see this in person, even if Zack does live five hours away, near Cleveland.

I'm going through some professional and personal struggles at the moment. I lost my job to downsizing last December, and I've since had difficulty deciding what my next career direction should be, as well as, how to get there. So I have some available time that I would not have with a regular work schedule. I've really tried to to embrace and recognize this time as a blessing.
I've had time at home with Mom, before she died, and I've been able to be here with Dad in the months that have followed, and we take turns leaning on each other, as needed.

There are many things that you can do for your friends, family members, and significant others, but there is rarely any gift more valuable than the gift of quality time spent together. So I've tried to be very aware of opportunities to take advantage of my available time, and share it with my loved ones. This would include several trips to Sweetser, Indiana to watch my brother Kirk's girls play Upward basketball and soccer. I've had the joy of getting to know my grand-nephew Jaylen better, when I helped out my sister, and niece by babysitting, and changing a diaper for the first time in my life (see blog post). Nevermind that I put it on backwards. I proudly wore my Lapel Bulldogs Track t-shirt at nearly all of Sam's high school track meets, and I attended Debbie's granddaughter, Abigail's Memorial Day Bike Parade. I enjoyed reading "The Monster At The End Of This Book" to Debbie's pre-schoolers recently. And Debbie and I have already been to the lakes twice as many times as we went all last summer, when my job schedule was jacked up, and I didn't have the time.

I certainly don't mean to suggest that I'm a Super-Hero for attending all the things that parents attend every day, and every week. I'm just saying that I appreciate having the opportunities to share in these memories at this time in my life.

So when Kristin told me Zack had a game on Tuesday at 6:45pm, I decided that a road trip was in order. Unfortunately, my road buddy, Debbie, is Camp Director at Interactive Academy, and could not make the trip, so I headed east on I-70 solo on Tuesday around noon, and arrived in Wadsworth, Ohio in time to pick up the twins, Allison and Zachary, at their day care academy.

The jaw-dropping look from Allison was priceless, when she spotted me standing in the doorway of her classroom. She yelled, "Uncle Georgy!!!", and then ran to find Zack. Zack did his very best to play it cool in front of his friends, and I got a subduded "What's up?", and a leg hug from him.

We had time for a new house tour and some snacks, before we headed to the big game at a minimalist ball field behind the neighborhood elementary school. We arrived early enough
for the kids to play some pre-game outfield "catch", although it seemed that I spent quite a bit of time retrieving incoming wayward balls. I settled into my foldable lawn chair down the third base line with the rest of the Cub parents. Just before the little sisters of the ball players departed for the nearby playground, they hit up their parents for the snacks and juiceboxes
stashed in the many diaper bags and book bags. One Mom told us that, when she had asked her little girl to grab a snack from the pantry and put it in the bag, she had grabbed a
can of Spaghettio's, and the mom held up the can as proof. No one had thought to bring a Coleman
stove, so the Spaghettio's remained unopened, and uneaten.

The game itself was more competitive and entertaining than I expected.
There were the highs and lows that you might expect.
In this league, they let the kids pitch the first two innings, and then the coaches/dads pitched the rest of the game. It was a bit sad when the coach's son cried after getting pulled from the pitcher's mound 19 pitches into his mandated 25 max pitch count, after walking in too many runners. But he made up for it later with his three run home run.

Zack had a solid game playing catcher. As is the nature of this level of baseball, nearly every pitch was caught by the dad/umpire at the backstop. But it was amusing to see Zack peer into his catcher's mitt after every pitch pass him, always expecting to see the ball miraculously appear in the webbing. At the plate, he made decent contact, got on base a few times, and even scored a run, looking like a Serengeti Gazelle on the base paths.





















Zack's dad, Mark, was the first base coach. He is very good about reminding the kids who reach base about their options, when the next batter makes contact. Mark related a funny exchange with one of the better players on the team, after the kid reached first, and Mark reminded him to
run on a grounder, and tag on a fly ball. The player looked at Mark, and said in annoyed voice,
"You tell me that every time!", to which Mark replied, "And I'll keep reminding you, until you can recite it back to me when you get here."

Despite surrendering an eight run lead in the last two innings, our Cubs managed to hold on and win the game, and after completing the high-five line, players from both teams celebrated with their post-game juice bombs and Rice Krispy treats.

Later at Kristin's home, after some local pizza, Zack and Allison fell asleep laying on top of their a Uncle Georgy on the big couch of the TV room. We carried them upstairs, tucked them into their beds, and said good night. Later, as I lay in the darkness of the basement bedroom, always the coolest part of the house in so many ways, I prayed in thankfulness for the opportunity to spend this kind of time, and create these kinds of memories with my niece and nephew. And it didn't seem like that much later that I heard them bounding down the stairs at 6:45am to wake me up.
We sat in my guest bed, and talked until it was time for my sister to take them to camp.

I was a little sad to pull out of the driveway at noon, and the five hour drive home didn't go nearly as quickly as it had 24 hours earlier. Anticipation and adrenaline are better than caffeine.
Someone once said that, a good companion is the best short cut to a long trip, and I really missed having Debbie in my passenger seat, but I did drive with the fresh memory of smiles and laughter, and several Diet Pepsi's in my cooler.

And in the end, I was much like Zack on third base....I couldn't wait to get home.


.

lawn boy

I am NOT a lawnmower killer.

Toward the end of last summer, I was attempting to clean Dad's push mower after a dusty 75 minute cardio-burning, grass session.
I don't know why I decided to use the garden hose for the first time, but the next time I used
the mower, it ran like there was water in the gas line, or somewhere it should not have been.
Later, the lawnmower shop guy absolved me of my guilt, when he told me that something entirely different was broken, and parts and repairs would be more than a new mower.
So we finished the summer on Dad's John Deere rider.
Up until the flat tire.

Dad jacked up the Deere, removed the tire, and I had the tire guy downtown fix it.
After Dad reinstalled the tire, I fired the rider up for one last pre-fall mow and mulch.
We couldn't get the transmission to engage, and the John Deere sat dormant in the garage
until this Spring, when Dad called his friend Tom, who said he had a guy, and we called his guy,
who came and took it to his shop to look at the tranny, and give it a good Spring tune up.

When he brought it back, he told me that it had only been missing a small metal bar-like
key, that engaged the transmission, but must've fallen out in the garage or the yard.
He had replaced the missing key, and the rider was working fine.
I took three steps toward the driveway, and picked up a rusted piece of metal I'd spotted on the floor just the day before. "That would be the piece you were missing", he said.

I suppose we could have survived with just the riding mower, but I really prefer to push,
at least while I'm still able. I enjoy the exercise, and I think it goes quicker.
So Dad went to Sears and bought a new Craftsman mulching push mower, very similar to
the one we'd had before. The second time I used it, I pulled the rope completely out of....
well, wherever the rope goes when it's wound up inside the mower.
I took it back to Sears.

I was informed that they could not fix it on-site, but would need to send it to Cincinnati, but
we could just get a new one on exchange that day. I took a new one home.

On the first attempt with the new mower, I pulled the rope completely out again.

Now I've been going to the gym with Debbie recently, but I've really only done cardio on the bike and the treadmill, and I am probably in the worst shape of my life. So I refused to accept that I
was out-muscling the mower, as I pulled the ripcord.
So I took it back to Sears.

I was once again told of the Cincinnati option, and the salesperson was a little surprised that I
still wanted to stay with this model of Craftsman mower, despite the obvious model defect.
I noticed another customer browsing the lawnmowers, and I told him that the model he was looking at was the one I was trying to successfully introduce onto my lawn environment,
and it was a good model, as long as you didn't pull the cord out.

Meanwhile, my sales guy processed an exchange for me, and I went back to Merchandise Pickup to....well, you know, pick up my merchandise. After a brief wait, I was told that they were out of stock on that particular mower, but they did have a display model available. I said that was fine, and we walked out onto the sales floor just in time to see the customer I had talked to, paying for the display model of my mower.

Ten days, and two rider circuits later, I finally had a third Craftsman mulching push mower in the garage, and I was more than a little anxious as I pushed it into the driveway to attempt a start.
As Dad watched from the shade of the garage, I very gingerly gave it a gentle, twelve inch pull, and was relieved to see that the mower started, and the rope settled back into it's circular home.

We're nearly two months into the lawn mowing season, and since we brought home the third
Craftsman mower, I haven't had any problems with the rope, and I've actually turned it into a game to see how slightly I can pull the rope, and still start the mower. It doesn't take much.

Now, if all that weren't enough, I thought I killed Debbie's old mower a few weeks ago.
On her mower, the rope is permanently pulled to it's max, and you have to reach underneath
and twist the blade to rewind the cord, before you can attempt to start it. I'm not nearly as comfortable with the idea of sticking my hand under the mower to twist the blade as Debbie is,
so I tilted her mower on it's side, and used a stick to turn the blade.
It took awhile for all the black oil to leak out onto the mower deck, but it was obvious early on
that the 90*, on it's side tilt hadn't been a good idea, and after using three old rag socks to soak up the spilled oil, and having no back-up small engine oil, I abandoned the job with the middle half her back yard left higher than the rest. Sort of a mow-hawk. sorry....so bad.

Fortunately, when I was able to add new oil, and keep her mower upright, it worked fine, and I was once again absolved of lawnmower battery.

Debbie's brother John has a bit of farmland and horse pastures, and he is always looking for thrill-seeking city folk wishing to drive his tractor for fun, but who can actually be Tom Sawyer'd
into cutting down his expansive fields. As thrilling as that sounds, I'm afraid of what mechanical distress I might bring to a large International/Case tractor, with the six foot mowing deck.

I wonder if I could take that back to Sears?

Jericho

"How I spent my Mother's Day weekend"




Now that the floor joists and foundation of Debbie's 125 year old house have been repaired, and the sub-floor has been replaced, the next phase of our on-going home project will be to repair
the walls where the 100 year old plaster cracked from the 3 inch lift adjustment to the middle of the house. Samuel's room took the most damage, so it was decided to pull down all the old plaster down to the original lathe-work, and freshly dry-wall the entire room.

So on Sunday, Sam, Kate, David, and I took turns whacking away at the plaster walls with hammers and prybars, and we got one and a half walls stripped of plaster. I'll have to spend a day over there this week and finish the rest of the walls. Five and a half year old Abigail was a big help picking pieces of plaster, so we'll have to contract her cleaning services, as long as she wears her mask. Wouldn't want OSHA shutting down the project.

The small white door in the pictures is the closet door. To the left of that is the bedroom entrance. We have decided that the wall in between those two doors could be cut open, to
create more of a walk-in closet, so after all the plaster is down, we will begin cutting out the space for the new closet opening, and framing that in, to fit perhaps a bi-fold closet door.

Sam graduates from Lapel High School in Spring of 2010, so we hope to be done by then.....

Mother's Day 2009

resume life

I haven't written in here in awhile, but I'd kinda lost track of it, until Debbie pointed out that, like, my last six posts have been photographs I pulled off the Web. Sorta like a rock band being in a creative slump, and tossing out a mediocre Live album to distract from the real creative process.

And then she challenged me by asking if anything interesting had been happening in my life.

So I stopped to think about it, as I was cutting Dad's yard last week.
Always a good hour for some good inner personal conversation, and introspection.
And cardio.

What has been going on in my life, and why haven't I been writing about it?

Have I not been writing because it hasn't been interesting, or because I don't want to broadly share my current and personal insecurities and vulnerabilities? Perhaps both.

Generally speaking, the past fives months have been a bit of a challenge, since I lost my job,
and my Mom died in the same week, between Christmas and New Years.

I was pretty slow out of the gate making any attempt at a new job search, mainly because I
didn't want to jump into the same type of job, especially in the food and beverage industry.
But, of course, that begged the question of "What DO you want to do?" Great question.
The only thing that has seriously come to mind since the Fall of 2008 has been a job in the home improvement industry, and I've targeted Lowe's as the company I want to work for, and Department Head as the appropriate level of entry for me.

I have been personally networking with the Store Managers of four Lowe's, and I have developed relationships with them, such that, when a Department Head position opens up, and they are able to interview externally, I will be on a short list for consideration.
And as encouraging as each Store Manager interaction has been, job searching and interviewing in any economy can go slowly, but because I have narrow-cast my search so tightly, this particular interview process has felt exceptionally slow in progress. And the time in between the positive conversations cannot be fully kept afloat in hope by the buzz of a once-weekly affirmation that I am on the right path.

And it is during those in-between times, that I am currently living my life, and trying to make it interesting, while fighting the insecurities that vie for my spirit.

Debbie asked if I'd done anything interesting (read "blogworthy") lately.
I haven't written much, if anything, on my search for my next career until now.

However.....

























I may have written a bit about the massive home improvement project we've undertaken at Debbie's 120 year old house, removing 75% of the floors down to the crawlspace dirt, replacing the floor joists and foundation, and rebuilding from there. I could update to say that we are currently walking on new OSB sub-flooring, and slowly bringing the function of the house back together. The ultimate plan is to re-use as much of the original hardwood as we can, which could/should be 85-90% of it. I'm not sure how this will progress, but Debbie feels good about it.
Personally, I don't see how it can be harder than the deconstruction!

There are two walls in the middle of the house that will need some major work. The floor joist
leveling lifted that part of the foundation three inches, and the old plaster cracked rather badly.
We'll probably pull all that plaster down to the original lathe work, and put up fresh dry wall.

Meanwhile, we will be slowly reconstructing the function of the house by bringing back most of the items we temporarily put into storage. Like beds, dressers, sofas, clothing, TV's, and more.

So is that interesting? It's fun to dream, plan, and be a physical part of the process of change.
But it's also work, and it's not exactly Spring Break on the beach. Sometimes, you just need to get away. So we did just that last Saturday, but it's late, and I think I will leave our Ikea road trip for the next post. Suffice it to say, it was rather interesting, and a good getaway for us.
I hope this post isn't my throwaway Live album.

almost summer

driving rain

looks like rain...

Vintage Easter

Easter card sent to my Great-Grandmother, circa 1916.

bite

gentleman's beach

Happy Spring Break to all you beach-bums...

hard times and hard wood

I am deeply touched by the many heartfelt and genuine offers I have received to help me beat my
"depression" (probably more of a recession, or to put a finer point on it, an economic downturn).
Like most Americans, I don't need a bailout;
I need to get out there and get a job. Don't give me fish; give me a fishing pole. You get the idea.
Well, maybe the Democrats don't.....

I had noted that I needed to feed my psyche with some positive feelings of productive projects, and accomplishments. And while I can certainly feel good about painting farm houses, mucking stalls, or hanging basement drywall, I am reminded that there is work to be done much closer to home.
Specifically, Debbie's home.

Just in case there is anyone outside the Gibson, Foust, or Horn family reading this, Debbie's house in Lapel is at least 120 years old, and we are currently walking on the original floor joists, as well as some original hardwood flooring, at least in the main front room. It has been professionally noted that the floor joists are rotted and sagging, and need to be replaced. This means that, in all but one added-on room, and the bathroom we will be deconstructing the hardwood floors, attempting to salvage the hardwood as we go, and stripping the house down to the crawlspace dirt, before reconstructing new treated floor joists, replacing sub-flooring, and then, hopefully, recycling the original hardwood flooring, as much as possible.

Now, when I saw we, what I mean is, Debbie has contracted a professional builder to do the job, but he's a family friend, and we are going to help along the way. Maybe defray some costs by doing the deconstruction. Or I can bring him sandwiches.

All that to say that, when I'm not working on getting a job, I will be busy working on Debbie's house, which someday, I hope to share. Call it sweat equity. Or love.

By the way, Debbie's son, David, has put forth the brilliant idea of installing an in-floor spiral wine cellar, as long as we're down to the crawlspace dirt. Not surprisingly, there is a company, Spiral Cellars, that specializes in such extravagance. We aren't so much wine drinkers as beer snobs, so we could keep an ample supply of good Hacker-Pschorr Weisse Bier, and Deb's favorite Sam Adams White Ale down there. Least we could do, since it is her house. I suppose we should ask her, before we start excavating.....

Then again, it's not cheap to dig out, and build a wine/beer cellar for your kitchen.

Maybe we should wait until the Recession passes. I'll drink to that.

five stages

I might be depressed.

I really thought I had been handling my holiday losses pretty well, after losing my job, and my Mom in an eight day stretch, from December 22, 2008 to January 2nd, 2009. And then, we postponed our February 14th wedding.

But I think I had a breakthrough last week, that may have pushed me out of the Denial I was in denial about feeling, and straight into a brief episode of Anger. Not a violent, raging anger, but more of a pouty, "Take my ball, and go home" anger.

I'm not really sure how the Bargaining phase works, but I've probably been there.

And now a triple whammy of Life is revealing the truths of reality, guilt, and insecurities, and these truths have rendered me a bit wobbly. And I may be depressed. Not desperately, or clinically depressed, but certainly sluggish.

But the good news is that I have identified this in myself, and I recognize that I must create positive activity for myself, and re-energize myself through positive and productive behaviors.

I suppose that one positive behavior would be to not stay up until 1:00am, and sleep in until 9:00am, even if the sleep math adds up to 8 hours. So I'm going to go to bed, and pray in thankfulness for all my blessings, and the promise and expectations of a new day.

birth day

I had a bit of a cry last night.

I wasn't really surprised, since I knew I'd been pushing this one down since my 48th birthday
earlier this week.

Debbie and I were at her house watching "Braveheart". No, I wasn't crying over "Braveheart", although it does have one of my all time favorite quotable lines;
"They may take our lives, but they will never take...OUR FREEDOM!!"

We had actually paused the movie, because it was late, especially on a school night for a teacher, and I was getting ready to leave. Debbie commented on the red cotton cardigan she was
hugging around her, and reminded me unnecessarily that it was one of several I had cleared out of my mom's closet after she died earlier this year.

I started to say that I had thought of Mom on my recent birthday, but I couldn't get the words out, and got choked up. It took me a little while on Debbie's shoulder to gather myself, but when I did, I was able to explain to Debbie what a mother of four probably already knew.

Whatever I've thought of birthdays for the past 48 years, I always thought of them as mine alone. I could choose to share them, or allow others to celebrate for and with me, but it was always a personal day. Until this year.

On my birthday, I remembered thinking that it would be the first one without my mom, but I was initially thinking selfishly that it would be the first that my mom wouldn't be there to wish me a Happy Birthday. It took me another day for it to sink in that my birthday was her day, as well, because there is no one else in this world more intimately involved and responsible for my birth day than my Mom. She was there. For all of it, but certainly at the actual moment of my birth into this world.

So while I had been celebrating 47 birthdays of my own, it had never occurred to me that I should have been more consciously thanking my mom, not for the new blue sweater, or the Tonka Toys, or the Cubs cap, but rather, I should have been thanking her for my birth, and for being the only one from this world who was there at my first one. And every one after.

After all, we had always shared it, and been in it together. Until this year.

So even though I couldn't bring myself to face it on the 10th of March, I did face it on the 11th.
And last night, as I laid my head down to sleep, and prayed the Lord, my soul to keep, I also thanked God for my Mom, and I thanked Mom for being my Mom.

And I wished her a belated Happy Birthday, for both of us.

cake

Well, it's nearly my birthday. Twenty minutes from when I started typing this. Maybe well into it, by the time I finish. I suppose at 48, I'm not as excited or expectant about birthdays as I used to be. I think that part of that could correlate with the notion that, as we get older, we tend to enjoy the giving more than the receiving. At least it really seems that way at Christmas time.

Many adults do not embrace birthdays, because it is a mortal reminder of getting older.
I do not share this sentiment. Or lack of sentiment. I suppose the biggest factor is simply that,
birthdays are days for cake, ice cream, party hats, games, and colorful and fun presents.
These don't really seem like adult pleasures, but even the "adult pleasures" from young adult birthdays, like going out to the bars, begin to seem childish, or at least uninteresting, once you reach a certain age. And I have.

And presents.....How many people are really insightful enough to purchase a gift that the receiver
really wants, and will really enjoy? I'll speak for myself, and say that this is why I give away gift cards for most of my gifts these days. Then again, the right gift card can provide a quality experience for the receiver. Like a Target gift card for a child. The Mom creates a shopping experience, that includes the child getting to actually, with some filtration, pick out their gift.
Or a good restaurant gift card can provide the impetus for a date night of shared quality time.

But we do like people to remember our birthday. I don't care how old you get, there is a feeling you get as you leave the house on your birthday, that everyone must know that this is your day,
and as you pass friends and co-workers in the hall, you sub-consciously brace yourself, and nearly expect people to wish you a Happy Birthday. There is an involuntary expectation, but sadly, it never lives up to the hype in your psyche. Ok, I'll admit that maybe it's just me.

I remember one year managing a Starbucks in Grosse Pointe, I had it in my head that it wasn't for me to tell anyone that it was my birthday, because telling would be self-serving. And I somehow believed that someone must know, so word would get out, and then, of course there would eventually be cake. So I didn't tell anyone all day. And there was no cake.
I seem to remember putting my coat on to leave, and on the way out telling a co-working that I couldn't believe nobody remembered my birthday. (I'm so weak...).

I think there was make-up cake the next day.

In the morning, as my birthday begins, my dad is taking me out for breakfast at The Toast.
I'm sure it will hit me that this will be my first birthday since my Mom died. So I'm glad I'll be with Dad. I told Debbie that we'll save a birthday outing at a favorite restaurant for the weekend, when we can relax and enjoy it. Last year, we went to the Outback.
Then again, I did get a gift card to Red Lobster from my sister. And Debbie really likes that.
I'll have to tell Kim that she did very good in the gifting department.

So now it's 22 minutes into my birthday. I have myself convinced that I'll have no expectations about it, and treat it like any other day.

Aw, who am I kidding. I may as well write "Birthday!!" on my forehead, and get it over with.

Happy Birthday to me. And I miss you, Mom....

Paul Harvey..........................Good Day!

(group photo from 1951 Lafayette Jeff HS yearbook...
my mom at right in white sweater and corsage.)


Saturday was not a "Good Day".
Legendary and iconic radio news-guy Paul Harvey died at age 90.
It couldn't have come as a surprise at his age, but it is still an irreplaceable loss.

And, like many things this year, it brought back some fond memories of my mom.

My mom introduced me to Paul Harvey when I was a small boy.
Not literally. She introduced us through his long-running noon news broadcast on the radio.

In 1988, I had been living and working in Chicago for a few years, and I traveled back to my hometown to spend the weekend with my parents. On Saturday, as the noon hour approached, I told mom that it was almost time for Paul Harvey. I headed for the kitchen, sat down at our kitchen table, and I turned on the trusty family AM radio I had remembered so well, and I was hit with a wave of nostalgia, as I heard those familiar words that took me back so many years...
"Hello Americans....This is Paul Harvey....Stand by for NEWS!!"



I was instantly reminded of my childhood days, circa 1967, when mom would pick me up from kindergarten, bring me home, and fix my favorite peanut butter & jelly sandwich, just in time to hear that familiar voice. Although she did not realize it at the time, she had created a diehard Paul Harvey fan, just as my dad had molded a young Hoosier boy into a diehard Cubs fan.

After listening to Paul Harvey that day, mom mentioned that she had met him once in high school, when he had visited and spoken at Lafayette Jeff in 1951. She even pulled out her old high school yearbook, and showed me the picture of her waiting in a crowd to get his autograph.
I thought this was pretty cool, and took the yearbook to the library, and photocopied the picture.

After I returned to Chicago, I wrote Paul Harvey a letter, relating how I had listened to him on the radio with my mom as a child, and now as an adult. I even requested an updated autographed 8 x 10 photo of himself, signed for Mom. Within two weeks, he answered my letter,
with a note of his own, accompanied by an autographed photo for Mom, who had been known as "Jess" in high school. I was probably more excited than Mom, when I mailed these to her.

As sit typing in the "computer room" that was once my boyhood bedroom, I notice the "clock" in the lower right corner of my computer monitor, and I see that it is 11:52 am.

Less than ten minutes until Paul Harvey.

I want to tell this to Mom, but she is no longer here.
And I want to turn on my radio at noon to hear his comforting words.
But, for the first time in nearly 60 years, they won't be there.

But what I do have is a shared memory between the three of us that will never go away.

I am thankful for these memories that warm my soul, and I am encouraged that today will
in fact turn out to be a........................................................Good Day!