My Dad--Father's Day 2014

For much of my life, my father has been an enigma to me. I look at pictures of when I was an infant and a toddler, I see young man smiling and playing with his first born son. A handsome boy playing in the surf and sand along the coast of Southern California, with his  beautiful young bride and child. It was a blue jeans and white t-shirt innocence, with a sparkle in his eyes and an ever present playful grin on his face. I often wondered what happened to that 20 year old boy.

 That is not the father that I know or remember. The father of my memories is one of long absences, often weeks at a time with no word. The only clues as to where he might have been, were the odd bits of pocket change left on his dresser from his latest journey. He wouldn’t  and couldn’t tell what he had been working on, it simply wasn’t allowed. It was Top Secret, and therefore off limits. You see my dad was a government man, a civilian engineer with the Navy for all the good that tells you. I had friends whose dads were doctors, attorneys, salesmen and engineers. Their dads didn’t disappear and miss birthdays and school events unless they were deployed active military. So why did mine have to leave when he was a civilian?

My dads’ time at home was awkward if not distant. I could never understand how when he got home from work, he could read the paper and have Walter Cronkite on the TV at the same time. He never looked at the screen, but if we ever got close enough to change the channel a grumbled “don’t think about it” would come from behind the raised paper. That was the view most of my friends had of my dad, a headless body with folded news print for a face.

Everything my dad did was with a purpose and a plan and laid out in precise detail. He mowed the lawn in a checkerboard pattern, alternating the direction each week. The sprinklers would not dare over spray what he determined to be their allotted space. We had multiple lawn mowers for the various types of grass growing in our yard. The cars were maintained and hand washed by him, and always dried with a Chamois cloth because it didn’t leave streaks or lint.

I was never allowed to have pants with holes or patches on the knees (both popular in the 60’s and 70’s), I assume he didn’t want to be thought of as a poor provider. I had to always wear a belt and have my shirt tucked in. Long hair was not an option, we’ll have no hippies in this house.

You didn’t question what dad said, EVER.  He spoke with such authority and certainty, there was no way he could be wrong. He knew everything and was the smartest man I knew, Albert Einstein couldn’t hold a candle to him. I was afraid to ask for help, because I rarely understood the way he explained it. To my dad’s way of thinking, there were theorems, postulates and equations. If you followed the steps for them you would get the right answer. I on the other hand wanted to know WHY it worked, I had to question everything.  I am sure I was as much of a conundrum to him as he was to me.

We were a vacationing family, and took many long multi week camping trips throughout the western United States. It was as if with each passing day of  a trip, he became more relaxed and at ease with himself and with us. I lived for those trips. As I got older he would take me backpacking in the Sierra’s with the scouts or with his friend and son. I cherish those trips to this day, when I didn’t have to share  my dad with the evening news or the paper, or even my brothers. He was mine and I loved being with him. He taught me the beauty of solitude on these trips to the back country, and the inner peace that can be found from sitting on the shore of a pristine Alpine lake. He spoke to me without words, sharing something of himself that only being there at that time and place would allow.

The decades have gone by far faster than I could ever thought possible. My dad is no longer the spry young man he once was, yet he is still in better shape than me. The auto repairs have been turned over to the dealer, the skis have most likely made their last run this year and  snow blowing the driveway will soon be a thing of the past. While he is slowing down he can still be found crawling under the house in the middle of the night to find a leak and he still mows his own yard.

The layers of complexity that confounded me as a youth, are quickly falling away. As some government documents and programs outlive their security restrictions, I learn more about him. He is no longer bound to keep to himself some of his work he did on behalf of our country. He did some rather amazing things, of which he should be proud. He will never boast (it’s not in his nature) and getting him to talk about himself, is about as easy as pulling an abscessed tooth from an angry lion.

We still do not see eye to eye on many things, and some I doubt we ever will. It may have taken 51 years, but I can finally say that I understand him. I now know what happened to that 20 year old boy. He became a man that covered himself in layers of armor to protect the secrets he held, and to keep his family safe and secure. I see that young man when he hugs his grandchildren and reads a story or snuggles with his great-granddaughters.  I have seen him take my mother’s hand to steady her walk, and sit by her side in the hospital while she is recovering from surgery. He is with her every day until she comes home.

I can’t recall ever hearing him tell me that he loved me when I was young (yet I’m sure he did). I somehow always innately  knew that he did.  I watched how he and my grandfather interacted, and I learned Rogers men don’t say it they show it. My dad is a man of few words.  He proved his love, by sheltering me from a cold harsh world, coming to rescue me in Washington D.C. when I was 14 and on trip without my family and feeling scared and alone, throwing me safely from a boat as it sank from beneath our feet in Mission Bay, nourishing both my body and soul, teaching me the value of service  and work through his example, passing along to me every good book he read, and most of all for NEVER giving up on me even when I already had..  Fierce Loyalty and Devotion to Family, are phrases that describe the man I call dad.

On this Father’s Day I want to share how I feel about my dad. I am the man I am today, in no small part because of the things he taught me. I am grateful for his love and protection and support. My dad is quite simply my HERO.

I love you Dad.

Sky of Blue

As I sat on the edge of my bed yesterday morning and pulling my boots on,I happened to look out the window and this poem just came to me. Less than five minutes start to finish.

I gazed outside my window, to a cloudless summer sky. I began to think and ponder why?

With a canvas as big as the eternities themselves , why would God leave this alone by itself

As I thought and stared as the  minutes passed by, suddenly my question was answered and I now knew why

There is not a more soothing hue, than that of a cloudless sky of blue

Losing the Battle against Technology

I have always considered myself someone from a bygone era, and have resisted the trendy and ever changing

technology that permeates almost every aspect of 

American life. I have always cast a somewhat 

contemptuous eye at those that clamor for the latest 

and greatest electronic gadget. I have seen the hoards .

of overnight campers waiting in line to be the first to 

get the the newest iPad and have mocked their 

stupidity as I drove by in the warmth of my wagon 

of steel.

My Parents and my children are far more

technologically sophisticated than I am. They have 

iPhones, iPods, iPads,Tablets, Laptops and Flat 

Screen TV's.  I do not own a Flat Screen TV, a laptop

nor do I have a Tablet or an iPad.

I grew up in a house with Reel to Reel tape decks, 

Turntables and vinyl Albums. My first car had an 8 

track tape player. We had a phone on the wall in the 

kitchen with a very long cord, the only privacy 

afforded to your conversation was if you stretched 

the cord around the corner into the hall. We had a

party line ( a party line is when you have to share 

the phone line with your neighbors) when my family 

moved to a rural area during my sixth grade year. 

It is only in the past year that I have personally 

owned ANY device from Apple, INC because I never 

saw the need. I now have an iPod and and an iPhone. I got the iPhone when my other phone finally died after

4 years and it (the iPhone) was FREE. The iPod is a 

cast off from one of my children.

That being said, I love my iPod. It has a lifetime of 

music right at my finger tips and I can now listen to 

MY music in the truck without cases full of scratched

CD's in the center console or searching in vain for a 

broadcast radio station that plays music I like. I 

however do not own a pair of ear buds and I will 

never be caught with one in my ear and the other 

hanging down my shirt.

Here is my dilemma, I am already wishing I had a 

new phone. My "Smart" phone doesn't have enough 

memory for what I think I need, it is slower that I 

would like it to be, and it's applications don't perform as I would like them to. How the HELL can that even 

be possible? I carry in my pocket more technology 

than it took to send a man to the moon. Yet somehow 

it's not good enough for me?

I feel I have been infected with a disease engineered

by Steve Jobs (the Devil Himself) that creates an 

unattainable yet unresistible desire to have more and 

more technology weasel it's way into my life. I 

find myself wishing my electronic devices had mind 

reading capabilities and would anticipate what I 

wanted and simply do it without me having to input 

or say anything. (Read my text message to me, call my kids, send that email, enter items into one of the five

calendars that are merged on my phone, remind me 

what I need at the store, etc.) I think you get the 

picture.

I have found a way to at least quell the technology 

cravings in the short term. I switch my phone to mute

(my children may need to reach me),at least that is 

what I tell myself and  turn off the computer. I retreat to my office, grab a hardbound book from the bookcase 

that also holds a quill pen and ink set, an oil lamp and 

an Amish courting candle stick. I settle into the 

overstuffed  blue chair in the corner and read a little 

Whitman, Frost or L'Amour. I drift away  to the 

tick-tock and bird songs from the antique Cuckoo 

Clock hanging on the wall surrounded by relics from 

long ago.

For a few precious moments everything seems

right with the world.

Letter To Carson

At the request of my mother I am posting this letter that I wrote to my son while he was away at Recruit Training for the US US Naval Sea Cadet Corps.
                                                                                                                                                                                December 29, 2013
 　　
Dear Carson,

Into the life of every man, come a select few defining moments. Moments that he will be able to look back on and see, that they were pivotal in making him the man he has become. These moments may be such things as when he first meets his future bride, the birth of his children, selflessly serving others or perhaps following a dream.

I believe that you are in the midst of one of these moments. The things that you experience and learn during your time at Camp Pendleton, will provide you with a lifetime of memories. Savor every moment, push yourself harder than you ever have before, exceed every expectation. It is when men challenge themselves to push through the hardship, that they truly grow and learn what they are made of.

Immerse yourself in your surroundings, take advantage of every opportunity offered to you. The only limits to your ability are those that you impose upon yourself. If there is something you do not understand, speak up and ask questions at the appropriate time. Be willing to set aside your fears and try new things. Let this be your time to spread your wings and soar to new heights.

You carry the name of the bravest person I have ever known, that of my brother. He was strong in the face of adversity, never wavering. He was tender and meek towards those less advantaged, yet fierce against those that would do wrong to him or others. He was an Honorable and God loving man, and you do his name justice by carrying it forward. If he were here to give you some advice, I feel confident he would say, Honor those that went before you, extend a helping hand to all those that follow behind you, love God, Stand for Truth, fight for those who cannot fight for themselves, Be Humble, Be Generous and never make a decision based on if it is easy or not, but on if it is Right or not.

Your first family members to sail to these shores came in the 1600's, and they continued to come for generations from many different lands and cultures. They all sought the same thing, Freedom and a better way of life. They have all been Men and Women of Conscience that did what needed to be done, not through some external form of coercion, but because it was the Right thing to do. They were pioneers, unafraid to blaze new trails and settle new lands, often in extremely harsh conditions. From Connecticut to California, from Virginia to Oregon and everywhere in between. Their sacrifices helped build this great country. Be proud of who you are and where you came from.

You come from an extended family rich in the tradition of serving their country. Your forefathers have willingly served their country for nearly 250 years, from the War of Independence, the War of 1812, the War between the States and through most of the conflicts of the last Century. They have stood tall and answered the call. You Honor them through your service in the Sea Cadets.

Carson, I am so very proud of you and the exceptional young man that you are. The choices that you have recently been making, will serve you well throughout your life. I know you can and will achieve many wondrous things. Let your light shine Son, be that beacon in the night that others seek out. I am honored to be your father. You are one of MY DEFINING MOMENTS.

All my love,
Dad

Dementia, The Long Goodbye

Dementia has to be one of the worst diseases to watch happen to a loved one.

For the past 4-1/2 years my 87 year old Maternal Grandmother (Gramcracker) has lived with my two youngest children and me. I was asked if I would be willing to let her live with me by my parents. After talking with the kids, it was decided that we would do it. After all, we all thought she would pass away within a year or so. It would give my children an opportunity to really get to know their Great-Grandmother, and how bad could it be? Little did we know what a physical and emotional toll it would take on us all.

Gramcracker was a very accomplished and widely traveled woman. I say "was" because the Gramcracker of my youth no longer exists. What remains is only a shell of her former self, the once funny wit and great conversationalist are no longer visible except in very fleeting moments.

I did not and perhaps still do not understand all of the complexities of Dementia, what I do know is that it has stolen my grandmother from me. I have been robbed of something that I didn't fathom I would ever miss. I miss her inappropriate questions, her incessant need to know anything and everything about others lives, no matter how personal or embarrassing. Grandma knew best (at least she thought so) and expected everyone to conform to her desires. This was at times a source of silent consternation within the family. She was the epitome of "if momma ain't happy, ain't nobody happy".

The Gramcracker of today lives in an ever constricting and smaller world. Grandma once had a Christmas card list that held over 500 names. I remember well seeing the stacks and stacks of cards and letters she received each year. She was a prolific letter writer, and never forgot a birthday or holiday. She doesn't even know what day of the week it is anymore. The file cards in her address book get fewer and fewer on an almost monthly basis, as friends and family die. Sadly without constant reminders she doesn't even remember they have passed. She has asked more times than I can count, for me to mail letters to family and friends that are long since gone. She can no longer hear well enough to use a phone, and the letters, that were once delivered almost daily have dwindled to a few dozen a year at best.

Having an elderly family member with dementia at home is like having a large infirm toddler, only worse. A toddler at least learns from their mistakes whereas a dementia patient NEVER learns. They are not forgetful, you have to have a memory to forget, they have none. They can be told something one moment, and the next the very conversation is wiped clean as though it never occurred. I continue to learn that it does absolutely no good to argue, the only one upset is me, she won't remember in a matter of minutes. Dementia is cruel, in that person suffering from it, rarely knows that there is anything wrong with them. Those of us not afflicted are the ones that suffer the loss, even if they do sense something is "off" it is only fleeting.

I have had to "grandma proof" my home. There are childproof locks on the cabinets and a lock on the fridge and the knobs for the stove are locked away. She has very nearly burned the house down, by setting something on the stove and then going to bed. She has emptied the fridge and freezer during the night and left it all out to spoil. I have found food stuffed in drawers and inside her stockings and slippers. It is a daily task to track down the things she has taken and moved from one room to another. All the while not understanding that there is anything strange in doing this.

She says she is ready and willing to die, and wonders why it won't happen. She is waiting for Bob (Grandpa) to come and get her. She has told me many times she sees him standing in the hall in swimming attire. To her this means he is just checking on her, as they loved the ocean and spent many years living near or traveling to the beach. She said once he did tell her "come on it's time to go". She told him she needed 5 minutes, his reply was " I don't have 5 minutes" and he left. One more example of Grandma wanting to be in control. After relating this story to me, I asked why she needed the five minutes. Grandma said "a girl needs to look pretty". I told her the next time he comes and says "let's go" she should sit up, get her Ass out of bed and go with him. I told her God doesn't care what she looks like.

This experience of living with Grandma has been one of the hardest things I have ever done. I eat worse, sleep less, gained more weight and have been more frustrated than I would have ever imagined.I have had to drop everything I was doing to care for her, and plans have been disrupted no matter how well planned. That being said, I wouldn't have it any other way. She deserves to be surrounded by some of her own possessions and by people who love her.

I love my Gramcraker, and miss her. The woman I loved is no longer here most of the time. This is why I call this entry "The Long Goodbye". I have been saying goodbye and grieving for years.

Welcome to my world

Welcome to my blog.

This is my attempt at dragging myself into the 21st century. I am sometimes ill at ease with all the digital media available and propensity of people today, to interact electronically. I tend to think it leads to isolation and an overall lack of civility and human interaction. I do use social networking sites ie: facebook and twitter, and do know how to text message albeit slowly. I absolutely refuse to use "text speak" in any way shape or form. I do not play video games and can barely tolerate being in the same room when they are being played. Suffice it to say I am probably more comfortable with a quill pen and an inkwell.

It has been said of me, that I was born in wrong century. There is certainly a ring of truth in that. I prefer a slower pace of life, leaning more towards travel via backroads and byways, small towns and nearly forgotten cemeteries. I like food made from scratch over anything out of a box and vegetables out of my own garden. I could spend hours on end around a pickle barrel in a 19th century General Store and feel right at home.

I enjoy talking over the fence line with "Jack" my neighbor, being on a first name basis with "Whit" my mailman and look forward to Thursday mornings when "Joe" the milkman makes his rounds.

I have decided to start this blog, so that I can record my thoughts for anyone that might be interested. It has become apparent to me, that some people today prefer the digital world to the real world. (Yes I mean those of you that text me, but refuse to answer the phone when I call) I find it strange that people won't answer the phone when they just sent a text. It seems to me, that if you in a situation where you can not answer the phone, perhaps you shouldn't be texting either.

I will try to keep on top of this missive, feel free to leave any comments.

My personal disclaimer: Please do not be offended by anything that I may write. I am not politically correct and simply call things as I see them.