This landlubber couldn’t keep his eyes off the window. Staying at the historic Queen Mary, docked in Long Beach, California, I was enjoying a nice meal with a window seat to the bay when the behavior of the birds caught my attention and gave me quite a show. Seagulls and pelicans were hunting a school of fish that was working its way through the area, and their techniques couldn’t have varied more drastically.
First, let’s take the gull. Pure white with a black streak on top of the wings, sleek, and graceful, she will fly over the water no more than ten feet from the surface, her head cocked down, her intense eyes fixed past the sheen glare of the sun off the ocean’s surface at what lies just beneath. She half-cocks her wings as she soars, tilting her head to veer right or left the way a motorcycle racer leans into a turn. Suddenly she spots her prey. Now here’s the fun part.
At that very moment she will do what at first I thought resembled what a combat pilot would refer to as a “Split S.” Except where the combat fighter is trying to disengage from battle, for the gull, the battle is just beginning. The wings come out, the ailerons come down, and the bird’s velocity is slowed by her rocket climb straight into the sky a good five feet. When the stall gives out, gravity takes over. The head, which must contain the engine, tilts down, the wings cock totally back, and the bird falls head-first like a suicide bomber aimed at a battleship. On the way down she tilts her head left or right to make any last-second adjustments, never taking her eyes off her moving target until she plunges head-first into the water, vanishing for a second. Her splash is graceful enough to resemble an Olympic diver.
At the moment the bird resurfaces, the wings beat wildly and she takes whatever she’s caught back up to cruising altitude. In four days aboard the Queen Mary, I’ve yet to see her rewards, which leads me to a few conclusions. Either she swallows her fish underwater, the fish is minnow in size, or she’s just a very bad hunter. I’m sure it must be the first. From acquisition of target to eventual flight again, the whole process takes about 2.5 seconds. Talk about quick on the trigger.
Now if the gull is the Greg Louganis of the maritime community, then the pelican is the fat kid who does a cannon ball off the diving board. Don’t get me wrong. The pelican can too be very graceful. At any moment of the day one can be seen skimming the surface of the ocean, his wing tips tickling the water. But this grace is not the case with his hunting method.
The pelican sits on top of the water, minding his own business. Suddenly he gets an urge and takes to flight with its massive wings beating hard to lift his fat belly from the water. Once airborne, he beats his heavy wings harshly until he spots his target. Whereas the gull dives straight down, making her spectators marvel at her gracefulness, the pelican, seemingly out of boredom, decides to take a forty-five degree angle to the water. He keeps his wings half-out to the side as if he’s too lazy to pull them all the way in, then he plunges into the sea with a boulder’s splash.
At this point in the gull’s method, she would get right back out of the water as if a shark were after her, but not the pelican. He keeps his body afloat, his butt protruding up in the air while his head searches around underwater for a good five seconds. He then emerges victoriously, a gullet with at least one fish. His head points to the sky and the fish then slides right down his throat. It may take two or three gulps to clear the bulge from his neck, but he eventually swallows the fish whole. While dining on the sun deck one evening I watched one bird with the tail of a good twelve-inch fish sticking out of its mouth. It slapped the pelican in the face many times before falling victim.
I’ve never seen the gull emerge victorious, just as I’ve never seen the pelican come out of the water without a catch. The human angler would be proud to have the catch rate of the pelican. What it lacks in style, it makes up for in efficiency. If the bottom line is the object then the pelican wins hands down. A rot gut whiskey will get you drunker much faster than a fine wine. But in angling, the bottom line isn’t always the target. I must say that as a gentleman, I prefer the style of the gull over the sloppy nature of the pelican. Style does count for something. The gull does what it can with what it’s got and never gives up, holding its graceful head never in shame for its shortcomings. The pelican merely takes advantage of what God gave him, the whole time smiling over at the gull as if to say, “Top that!” So it is in my angling practices that I strive to adopt the stylistic approach of the gull. That is until I become hungry enough.
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
Monday, May 28, 2012
Memorial Day
There's nothing like taps played on a bugle in a cemetery. I've been witness to the event twice in my young life now, and I will remember both times forever.
Back in 2004 my wife's grandpa passed away. He was part of the Greatest Generation that answered the call when the world needed him the most. He had fought bravely during WWII on a B-26 which made bombing runs into Nazi-occupied France and deeper into the heart of Germany.
Last September my own father passed away. He was enlisted in the U.S. Army during the Vietnam conflict and spent his time in the Army National Guards. Thankfully his number was never called or I might not be here. He spent the better part of fifteen years in the reserves before retiring.
At both funerals, amidst the grief, I took time to study the faces of the two young men who handed my wife's grandma and my mom the folded American flag. It was evident that both were extremely honored to be where they were, giving thanks to these brave wives who let us borrow their husbands for a great call.
These were two of the greatest men I have ever known and I dare say will ever know. I remember them every day, but on this Memorial Day I wish to say thank you not only to Grandpa and Dad, but to everyone who proudly swears to defend this great nation.
Back in 2004 my wife's grandpa passed away. He was part of the Greatest Generation that answered the call when the world needed him the most. He had fought bravely during WWII on a B-26 which made bombing runs into Nazi-occupied France and deeper into the heart of Germany.
Last September my own father passed away. He was enlisted in the U.S. Army during the Vietnam conflict and spent his time in the Army National Guards. Thankfully his number was never called or I might not be here. He spent the better part of fifteen years in the reserves before retiring.
At both funerals, amidst the grief, I took time to study the faces of the two young men who handed my wife's grandma and my mom the folded American flag. It was evident that both were extremely honored to be where they were, giving thanks to these brave wives who let us borrow their husbands for a great call.
These were two of the greatest men I have ever known and I dare say will ever know. I remember them every day, but on this Memorial Day I wish to say thank you not only to Grandpa and Dad, but to everyone who proudly swears to defend this great nation.
Sunday, April 1, 2012
True Happiness
So my beloved Jayhawks have made it to the championship game? Seems to be a miracle if one looks at where they came from. This is a team who lost four starters off a great squad last year that many considered to be the best team in college basketball. Returning only one starter, KU relied on backups from last year to turn into leaders, which they did, culminating in national player-of-the-year candidate Thomas Robinson, a man who only saw the floor for 13 minutes a game last year. Their 6th man, a guy they rely on to shoot the critical three-pointer, was originally a walk-on. On top of all of this, KU's top three freshmen were declared ineligible just before the season. All three were expected to make immediate contributions. All this begs the question:
How on earth is this team playing for a national championship Monday night?
If you listen to the talking heads on TV, nobody is giving KU a chance. But then KU relishes this underdog role. They weren't supposed to beat UNC in the regional championship game. They weren't supposed to beat OSU in the final four last night. This squad who lost to Davidson of all teams earlier in the season just keeps defying the odds. Monday's matchup will be no different.
KU is playing a Kentucky team that was expected to win it all from the beginning of the season, and really hasn't been tested in this tournament so far. With the exception of two nights they forgot to show up this year, they have been steamrolling their competition, KU included (early-season 75-65 at MSG,) and expect this rematch to go their way again. It's nearly a foregone conclusion.
One of two scenerios are going to come to fruition Monday night.
1. Kentucky beats Kansas as expected.
2. Kansas upsets them, and give the talking heads something to blabber about Tuesday.
Here's where it gets tricky.
Either way, it's not going to make me happy.
That's the kicker. True happiness doesn't come from the outcome of a game. Quick, without googling it, who was the NCAA Champion in 1980? Maybe a couple might be able to come up with the answer right off the top of their heads (especially the Louisville fans who are all bummed this morning) but the point is that the spotlight fades. Teams make their mark, and a few years later are forgotten. It's just like that line from Tin Cup where Roy McAvoy's girlfriend, after Roy blows a certain US Open win with his pride then inexplicably nails an impossible shot, trys to console him. "No one's going to remember the Open 10 years from now, who won...but they'll remember your 12!"
Tomorrow night if Kansas somehow finds a way to upset Kentucky, I will be happy, but for how long? I use KU's 2008 championship season as bragging rights, but KU's championship doesn't make me truly happy. Just like Boston breaking the dreaded Curse of the Bambino in 2004 didn't truly make me happy. The word is euphoria. Too often we mistake euphoria with happiness.
True happiness can only come from a relationship with Jesus Christ. It's been preached for a long time and many try to ignore it for American dreams, out of pride, or just to not be "religious." But just like love, happiness comes from our loving God, and for this, not tomorrow night's outcome, will I be truly happy.
How on earth is this team playing for a national championship Monday night?
If you listen to the talking heads on TV, nobody is giving KU a chance. But then KU relishes this underdog role. They weren't supposed to beat UNC in the regional championship game. They weren't supposed to beat OSU in the final four last night. This squad who lost to Davidson of all teams earlier in the season just keeps defying the odds. Monday's matchup will be no different.
KU is playing a Kentucky team that was expected to win it all from the beginning of the season, and really hasn't been tested in this tournament so far. With the exception of two nights they forgot to show up this year, they have been steamrolling their competition, KU included (early-season 75-65 at MSG,) and expect this rematch to go their way again. It's nearly a foregone conclusion.
One of two scenerios are going to come to fruition Monday night.
1. Kentucky beats Kansas as expected.
2. Kansas upsets them, and give the talking heads something to blabber about Tuesday.
Here's where it gets tricky.
Either way, it's not going to make me happy.
That's the kicker. True happiness doesn't come from the outcome of a game. Quick, without googling it, who was the NCAA Champion in 1980? Maybe a couple might be able to come up with the answer right off the top of their heads (especially the Louisville fans who are all bummed this morning) but the point is that the spotlight fades. Teams make their mark, and a few years later are forgotten. It's just like that line from Tin Cup where Roy McAvoy's girlfriend, after Roy blows a certain US Open win with his pride then inexplicably nails an impossible shot, trys to console him. "No one's going to remember the Open 10 years from now, who won...but they'll remember your 12!"
Tomorrow night if Kansas somehow finds a way to upset Kentucky, I will be happy, but for how long? I use KU's 2008 championship season as bragging rights, but KU's championship doesn't make me truly happy. Just like Boston breaking the dreaded Curse of the Bambino in 2004 didn't truly make me happy. The word is euphoria. Too often we mistake euphoria with happiness.
True happiness can only come from a relationship with Jesus Christ. It's been preached for a long time and many try to ignore it for American dreams, out of pride, or just to not be "religious." But just like love, happiness comes from our loving God, and for this, not tomorrow night's outcome, will I be truly happy.
Sunday, February 26, 2012
The Cave Man's Guide to the Red Carpet, 2012
I am a card-carrying member of the male gender. In order to keep my man card, I've prided myself on being a critic of important things in life like, say, who the best overall player in the NBA is (Kevin Durant, of course) and why the Carolina rig far outfishes the Texas rig for bass. Well, tonight is the Academy Awards, and a huge part of the Oscars is the red carpet, or so I've been told. For other men like me who don't know, the red carpet is famous for hits and busts. My wife and her college roomate used to watch the red carpet walk every year and talk about which dresses were flattering, and which ones were, well, just plain bad. Wanting to bond with my wife tonight, I had the great idea to rate dresses with her on two separate ballots and compare notes. Amazingly, we agreed in many instances. We used a simple 1-10 rating system which allowed for comments. On this blog you won't hear official dress terms unless I learned them tonight (like the "peplum" which looks like a belly fat flap to a guy,) but you will read a real cave man's professional perspective of something he knows absolutely nothing about. So with respect to Bjork and her dead Canadian goose dress, here's the best and worst of the red carpet, 2012.
Top 5
1. Natalie Portman-9.5
Donning a sparkling diamond necklace, Natalie was wearing a red dress from some famous designer with a French name I think. Whatever it was, it was stunning, classy, making her look even more beautiful than when she was in her wedding dress at the end of Star Wars, Episode II. But then again, she would probably look beautiful in a meat suit.
2. Milla Jovovich- 9.3
All I wrote down in my notes was, "Wow!" so I had to go to the internet to get details. Her dress was by Elie Saab, who also makes a great French car that sells poorly in America. Was the dress white? Was it silver? I don't know, but I know it was very beautiful on her because it contrasted well with her dark hair and dark red lipstick, especially with that sexy thing she does with her eyes. She knew she had it going on.
3. Penelope Cruz- 9.0
Penelope is another actress who would probably look stunning in just about anything she wears, but she knocked it out of the park with her greyish-purplish flowing dress. The off-the-shoulder sleeve thingies were classy, and the dress flowed plainly, yet elegantly like freshly fallen snow on a mountainous landscape on Christmas morning. Yeah, it's safe to say that I liked her dress.
4. Viola Davis- 8.5
It seems that green was in this year, and nobody did green better than Viola. Though I have no idea who she is, she was stunning in a dress which was strapless, form-fitting in the middle, and flowy on the bottom. Viola's dress was the first one I judged and it stood as the base to compare all other dresses. Plus, emerald green is my favorite color.
5. Gwyneth Paltrow- 8
White and tight. Gwyneth can get away with it even with the Tarzan shoulder strap because she wore an overcoat of the same color that looked like a cape. Man, I'm not making her sound very attractive right now, but Superman was awesome and he had a cape, and so is Gwyneth. I personally think the cape should make a comeback. I would wear a cape.
Bottom 5
1. Judy Greer- 2.5
Judy was wearing a silver skid mark on a black dress. The tread pattern of the tire used to run over her dress wasn't very aggressive, so I wouldn't trust it in mud or on a snowy day, with or without four-wheel drive. Had her dress been run over by an all-terrain pattern, like the Jeep Pro Comp Xterrain Radial, I would have had much more respect for it.
2. J Lo- 3.0
Ms. Lopez, please leave something to the imagination. Sorry gentlemen, no links on this blog.
3. Anna Faris- 3.6
I was told that they were black sequins, but it looked just like a rubber suit I wore my ninth-grade year during wrestling practice when I had to cut five pounds before regionals the next day. Had she worn her outfit from The House Bunny it would have been a vast improvement.
4. Emma Stone- 3.99
A red flowing dress would be beautiful enough, but it had one major problem: the big red bow around her neck that her dress' designer took off the Jaguar he gave his wife as a Christmas present. Imagine being a dress designer. You have a beautiful dress and you ask yourself, "What little modification can I make to totally ruin this dress?" Voila! A bow!
5. Kristen Wiig- 4.0
Where to begin? The dress she dons is the color of wood. The top half is actually made of wood which looked like the checker board I made for my brother in 7th grade wood shop. The bottom half is plumey, like the tail of a peacock who woke up with bed head.
***As a post script, my wife would have looked far better than any of these women in any of their dresses.
Top 5
1. Natalie Portman-9.5
Donning a sparkling diamond necklace, Natalie was wearing a red dress from some famous designer with a French name I think. Whatever it was, it was stunning, classy, making her look even more beautiful than when she was in her wedding dress at the end of Star Wars, Episode II. But then again, she would probably look beautiful in a meat suit.
2. Milla Jovovich- 9.3
All I wrote down in my notes was, "Wow!" so I had to go to the internet to get details. Her dress was by Elie Saab, who also makes a great French car that sells poorly in America. Was the dress white? Was it silver? I don't know, but I know it was very beautiful on her because it contrasted well with her dark hair and dark red lipstick, especially with that sexy thing she does with her eyes. She knew she had it going on.
3. Penelope Cruz- 9.0
Penelope is another actress who would probably look stunning in just about anything she wears, but she knocked it out of the park with her greyish-purplish flowing dress. The off-the-shoulder sleeve thingies were classy, and the dress flowed plainly, yet elegantly like freshly fallen snow on a mountainous landscape on Christmas morning. Yeah, it's safe to say that I liked her dress.
4. Viola Davis- 8.5
It seems that green was in this year, and nobody did green better than Viola. Though I have no idea who she is, she was stunning in a dress which was strapless, form-fitting in the middle, and flowy on the bottom. Viola's dress was the first one I judged and it stood as the base to compare all other dresses. Plus, emerald green is my favorite color.
5. Gwyneth Paltrow- 8
White and tight. Gwyneth can get away with it even with the Tarzan shoulder strap because she wore an overcoat of the same color that looked like a cape. Man, I'm not making her sound very attractive right now, but Superman was awesome and he had a cape, and so is Gwyneth. I personally think the cape should make a comeback. I would wear a cape.
Bottom 5
1. Judy Greer- 2.5
Judy was wearing a silver skid mark on a black dress. The tread pattern of the tire used to run over her dress wasn't very aggressive, so I wouldn't trust it in mud or on a snowy day, with or without four-wheel drive. Had her dress been run over by an all-terrain pattern, like the Jeep Pro Comp Xterrain Radial, I would have had much more respect for it.
2. J Lo- 3.0
Ms. Lopez, please leave something to the imagination. Sorry gentlemen, no links on this blog.
3. Anna Faris- 3.6
I was told that they were black sequins, but it looked just like a rubber suit I wore my ninth-grade year during wrestling practice when I had to cut five pounds before regionals the next day. Had she worn her outfit from The House Bunny it would have been a vast improvement.
4. Emma Stone- 3.99
A red flowing dress would be beautiful enough, but it had one major problem: the big red bow around her neck that her dress' designer took off the Jaguar he gave his wife as a Christmas present. Imagine being a dress designer. You have a beautiful dress and you ask yourself, "What little modification can I make to totally ruin this dress?" Voila! A bow!
5. Kristen Wiig- 4.0
Where to begin? The dress she dons is the color of wood. The top half is actually made of wood which looked like the checker board I made for my brother in 7th grade wood shop. The bottom half is plumey, like the tail of a peacock who woke up with bed head.
***As a post script, my wife would have looked far better than any of these women in any of their dresses.
Saturday, February 18, 2012
15 Years. 5 Months. A Block of Wood
It's hard to believe that it's been fifteen years since God called his servant Amie Montgomerie home. I'd be remiss not to make mention of the anniversary of her death yesterday. It marked such a transformative time in my life. It was a time in my life when I was lost. It was after hearing her remarkable story that I rededicated my life to the Lord, so I am forever grateful that God gave her to us, even if it was for such a short period of time.
I believe with all my heart that nothing happens arbitrarily, that God has purpose in everything he does, and though I would like it to be like that scene in Bruce Almighty where Jim Carey's character is playing God and he answers "yes" to all prayer request e-mails, I know it just doesn't happen that way. One husband prays for a healthy organ for his ailing wife while another husband prays his wife, an organ donor, doesn't die after the accident. One prayer will be answered thankfully, one prayer will seemingly be discarded. To know the will of God. I felt that strong will when Amie died, and it didn't take me long to regret cursing God for allowing one of his angels on earth to be overcome by such evil murderers. That's why I swore I would accept God's will last September when Dad was in ICU. I knew it didn't look good, and I did try bargaining with God, praying such sentiments like, "God, if you pull Dad out, it will be another one of your miracles that people will be able look at and not be able to deny your existence, much less your supreme authority." If only Bruce Almighty had been ruling fifteen years ago. Five months ago. Alas it was not so, but thankfully I have seen the error of my ways and accepted what God knows to be his perfect will. As tough as it is to accept sometimes, and as hard as it is sometimes to live after a loved one passes, I know God's will is perfect and good shall come about through Dad's death, just like it did with me when Amie died. Still, days like today make it hard.
Three weeks ago my elder son was given a block of wood, four nails, and four plastic wheels and told to make a car. From the moment I signed my son up for Boy Scouts, I had been looking forward to a little father-son bonding time, which I got with him. But I was also looking forward to the phone calls with Dad, asking him questions about the laws of physics, how to calculate the center of gravity, how to turn potential energy into kinetic energy. These are the kinds of things for which he would have had answers, and he would have loved educating me every bit as much as I loved educating my own son through the process. It seems to me from a son's perspective that this was what he lived for, so I suppose I shouldn't be so surprised that I feel the same pride as a Dad. I know God felt it for his Son.
I believe with all my heart that nothing happens arbitrarily, that God has purpose in everything he does, and though I would like it to be like that scene in Bruce Almighty where Jim Carey's character is playing God and he answers "yes" to all prayer request e-mails, I know it just doesn't happen that way. One husband prays for a healthy organ for his ailing wife while another husband prays his wife, an organ donor, doesn't die after the accident. One prayer will be answered thankfully, one prayer will seemingly be discarded. To know the will of God. I felt that strong will when Amie died, and it didn't take me long to regret cursing God for allowing one of his angels on earth to be overcome by such evil murderers. That's why I swore I would accept God's will last September when Dad was in ICU. I knew it didn't look good, and I did try bargaining with God, praying such sentiments like, "God, if you pull Dad out, it will be another one of your miracles that people will be able look at and not be able to deny your existence, much less your supreme authority." If only Bruce Almighty had been ruling fifteen years ago. Five months ago. Alas it was not so, but thankfully I have seen the error of my ways and accepted what God knows to be his perfect will. As tough as it is to accept sometimes, and as hard as it is sometimes to live after a loved one passes, I know God's will is perfect and good shall come about through Dad's death, just like it did with me when Amie died. Still, days like today make it hard.
Three weeks ago my elder son was given a block of wood, four nails, and four plastic wheels and told to make a car. From the moment I signed my son up for Boy Scouts, I had been looking forward to a little father-son bonding time, which I got with him. But I was also looking forward to the phone calls with Dad, asking him questions about the laws of physics, how to calculate the center of gravity, how to turn potential energy into kinetic energy. These are the kinds of things for which he would have had answers, and he would have loved educating me every bit as much as I loved educating my own son through the process. It seems to me from a son's perspective that this was what he lived for, so I suppose I shouldn't be so surprised that I feel the same pride as a Dad. I know God felt it for his Son.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Just Like Me
"I only saw him years later, when he was worn down by life. Look at him. He's got his whole life in front of him, and I'm not even a glint in his eye." "Ray Kinsella" from Field of Dreams.
In a movie full of famous quotes ("Ray, people will come Ray,") this wasn't one of Kevin Costner's most memorable lines, but it's one that has resonated with me tonight. To put the quote above in its proper context, Kevin Costner plays a character named Ray Kinsella, a man with many regrets in his life, but none bigger than breaking off his relationship with the father that didn't understand him. His father dies before he could make up with him, and from somewhere deep within, Ray hears a voice. This voice convinces him to build a baseball field of all things, then take an Odyssey into the unknown, a path wrought with strain of every kind imaginable until he stands face-to-face with his father-- that is the younger version of his father who, like many other ghosts of baseball past, have found their way onto Ray's baseball field for a second chance.
So as he stands down the basepath staring at his father, overcome with emotion, he has a revelation that his father wasn't always... old.
My own dad told my brother and me, when we were old enough to start thinking seriously about getting into trouble, that whenever we had a stupid thought run through our heads, to think better of it, because whatever trouble we were thinking of getting in, he had already done it. Dad rarely got into specifics, but it was a message that was usually well-received, sometimes shrugged off, and from time-to-time ignored completely.
You see, I only knew Dad from the time he was 25 until his passing this fall at the too-early age of 61. When you figure in eleven years of my growth from infancy, by the time my brain started telling me it was okay to run down to the creek in mid-January and use a shovel to bust the ice to go ice fishing, my dad was 36 years old. That is, old enough to have little desire to repeat youthful indiscretions.
Just like me.
The Dad I knew was Army-hardened. He was faithful, never skipping a day of work. He was tired at the end of the day because he put in his all. But he still had time to play Superman: play catch with us out in the yard, coach our little league team, take us hunting and fishing. When he did any of this though, wisdom flowed from his few words. Everything had a lesson behind it. Everything was spoken from a mentor's point-of-view. Dad wasn't a hell raiser. He drove us around in a station wagon and Old Blue, his 1974 Chevy pickup, and took his time in doing so. He rarely got excited, rarely let his emotions show, never acted immature.
Pretty much just like me.
So when he gave us the vague warnings about his experiences, I, as I assume my brother did as well, let it slip in one ear and out the other. Boldness led to wrecklessness. Knuckleheadedness prevailed, and I turned from a boy to an adolescent who needed to see why the green slime on a lake's spillway is slick. Why you don't point a bb gun at a girl's foot (sorry Kelda.) Why you don't roll a tire down 5th Street hill into traffic. Why you don't egg and shaving cream the back of a church. Why you don't try to catch a Mississippi Kite with a fishing pole.
I had never truly believed that Dad was just like me.
Tonight Providence brought to me one of Dad's childhood friends. In town on a business trip, this gentleman who referred to my Dad as his older brother, had lived next door to Dad growing up. He was able to relay some stories about Dad that I was never to see in the man I looked up to. About him playing Huck Finn with a borrowed rowboat and capsizing on the Arkansas River. About stealing watermelons and blasting fish from the water with M-80s. Fast cars and football. Basically all the things that I would have done (and some of which I did do) when I was a kid, trying to learn the ways of this world.
Though it still hurts, and though I know I will never completely get over the loss, it does help bring a smile to my face to know that Dad was just like me.
In a movie full of famous quotes ("Ray, people will come Ray,") this wasn't one of Kevin Costner's most memorable lines, but it's one that has resonated with me tonight. To put the quote above in its proper context, Kevin Costner plays a character named Ray Kinsella, a man with many regrets in his life, but none bigger than breaking off his relationship with the father that didn't understand him. His father dies before he could make up with him, and from somewhere deep within, Ray hears a voice. This voice convinces him to build a baseball field of all things, then take an Odyssey into the unknown, a path wrought with strain of every kind imaginable until he stands face-to-face with his father-- that is the younger version of his father who, like many other ghosts of baseball past, have found their way onto Ray's baseball field for a second chance.
So as he stands down the basepath staring at his father, overcome with emotion, he has a revelation that his father wasn't always... old.
My own dad told my brother and me, when we were old enough to start thinking seriously about getting into trouble, that whenever we had a stupid thought run through our heads, to think better of it, because whatever trouble we were thinking of getting in, he had already done it. Dad rarely got into specifics, but it was a message that was usually well-received, sometimes shrugged off, and from time-to-time ignored completely.
You see, I only knew Dad from the time he was 25 until his passing this fall at the too-early age of 61. When you figure in eleven years of my growth from infancy, by the time my brain started telling me it was okay to run down to the creek in mid-January and use a shovel to bust the ice to go ice fishing, my dad was 36 years old. That is, old enough to have little desire to repeat youthful indiscretions.
Just like me.
The Dad I knew was Army-hardened. He was faithful, never skipping a day of work. He was tired at the end of the day because he put in his all. But he still had time to play Superman: play catch with us out in the yard, coach our little league team, take us hunting and fishing. When he did any of this though, wisdom flowed from his few words. Everything had a lesson behind it. Everything was spoken from a mentor's point-of-view. Dad wasn't a hell raiser. He drove us around in a station wagon and Old Blue, his 1974 Chevy pickup, and took his time in doing so. He rarely got excited, rarely let his emotions show, never acted immature.
Pretty much just like me.
So when he gave us the vague warnings about his experiences, I, as I assume my brother did as well, let it slip in one ear and out the other. Boldness led to wrecklessness. Knuckleheadedness prevailed, and I turned from a boy to an adolescent who needed to see why the green slime on a lake's spillway is slick. Why you don't point a bb gun at a girl's foot (sorry Kelda.) Why you don't roll a tire down 5th Street hill into traffic. Why you don't egg and shaving cream the back of a church. Why you don't try to catch a Mississippi Kite with a fishing pole.
I had never truly believed that Dad was just like me.
Tonight Providence brought to me one of Dad's childhood friends. In town on a business trip, this gentleman who referred to my Dad as his older brother, had lived next door to Dad growing up. He was able to relay some stories about Dad that I was never to see in the man I looked up to. About him playing Huck Finn with a borrowed rowboat and capsizing on the Arkansas River. About stealing watermelons and blasting fish from the water with M-80s. Fast cars and football. Basically all the things that I would have done (and some of which I did do) when I was a kid, trying to learn the ways of this world.
Though it still hurts, and though I know I will never completely get over the loss, it does help bring a smile to my face to know that Dad was just like me.
Monday, October 10, 2011
Coping
How does a man cope with his father's death?
Just a few weeks ago I was in a hospital room, sitting down in a chair across from my father with my brother at my side. Hunters as we were, we were talking about rifle scopes, retelling stories of great shots that we had told before. That's when the topic turned to snipers. My father, just having had either a stroke or what the doctor diagnosed as merely Bells Palsy, mentioned to me in his slurred voice that if I was interested in learning more about snipers, he had three books on the bottom shelf of his bookshelf in the basement. I was leaving to head back to my family that very afternoon, having been given assurance from the doctor that Dad was well on the way to recovery. I had considered making a stop at the house on the way out of town and picking up one of those books, but haste compelled me to gas up and head home so that I could have time to rest up that evening for another day of school the next morning. Little did I know that my father would be on life support less than forty-eight hours later.
After the funeral, it was time to consider heading back to my life. On the way out of the house, I excused myself and went downstairs. It was Dad's final request of me, and I could not let him down. I chose the first one of the three that I saw, Dear Mom: A Sniper's VietNam by J.T. Ward. I took it home and opened it. It was incredibly hard to get through the first line without crying. It's not that the first line was a heartbreaker, but there was something there which caused me agonizing pain. Perhaps it was my link Dad's experience in boot camp, since I couldn't ask him questions about his time in the Army anymore. Perhaps it was the fact that this was Dad's book and I was reading what he once had in his hands. I have a picture of Dad in my mind, sitting on the couch in his spot night-after-night, reading his books. To that end, he had over 500 books on war on his bookshelf from which to pick, and more boxed up on the floor.
I eventually made it through that first line and only put the book down when sleep or school forced me to. Though I don't know J.T. Ward at all, I could feel myself living this man's military life and his war experiences, and somehow it kept Dad alive for me. I finished it about thirty minutes ago. The only problem was that whenever I had questions, Dad was just a phone call away. So many questions went unanswered.
So now I am left feeling empty inside. When I go back to Mom's house, I will replace Dear Mom with the second book Dad spoke of and see if there is something in it that can keep Dad's memory alive for me. I try to end each blog post with some type of morale, platitude, or upbeat statement, but right now I still have the same hole in my heart that I had a few weeks ago when Dad passed. I'm not sure it will ever be filled. I'm just afraid of what won't happen when I finish all three books.
Just a few weeks ago I was in a hospital room, sitting down in a chair across from my father with my brother at my side. Hunters as we were, we were talking about rifle scopes, retelling stories of great shots that we had told before. That's when the topic turned to snipers. My father, just having had either a stroke or what the doctor diagnosed as merely Bells Palsy, mentioned to me in his slurred voice that if I was interested in learning more about snipers, he had three books on the bottom shelf of his bookshelf in the basement. I was leaving to head back to my family that very afternoon, having been given assurance from the doctor that Dad was well on the way to recovery. I had considered making a stop at the house on the way out of town and picking up one of those books, but haste compelled me to gas up and head home so that I could have time to rest up that evening for another day of school the next morning. Little did I know that my father would be on life support less than forty-eight hours later.
After the funeral, it was time to consider heading back to my life. On the way out of the house, I excused myself and went downstairs. It was Dad's final request of me, and I could not let him down. I chose the first one of the three that I saw, Dear Mom: A Sniper's VietNam by J.T. Ward. I took it home and opened it. It was incredibly hard to get through the first line without crying. It's not that the first line was a heartbreaker, but there was something there which caused me agonizing pain. Perhaps it was my link Dad's experience in boot camp, since I couldn't ask him questions about his time in the Army anymore. Perhaps it was the fact that this was Dad's book and I was reading what he once had in his hands. I have a picture of Dad in my mind, sitting on the couch in his spot night-after-night, reading his books. To that end, he had over 500 books on war on his bookshelf from which to pick, and more boxed up on the floor.
I eventually made it through that first line and only put the book down when sleep or school forced me to. Though I don't know J.T. Ward at all, I could feel myself living this man's military life and his war experiences, and somehow it kept Dad alive for me. I finished it about thirty minutes ago. The only problem was that whenever I had questions, Dad was just a phone call away. So many questions went unanswered.
So now I am left feeling empty inside. When I go back to Mom's house, I will replace Dear Mom with the second book Dad spoke of and see if there is something in it that can keep Dad's memory alive for me. I try to end each blog post with some type of morale, platitude, or upbeat statement, but right now I still have the same hole in my heart that I had a few weeks ago when Dad passed. I'm not sure it will ever be filled. I'm just afraid of what won't happen when I finish all three books.
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