Greetings to you, fine internet people... it's been a while.
I am coming to you live from the garage of an empty house. It was the house I lived in longer than any other, yet now, it lies without a chair, without a table, with nothing but the internet modem which is the last thing that dwells in the dwelling.
It is a surreal sight to look around and see where I changed the diapers of our first child, then our second. It is so strange to see the place where I sat in disbelief when we had to take our daughter to the hospital for the first time. It is unnatural to look into the kitchen and not see my lovely wife welcoming me home. I look at the sliding door and there is no dog waiting to be let inside. Home is now a memory.
Last night, I spent the night in an almost as empty house just a few minutes away from here, but a world away in terms of what will be. From a nice size rambler to the house that most people can only dream about, but somehow it has become ours.
The last time I had emotions like these were when I visited my parent's house for the last time. They lived in South Carolina in a house they called UpDaCreek, as it sat by an ocean fed creek.
Driving away from my new house for the first time this morning, I realized that we are on the banks of an ocean fed creek as well. Ours is on top of a hill and you have to go down a trail to get to it, but none the less, it is there. So, I called my wife and asked if she realized this as well. She didn't put two and two together either.
We had always said we wanted to live like my parents did, in a house of dreams, by the water, and now in a way we have. So we have dubbed the new house UpDaCreek West, and we will refer to it as a tribute to my wonderful parents who dreamed of this for us those many years ago.
Finally, their dream came true, and so did ours... and we think that somehow, some way, the connection of the Atlantic to the Pacific and the creeks that run by, make it all the more right.
Hey Mom and Dad, we made it!
Yours truly,
Johnny Blogger
Showing posts with label Dad. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dad. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
On the subject of "Preparing for the Back Nine"
"I'm not over the hill. I'm just on the back nine."
- A pillow that belonged to my Dad that I brought home with me from his house.
In just 6 days, I will no longer be 45 and lost in cyberspace. Yes, the calendar page turns and with it, the sense of being young.
I know it is just a different day, and the world does not change. The perspective, however is beginning to change. On my radio is still the music of a 20 or 30 year old. My sense of humor is more of a teenager than a middle-ager. Life's dreams, goals, and challenges - now, that is a different story.
Last week, I was privileged to be given access to Seattle Golf Club to tape a series of interviews with some golfers of the past from a local university's program. In this role, I was able to talk to people with a wide range of memories from those who won a championship two years before I was born to those who just recently graduated. While all the stories were wonderful, I related more to the stories of the older generation than the younger, and that both surprised and saddened me.
Listening to the stories of the older golfers was like listening to my Dad. The camaraderie, the memories, the love they had for each other, all became very apparent. It was the kind of story I had not heard from a member of that generation since my Dad passed away three years ago.
Walking through the locker room at that club brought another fact into focus. The design of that room is eerily similar to that of the club that my Dad belonged to in Bethesda, Maryland. At "BT", I felt as though I was part of an incredible privileged group of people who had made a difference. At the Seattle Golf Club, I sadly felt like a visitor who had not achieved what I believed I could where I could be amongst the members.
Talking to the members of the championship teams, many doctors or successful business men or golf pros, I was transported back to a time when time on the course was time spent reconnecting with my Dad. A bad day on the course was better than most good days in the office.
The last time I shared a golf course with my dad was one of the greatest experiences of my life. We played in a father/son tournament, and finished just two strokes out of the awards. We came so close, but it didn't seem to matter. The next time I would see him, he would be recovering from heart surgery, unable to even get to a golf course let alone play.
The last time I saw him, we talked old golf stories, and looked at some pictures. We knew that no matter what would happen, we always had that weekend at BT.
Now, I get ready to make the turn and head to the back nine. I haven't set foot on a golf course to play since he died. It seems too painful as if I hit a good shot, that would always be the one I would want to call Dad about.
The trip to Seattle Golf Club brought with it other thoughts. Would I ever live up to the life where I felt I could belong? My life has taken such strange turns lately. My old self would be longing for the "club life" or the "good life" as my Dad always called it.
My current friends, the ones who make me happiest, are not club types, but rather ones that seem more "touchable" and more "reachable."
I don't want to give up the dream of success that allows me perks and privilege, but I never want to lose touch with the friends who have shaped my life.
The conflict seems like a 20 foot putt to force a playoff in a tournament. Making it keeps the dream alive. Missing it doesn't mean the end, but it makes you wonder what if.
Right now, the question of "what if?" seems to be taking the shape of "what could be?" Exciting and scary all at the same time.
What lies on the back nine? Do I play an iron and play it safe or go for it with the "Loco" driver that was my final golf present from my dad? I step up to the tee soon. And frankly, it's a daunting task.
Yours truly,
Johnny Blogger
- A pillow that belonged to my Dad that I brought home with me from his house.
In just 6 days, I will no longer be 45 and lost in cyberspace. Yes, the calendar page turns and with it, the sense of being young.
I know it is just a different day, and the world does not change. The perspective, however is beginning to change. On my radio is still the music of a 20 or 30 year old. My sense of humor is more of a teenager than a middle-ager. Life's dreams, goals, and challenges - now, that is a different story.
Last week, I was privileged to be given access to Seattle Golf Club to tape a series of interviews with some golfers of the past from a local university's program. In this role, I was able to talk to people with a wide range of memories from those who won a championship two years before I was born to those who just recently graduated. While all the stories were wonderful, I related more to the stories of the older generation than the younger, and that both surprised and saddened me.
Listening to the stories of the older golfers was like listening to my Dad. The camaraderie, the memories, the love they had for each other, all became very apparent. It was the kind of story I had not heard from a member of that generation since my Dad passed away three years ago.
Walking through the locker room at that club brought another fact into focus. The design of that room is eerily similar to that of the club that my Dad belonged to in Bethesda, Maryland. At "BT", I felt as though I was part of an incredible privileged group of people who had made a difference. At the Seattle Golf Club, I sadly felt like a visitor who had not achieved what I believed I could where I could be amongst the members.
Talking to the members of the championship teams, many doctors or successful business men or golf pros, I was transported back to a time when time on the course was time spent reconnecting with my Dad. A bad day on the course was better than most good days in the office.
The last time I shared a golf course with my dad was one of the greatest experiences of my life. We played in a father/son tournament, and finished just two strokes out of the awards. We came so close, but it didn't seem to matter. The next time I would see him, he would be recovering from heart surgery, unable to even get to a golf course let alone play.
The last time I saw him, we talked old golf stories, and looked at some pictures. We knew that no matter what would happen, we always had that weekend at BT.
Now, I get ready to make the turn and head to the back nine. I haven't set foot on a golf course to play since he died. It seems too painful as if I hit a good shot, that would always be the one I would want to call Dad about.
The trip to Seattle Golf Club brought with it other thoughts. Would I ever live up to the life where I felt I could belong? My life has taken such strange turns lately. My old self would be longing for the "club life" or the "good life" as my Dad always called it.
My current friends, the ones who make me happiest, are not club types, but rather ones that seem more "touchable" and more "reachable."
I don't want to give up the dream of success that allows me perks and privilege, but I never want to lose touch with the friends who have shaped my life.
The conflict seems like a 20 foot putt to force a playoff in a tournament. Making it keeps the dream alive. Missing it doesn't mean the end, but it makes you wonder what if.
Right now, the question of "what if?" seems to be taking the shape of "what could be?" Exciting and scary all at the same time.
What lies on the back nine? Do I play an iron and play it safe or go for it with the "Loco" driver that was my final golf present from my dad? I step up to the tee soon. And frankly, it's a daunting task.
Yours truly,
Johnny Blogger
Friday, February 20, 2009
On the subject of an Incredible Journey
The journal of the South Carolina trip continues... later in the week. The days after arriving were so whirlwind, there was no time to blog.. however... where it picks up will give you a great place for me to pick up the story.
Good morning from my parent’s breakfast table. It’s 8:28 on Thursday and what an incredible experience this has been.
You might remember in my getting here entry that I was not sure of how this trip would affect me, and I could not have been more wrong.
Let me begin by saying that this journey is one of the top 5 experiences of my entire life. I don’t use those words lightly – it has been nothing short of life changing. Pretty deep, huh?
I had known what kind of family from which I came, but I had lost touch with the history and heritage that made us Bloggers, er Hortons who we were and who we have come to be. This house, this beautiful house, is now a mess, thanks to yours truly and the army of people whose sole job it is to figure out everything in it and where it is supposed to go. My Mom and Dad would think it was just typical of me to make that mess, but somehow I think they are smiling right now… knowing that finally, a mess that I am making will make a positive difference.
Each discovery, every find, there is a new story, a renewed sense of family. A thing I can call mine, an item that was about to be forgotten, but now, passed on. Everything that needs to be accounted for – all 40 pages of items to be divided amongst three children and a special friend, is being found piece by piece. Some will be sold, as there is no room in our smaller houses to hold what this huge place once did. Some will be left as there is such a thing as too much information, but in its discovery, heartwarming stories have been recalled and new ones written.
Take for example one box of papers I found yesterday. In it, childhood photos of my father from 1920’a – report cards from his elementary school where he received straight D’s. However, back then, D was the top grade. My Dad was a smart cookie.
Also, a growth chart tag from the Department of Health, which would now be the kind of thing the pediatrician gives to a parent to show percentiles and weight and such. This one came with some tips for healthy child living. Some of these included:
Take a full bath at least once a week. Drink as much milk as you want, but avoid coffee and tea. Eat some fruit and vegetables. HAVE A BOWEL MOVEMENT EVERY MORNING. Now that’s not something you see on today’s health tips – good advice though!
Later in the day, I would find my own childhood doctor’s chart. The complete look at my life was not contained in a folder with multiple coloured stickers. No, it was just one piece of folded paper with things like “heart and lungs fine” through a chronological journey through my childhood.
In the attic were other boxes of random things, including my childhood books and pictures… lots of football and baseball books. One envelope included every ticket stub from every sporting event I went to with my Grandfather.
Poppa was an incredible man, who spoiled me rotten. He came from a background of politics and banking and was actually in Harry Truman’s cabinet (if you are a Truman fan, this house would have been your Valhalla.) While Poppa had treated me beautifully in life, my memories of him after his passing have never been as sweet. He died as a very mean person, especially to my Mom. I never forgave him for that, but the stance softened over the years.
It was not until I unpacked another photo box that I had a new and full understanding for him. He was the kind of person who sent pictures to me and to my Dad, and sometimes even Mom (his daughter) with the inscription, “with great affection and warm wishes, John W. Snyder.” My Grandfather could not say, “I love you,” especially if it was something that was going to be around for posterity.
My son, who is one of the most loving people I have ever seen, has taken an affection for this great grandfather, excited in the discovery of Poppa’s Secret Service badge (he wasn’t an agent, his department ran the Secret Service!) and field glasses and presentation pointers, all things that fascinated me when I was his age.
Thursday night was spent with my longest known friend, Mary Stuart. We wanted to play on the beach with the kids… and play the kids did, with dips into the frigid ocean. We took pictures, shed tears and realized that this is where we wanted to be.
Gale rejoined us at the house and we all went to a big dinner. Afterwards, we stepped outside, and we all said our goodbyes to “Mess.” Gale, knowing the importance, asked the kids to “give them a minute.” I walked over to the Land Rover she loved so much and preceded to collapse into her arms with the tears of hurt, joy, sorrow, pain and happiness. I know I will see my friend again someday, it just seemed like there was some kind of finality with that embrace… and it scared me.
Friday afternoon… high above the eastern seaboard on a plane that can best be described as a cigar. Panic attack as I got on the plane… but I was able to step outside before takeoff to calm myself. Still racy though.
On to a more positive thing… the final moments of our trip.
For the past couple of days I discovered love letters from my Dad to my Mom. They were written over a number of years, mostly for special occasions… a new house, Valentine’s Day, Christmas. Each was beautifully crafted with just the perfect words… discussions of a journey taken together.
As the very last thing ever done by the Horton family in that house, I decided to have a impromptu ceremony. I brought out my wife, daughter and son to the very spot where my wife and I were married almost 15 years ago. We took a couple of pictures. I asked my daughter to stand next to her mom, with my son standing at my side. I then put my honey’s hand into mine, and renewed my vows to her, promising to love her for the rest of my life and to make this family one of love and strength. We all cried. Then, my love said the words that touched me the most. “You are just like your Dad,” she said. My heart was filled with enormous joy.
The rest of the family left the house while I stood one last time in the house. I looked around the great room, now littered with the pictures and effects of a lifetime, all sorted into different categories with tags of a neon color. Instead of the disarray, I gazed upon a room that was haunted with the memory of my parents… a room I would never step into again. I fell to my knees, and kissed the ground and said “I will always miss you,” a comment made towards both my parents and the house itself.
I stepped outside where I was met by my wife. I stood on the bottom step, not wanting to move, knowing that one step forward would be the one step away from the place I must always leave behind.
Driving from the property, the Pussycat Dolls song “I hate this part right here,” was on the car radio. Definition of appropriate.
Our last stop in our stay in the South Carolina Lowcountry was Angel Oak, the oldest tree west of the Mississippi. This massive live oak with branches so large it looks like a labyrinth of trees entangled into each other. It was something that had been there in that spot for more than 1500 years… a symbol of endurance. I saw it as a sign of the enduring love I have for my parents and the continuing love I have for my wonderful wife and incredible kids.
I did not want to take this trip, and now I cannot imagine what life would have been like if I did not. I am blessed with a wife who cared enough to make me do it.
This journey was one of the most beautiful experiences in my nearly 46 years, a gateway to a new life. I shall see the world through new vision from this day forward, with the appreciation of the life that given to me, the life lived in formation of character, and the new life as patriarch, father, and just plain old grown up me. My Dad referred to himself in those aforementioned love letters as “the Grey Head.” I am not quite there yet, but as I make that transition, I will cherish the opportunity rather than dread it… thanks to my father’s final lesson, nearly three years after he left this earth. Thanks, Dad. I love you.
Good morning from my parent’s breakfast table. It’s 8:28 on Thursday and what an incredible experience this has been.
You might remember in my getting here entry that I was not sure of how this trip would affect me, and I could not have been more wrong.
Let me begin by saying that this journey is one of the top 5 experiences of my entire life. I don’t use those words lightly – it has been nothing short of life changing. Pretty deep, huh?
I had known what kind of family from which I came, but I had lost touch with the history and heritage that made us Bloggers, er Hortons who we were and who we have come to be. This house, this beautiful house, is now a mess, thanks to yours truly and the army of people whose sole job it is to figure out everything in it and where it is supposed to go. My Mom and Dad would think it was just typical of me to make that mess, but somehow I think they are smiling right now… knowing that finally, a mess that I am making will make a positive difference.
Each discovery, every find, there is a new story, a renewed sense of family. A thing I can call mine, an item that was about to be forgotten, but now, passed on. Everything that needs to be accounted for – all 40 pages of items to be divided amongst three children and a special friend, is being found piece by piece. Some will be sold, as there is no room in our smaller houses to hold what this huge place once did. Some will be left as there is such a thing as too much information, but in its discovery, heartwarming stories have been recalled and new ones written.
Take for example one box of papers I found yesterday. In it, childhood photos of my father from 1920’a – report cards from his elementary school where he received straight D’s. However, back then, D was the top grade. My Dad was a smart cookie.
Also, a growth chart tag from the Department of Health, which would now be the kind of thing the pediatrician gives to a parent to show percentiles and weight and such. This one came with some tips for healthy child living. Some of these included:
Take a full bath at least once a week. Drink as much milk as you want, but avoid coffee and tea. Eat some fruit and vegetables. HAVE A BOWEL MOVEMENT EVERY MORNING. Now that’s not something you see on today’s health tips – good advice though!
Later in the day, I would find my own childhood doctor’s chart. The complete look at my life was not contained in a folder with multiple coloured stickers. No, it was just one piece of folded paper with things like “heart and lungs fine” through a chronological journey through my childhood.
In the attic were other boxes of random things, including my childhood books and pictures… lots of football and baseball books. One envelope included every ticket stub from every sporting event I went to with my Grandfather.
Poppa was an incredible man, who spoiled me rotten. He came from a background of politics and banking and was actually in Harry Truman’s cabinet (if you are a Truman fan, this house would have been your Valhalla.) While Poppa had treated me beautifully in life, my memories of him after his passing have never been as sweet. He died as a very mean person, especially to my Mom. I never forgave him for that, but the stance softened over the years.
It was not until I unpacked another photo box that I had a new and full understanding for him. He was the kind of person who sent pictures to me and to my Dad, and sometimes even Mom (his daughter) with the inscription, “with great affection and warm wishes, John W. Snyder.” My Grandfather could not say, “I love you,” especially if it was something that was going to be around for posterity.
My son, who is one of the most loving people I have ever seen, has taken an affection for this great grandfather, excited in the discovery of Poppa’s Secret Service badge (he wasn’t an agent, his department ran the Secret Service!) and field glasses and presentation pointers, all things that fascinated me when I was his age.
Thursday night was spent with my longest known friend, Mary Stuart. We wanted to play on the beach with the kids… and play the kids did, with dips into the frigid ocean. We took pictures, shed tears and realized that this is where we wanted to be.
Gale rejoined us at the house and we all went to a big dinner. Afterwards, we stepped outside, and we all said our goodbyes to “Mess.” Gale, knowing the importance, asked the kids to “give them a minute.” I walked over to the Land Rover she loved so much and preceded to collapse into her arms with the tears of hurt, joy, sorrow, pain and happiness. I know I will see my friend again someday, it just seemed like there was some kind of finality with that embrace… and it scared me.
Friday afternoon… high above the eastern seaboard on a plane that can best be described as a cigar. Panic attack as I got on the plane… but I was able to step outside before takeoff to calm myself. Still racy though.
On to a more positive thing… the final moments of our trip.
For the past couple of days I discovered love letters from my Dad to my Mom. They were written over a number of years, mostly for special occasions… a new house, Valentine’s Day, Christmas. Each was beautifully crafted with just the perfect words… discussions of a journey taken together.
As the very last thing ever done by the Horton family in that house, I decided to have a impromptu ceremony. I brought out my wife, daughter and son to the very spot where my wife and I were married almost 15 years ago. We took a couple of pictures. I asked my daughter to stand next to her mom, with my son standing at my side. I then put my honey’s hand into mine, and renewed my vows to her, promising to love her for the rest of my life and to make this family one of love and strength. We all cried. Then, my love said the words that touched me the most. “You are just like your Dad,” she said. My heart was filled with enormous joy.
The rest of the family left the house while I stood one last time in the house. I looked around the great room, now littered with the pictures and effects of a lifetime, all sorted into different categories with tags of a neon color. Instead of the disarray, I gazed upon a room that was haunted with the memory of my parents… a room I would never step into again. I fell to my knees, and kissed the ground and said “I will always miss you,” a comment made towards both my parents and the house itself.
I stepped outside where I was met by my wife. I stood on the bottom step, not wanting to move, knowing that one step forward would be the one step away from the place I must always leave behind.
Driving from the property, the Pussycat Dolls song “I hate this part right here,” was on the car radio. Definition of appropriate.
Our last stop in our stay in the South Carolina Lowcountry was Angel Oak, the oldest tree west of the Mississippi. This massive live oak with branches so large it looks like a labyrinth of trees entangled into each other. It was something that had been there in that spot for more than 1500 years… a symbol of endurance. I saw it as a sign of the enduring love I have for my parents and the continuing love I have for my wonderful wife and incredible kids.
I did not want to take this trip, and now I cannot imagine what life would have been like if I did not. I am blessed with a wife who cared enough to make me do it.
This journey was one of the most beautiful experiences in my nearly 46 years, a gateway to a new life. I shall see the world through new vision from this day forward, with the appreciation of the life that given to me, the life lived in formation of character, and the new life as patriarch, father, and just plain old grown up me. My Dad referred to himself in those aforementioned love letters as “the Grey Head.” I am not quite there yet, but as I make that transition, I will cherish the opportunity rather than dread it… thanks to my father’s final lesson, nearly three years after he left this earth. Thanks, Dad. I love you.
On the subject of Air Travel
Hello readers… the following entry is a journal kept on my companion called Mac for my trip back to my parent’s soon to be former home… a place of memories for me, even though I did not formally live there, but still consider it one of the houses I lived in. This trip is to say goodbye to their memory, their belongings, and a place I will always remember as the spot where I began my life as a grown-up and a married man. So, if you enjoy a spirit walk, please feel free to take this one with me. I won’t promise it will all be fun, but I hope you can see little things with which you can identify. Let’s begin.
Saturday
Greetings from 37-thousand feet where it is 11 pm… United Airlines on my way to Charleston, SC by way of Washington, DC. Nothing short of the word bittersweet can describe this unexpected trip across the skies. A trip to my parent’s final resting place with an ever so short connection in the city of my birth.
First a little ranting. Leaving Seattle was almost a message to tell me – get the hell out of here. On our way to the airport… no less than four lanes of the main interstate – I-5, were shut down thanks to construction for “our convenience.” Once we muddled thought that, we reached Southcenter where we looked for a place to eat. Once we were able to traverse the maze that is the Cascade Garage, we were met with a 75-minute wait for dinner. That wasn’t gonna happen. (Um, what happened to people not wanting to spend money in this economy, but I digress.)
My family is not made up of the veteran knowledge in traveling that I have. For four years, the airplane was my second home. Well, it only took a trip through security to make me realize how much things have changed since I got off the road four years ago. A 30 dollar tube of skin cream was confiscated by the TSA. It caused a holdup of about 15 minutes. Once through security, we headed to the main restaurant in the airport – Anthonys. It was 8 PM. We were informed that they were only serving the late night menu, and no kids menu? Wha? 8 PM – late night?
So we went across the food court, and got the kids some pasta at the Pallino. What was pictured as a hearty plate of spaghetti was in actuality a meager plastic bowl. 20 bucks later for two crappy bowls of pasta… we went back to Anthony’s for grownup food. It was okay. Giving a positive credit where it is due… the waitress was awesomely nice, even filling our water bottles for the trip with ice water. Well done, her.
So to the gate we go, and there, we get on the plane… and the seats that I spent an extra 200 bucks for. Now you have to understand that to get a guaranteed seat on Untied (sic) Airlines, you have to buy “Economy Plus” which goes for an extra 49 per seat. My extra money bought a seat right next to a baby. My wife’s 49 dollars went straight towards a seat with a broken entertainment system and a short guy who slammed his reclining seat right into my wife’s knees without even an acknowledgement. Way to go, dude!
You have to realize that this trip began as my wife and myself taking a week to fly to empty my parent’s house, which sold after nearly three years following my father’s passing. When we made the decision, we had enough reward points from our bank to get two tickets. Heck, if we needed to, we could get four. When we were not able to find any folks to look after the kids, we then needed to include the kids in the travel plans. We had enough points… so no big deal. That would be the case if the fare did not double in the one day that we waited to buy the tickets. So now a free trip for two was a thousand dollar investment… and that was before the 200 dollars for the guaranteed seats one way and the 60 bucks to check one bag each – a policy started to offset “fuel prices.” Well sounds like they like getting the money.
We’re on the plane and after a few curt words from the flight attendants… we are having our first drink service. The only good thing at this point is my favorite comedic actress, Kristen Wiig is playing the surprise lady on the in flight entertainment
11:22 pm.
The movie is starting now. Never heard of it… so we’ll take a timeout. Baby is getting a bottle now… so there’s some hope for quiet. I should be dead tired… but I am wide awake.
11:31pm.
Movie stinks, so I am listening to XM on United Airlines. Billy Joel followed by Steely Dan.
You, dear readers, have already heard about my parent’s house in a previous blog, so I won’t go through the details again. My desire to go back was absent until some encouraging words from my wife. Sadly, the simple trip with the two of us became a production of gigantic proportions when we could not get anyone to watch the kids. I was looking for a time to say goodbye, and give her the same opportunity. Now it’s a chance for the whole family to do it, and after working through some very angry feelings that I was pushed into the trip, I am optimistic that this will indeed be the positive life experience that I was kind of sold on by my honey. We shall see.
3:45 AM
No… it’s not much later… just changed my clock to Eastern time. Funny thing about that. When I did I was working on a project in Final Draft, a screenwriting software.
I am starting in on a new writing project – a short play about the dynamics of a Tuesday Night Bowling League and when a team gets together for the first time. I was five pages into the new script when my time change kicked off the activation of my program, and so my writing has ceased… hopefully to be unlocked and picked up later.
The kids are handling the trip well. My daughter and wife are watching the movie, which stars Alfre Woodard, Kathy Bates and the woman who plays Dr. Charlotte King on Private Practice. She’s not wearing any leather in this movie, so I almost didn’t recognize her. – (Note: She’s still no Kate Walsh!)
In the headphones, it’s Watercolors on XM… which is a recording as it repeats about every two hours. I remember a flight on TWA when I was 15 to Spain and France where the tape lasted about 1 and a quarter hours. I memorized every song on that one which included David Gates (of Bread fame) singing Never Let Her Go and Santa Esmeralda’s only hit “I’m just a sould whose intentions are good, oh Lord, please don’t let me be misunderstood.
3:53… Hey… there’s the first yawn. This plane is as hot as my office or my control room. Must be nearly 80 in here. Thank you Untied Maintenance Department. Signing off for a bit. Need to stretch.
5:16 AM. I have anxiety meds that I take for serious anxiety, like when I am on an airplane… thanks to clostrophobia. It was on one of these same red eye flights from Seattle to Charleston that I had my first bout with the fear. I was stuck in the window seat of one of those small planes, and felt locked into the chair. When we sat on the tarmac for more than an hour and a half, I freaked, and ever since, I have suffered from that fear.
Well, one of the side effects of the meds it is supposed to make you sleepy. Well, I’m sleepy alright, but I am also Dopey, Sneezy, Droopy and Doc. I can doze if I lean on the armrest of the seat, but if I lean back in my seat… no luck. I guess sleeping on this flight is not in the cards. Well, at least I have you all to keep me company.
My wife is playing Bubblebuster on her phone. She is addicted to that game like I am addicted to Facebook. It’s her go to diversion. I don’t get the attraction to it.
On the plane, 30 Rock was just followed by that CBS show with Haley Cuoco. Never watch that one, but she sure is a cutey. As for Tina Fey, there is a certain charm to her, but like my dear Kristen, me thinks the crush is truly comical.
Well I think I am on my third rotation of the same songs on XM… yep. Chuck has just come on the plane TV. I loved this show when it first came on but lost interest when 24 and Heroes became about all I could handle on Monday nights.
Speaking of Monday Nights, three of the stars of Monday Night Raw, The Miz, John Morrison and Chaz Gaspar of Crime Tyme were walking through the airport as we were ready to board. My son was thrilled and wished that John Cena was heading through. No such luck.
5:40 AM
Time in the air over 5 hours… and we are descending. My son is looking outside hoping to catch a glimpse of the Nation’s Capital. I am hoping to catch a glimpse of the inside of my eyelids. No such luck. Happily, I must say that other than the regular aches of being a big guy on a plane, and the cabin air much too hot until literally 5 minutes ago, this has been an uneventful flight. The baby hasn’t made a sound. Wow.
Bottom line… my butt is tired.
Saturday
Greetings from 37-thousand feet where it is 11 pm… United Airlines on my way to Charleston, SC by way of Washington, DC. Nothing short of the word bittersweet can describe this unexpected trip across the skies. A trip to my parent’s final resting place with an ever so short connection in the city of my birth.
First a little ranting. Leaving Seattle was almost a message to tell me – get the hell out of here. On our way to the airport… no less than four lanes of the main interstate – I-5, were shut down thanks to construction for “our convenience.” Once we muddled thought that, we reached Southcenter where we looked for a place to eat. Once we were able to traverse the maze that is the Cascade Garage, we were met with a 75-minute wait for dinner. That wasn’t gonna happen. (Um, what happened to people not wanting to spend money in this economy, but I digress.)
My family is not made up of the veteran knowledge in traveling that I have. For four years, the airplane was my second home. Well, it only took a trip through security to make me realize how much things have changed since I got off the road four years ago. A 30 dollar tube of skin cream was confiscated by the TSA. It caused a holdup of about 15 minutes. Once through security, we headed to the main restaurant in the airport – Anthonys. It was 8 PM. We were informed that they were only serving the late night menu, and no kids menu? Wha? 8 PM – late night?
So we went across the food court, and got the kids some pasta at the Pallino. What was pictured as a hearty plate of spaghetti was in actuality a meager plastic bowl. 20 bucks later for two crappy bowls of pasta… we went back to Anthony’s for grownup food. It was okay. Giving a positive credit where it is due… the waitress was awesomely nice, even filling our water bottles for the trip with ice water. Well done, her.
So to the gate we go, and there, we get on the plane… and the seats that I spent an extra 200 bucks for. Now you have to understand that to get a guaranteed seat on Untied (sic) Airlines, you have to buy “Economy Plus” which goes for an extra 49 per seat. My extra money bought a seat right next to a baby. My wife’s 49 dollars went straight towards a seat with a broken entertainment system and a short guy who slammed his reclining seat right into my wife’s knees without even an acknowledgement. Way to go, dude!
You have to realize that this trip began as my wife and myself taking a week to fly to empty my parent’s house, which sold after nearly three years following my father’s passing. When we made the decision, we had enough reward points from our bank to get two tickets. Heck, if we needed to, we could get four. When we were not able to find any folks to look after the kids, we then needed to include the kids in the travel plans. We had enough points… so no big deal. That would be the case if the fare did not double in the one day that we waited to buy the tickets. So now a free trip for two was a thousand dollar investment… and that was before the 200 dollars for the guaranteed seats one way and the 60 bucks to check one bag each – a policy started to offset “fuel prices.” Well sounds like they like getting the money.
We’re on the plane and after a few curt words from the flight attendants… we are having our first drink service. The only good thing at this point is my favorite comedic actress, Kristen Wiig is playing the surprise lady on the in flight entertainment
11:22 pm.
The movie is starting now. Never heard of it… so we’ll take a timeout. Baby is getting a bottle now… so there’s some hope for quiet. I should be dead tired… but I am wide awake.
11:31pm.
Movie stinks, so I am listening to XM on United Airlines. Billy Joel followed by Steely Dan.
You, dear readers, have already heard about my parent’s house in a previous blog, so I won’t go through the details again. My desire to go back was absent until some encouraging words from my wife. Sadly, the simple trip with the two of us became a production of gigantic proportions when we could not get anyone to watch the kids. I was looking for a time to say goodbye, and give her the same opportunity. Now it’s a chance for the whole family to do it, and after working through some very angry feelings that I was pushed into the trip, I am optimistic that this will indeed be the positive life experience that I was kind of sold on by my honey. We shall see.
3:45 AM
No… it’s not much later… just changed my clock to Eastern time. Funny thing about that. When I did I was working on a project in Final Draft, a screenwriting software.
I am starting in on a new writing project – a short play about the dynamics of a Tuesday Night Bowling League and when a team gets together for the first time. I was five pages into the new script when my time change kicked off the activation of my program, and so my writing has ceased… hopefully to be unlocked and picked up later.
The kids are handling the trip well. My daughter and wife are watching the movie, which stars Alfre Woodard, Kathy Bates and the woman who plays Dr. Charlotte King on Private Practice. She’s not wearing any leather in this movie, so I almost didn’t recognize her. – (Note: She’s still no Kate Walsh!)
In the headphones, it’s Watercolors on XM… which is a recording as it repeats about every two hours. I remember a flight on TWA when I was 15 to Spain and France where the tape lasted about 1 and a quarter hours. I memorized every song on that one which included David Gates (of Bread fame) singing Never Let Her Go and Santa Esmeralda’s only hit “I’m just a sould whose intentions are good, oh Lord, please don’t let me be misunderstood.
3:53… Hey… there’s the first yawn. This plane is as hot as my office or my control room. Must be nearly 80 in here. Thank you Untied Maintenance Department. Signing off for a bit. Need to stretch.
5:16 AM. I have anxiety meds that I take for serious anxiety, like when I am on an airplane… thanks to clostrophobia. It was on one of these same red eye flights from Seattle to Charleston that I had my first bout with the fear. I was stuck in the window seat of one of those small planes, and felt locked into the chair. When we sat on the tarmac for more than an hour and a half, I freaked, and ever since, I have suffered from that fear.
Well, one of the side effects of the meds it is supposed to make you sleepy. Well, I’m sleepy alright, but I am also Dopey, Sneezy, Droopy and Doc. I can doze if I lean on the armrest of the seat, but if I lean back in my seat… no luck. I guess sleeping on this flight is not in the cards. Well, at least I have you all to keep me company.
My wife is playing Bubblebuster on her phone. She is addicted to that game like I am addicted to Facebook. It’s her go to diversion. I don’t get the attraction to it.
On the plane, 30 Rock was just followed by that CBS show with Haley Cuoco. Never watch that one, but she sure is a cutey. As for Tina Fey, there is a certain charm to her, but like my dear Kristen, me thinks the crush is truly comical.
Well I think I am on my third rotation of the same songs on XM… yep. Chuck has just come on the plane TV. I loved this show when it first came on but lost interest when 24 and Heroes became about all I could handle on Monday nights.
Speaking of Monday Nights, three of the stars of Monday Night Raw, The Miz, John Morrison and Chaz Gaspar of Crime Tyme were walking through the airport as we were ready to board. My son was thrilled and wished that John Cena was heading through. No such luck.
5:40 AM
Time in the air over 5 hours… and we are descending. My son is looking outside hoping to catch a glimpse of the Nation’s Capital. I am hoping to catch a glimpse of the inside of my eyelids. No such luck. Happily, I must say that other than the regular aches of being a big guy on a plane, and the cabin air much too hot until literally 5 minutes ago, this has been an uneventful flight. The baby hasn’t made a sound. Wow.
Bottom line… my butt is tired.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
On the subject of Dreams and Memories of a Palace
"So leave the memories alone,
I don't want to see,
The way it is, as to how it used to be,
Leave the memories alone, don't change a thing,
And I'll hold you here in my memory"
After three years, my father's house sold yesterday, and with it, the dreams of everything he worked for.
That house was his pride and joy. On the waterfront, bigger than life, a place to truly call home.
I never got to live there for an extended period of time... only a vacation, a holiday or two, but it was my home as well. They had built a separate apartment above the garage that was originally designed to be my room... instead it turned pink and became the guest room. And that's OK.
On a ocean fed creek, "UpDaCreek" was a palace of its time, without being ostentatious. Driving up to it, it just had a feeling of welcomeness unlike any other. From the porch that swung all around the house to the understated landscaping to those hanging plants that twisted in the summer winds, the house seemed to say "come on in and sit a spell."
All on one level, my folk's place had the great room of all great rooms. 30 feet by 30 feet with one wall totally windows to see the creek outside and the ocean beyond. Outside the french doors was a screened in porch with a series of rocking chairs. The porch started on one end of the house and sprawled all the way to the other end.
It was this porch I will remember the most. On an autumn day in 1994, after a week of driving rains and floods, the most beautiful day appeared. Most people in the south that Saturday were probably watching College Football. I was standing in the midst of many of my friends, and family, on a porch turned wedding chapel. In front of my parent's room, where the hanging swing usually was, my love and I exchanged vows and promised ourselves to each other for the rest of time.
The rest of time now will not include that place we stood. I somehow knew that as each and every time I went to visit my parents, or my Dad after Mom had passed, the last thing I would do is go stand on the very spot and remember, and dream, and swear I would be back there again.
The last time I stood there was June, three years ago, when I left my Dad's house after laying him to rest in the creek behind the house, just where we had spread my Mother's ashes five years prior. They will forever be a part of that landscape, their dust a part of the earth they loved so much.
My Dad told me on his death bed that at least he could die knowing that the house could help pave the way towards making life better for all of us. He had no idea of what the economy would do to those dreams.
My wife and I are talking about going back to help empty the house, a task already underway thanks to the executors of the estate who want to have the closing as soon as possible. I have mixed feelings. Do I want to go back? Can I go back, or will the memories be too much?
One of my favorite tribute songs, best used for of all things Pro Wrestler Ric Flair, is "Leave the Memories Alone." It's kind of how I feel right now. The sadness is overwhelming.
But it is in this sadness that I reach out. There are friends of mine that hurt much more today. From the loves they thought they had that turned out to be lies. From the jobs they sweated on to only be told that sweat was in vain. From the kids they love that need to heal from tragic accidents. They need my steady mind, my unwavering hand, my hug to let them know someone is there for them.
So maybe the dreams of my Dad's house did not die yesterday. Instead they live in the spirit described above. Dreams are not defined in dollars, they are instead built on love... so they do live.
Thank you, Dad.
I don't want to see,
The way it is, as to how it used to be,
Leave the memories alone, don't change a thing,
And I'll hold you here in my memory"
After three years, my father's house sold yesterday, and with it, the dreams of everything he worked for.
That house was his pride and joy. On the waterfront, bigger than life, a place to truly call home.
I never got to live there for an extended period of time... only a vacation, a holiday or two, but it was my home as well. They had built a separate apartment above the garage that was originally designed to be my room... instead it turned pink and became the guest room. And that's OK.
On a ocean fed creek, "UpDaCreek" was a palace of its time, without being ostentatious. Driving up to it, it just had a feeling of welcomeness unlike any other. From the porch that swung all around the house to the understated landscaping to those hanging plants that twisted in the summer winds, the house seemed to say "come on in and sit a spell."
All on one level, my folk's place had the great room of all great rooms. 30 feet by 30 feet with one wall totally windows to see the creek outside and the ocean beyond. Outside the french doors was a screened in porch with a series of rocking chairs. The porch started on one end of the house and sprawled all the way to the other end.
It was this porch I will remember the most. On an autumn day in 1994, after a week of driving rains and floods, the most beautiful day appeared. Most people in the south that Saturday were probably watching College Football. I was standing in the midst of many of my friends, and family, on a porch turned wedding chapel. In front of my parent's room, where the hanging swing usually was, my love and I exchanged vows and promised ourselves to each other for the rest of time.
The rest of time now will not include that place we stood. I somehow knew that as each and every time I went to visit my parents, or my Dad after Mom had passed, the last thing I would do is go stand on the very spot and remember, and dream, and swear I would be back there again.
The last time I stood there was June, three years ago, when I left my Dad's house after laying him to rest in the creek behind the house, just where we had spread my Mother's ashes five years prior. They will forever be a part of that landscape, their dust a part of the earth they loved so much.
My Dad told me on his death bed that at least he could die knowing that the house could help pave the way towards making life better for all of us. He had no idea of what the economy would do to those dreams.
My wife and I are talking about going back to help empty the house, a task already underway thanks to the executors of the estate who want to have the closing as soon as possible. I have mixed feelings. Do I want to go back? Can I go back, or will the memories be too much?
One of my favorite tribute songs, best used for of all things Pro Wrestler Ric Flair, is "Leave the Memories Alone." It's kind of how I feel right now. The sadness is overwhelming.
But it is in this sadness that I reach out. There are friends of mine that hurt much more today. From the loves they thought they had that turned out to be lies. From the jobs they sweated on to only be told that sweat was in vain. From the kids they love that need to heal from tragic accidents. They need my steady mind, my unwavering hand, my hug to let them know someone is there for them.
So maybe the dreams of my Dad's house did not die yesterday. Instead they live in the spirit described above. Dreams are not defined in dollars, they are instead built on love... so they do live.
Thank you, Dad.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
On the subject of Perspective
Wow.
That was my first reaction when I viewed all the financial news of the week.
Time was, when I was eight years old, that yours truly was a stock tycoon. I could tell you all about the Dow. Name a company, I could give you the stock symbol. The sports page was just the wrapper for the business page.
At least that was the story my Grandfather would tell me. He had a reason to push me in the financial world. He used to run it, as he was the Secretary of the Treasury.
I wonder what he would have made of all this hullabaloo called the recession or the correction or whatever it's called.
Truth was, I don't remember being that versed in the Market. I do remember walking by a stock broker and being interested in how the ticker worked. Who knows, maybe that was what got me into scoreboards, where my work lies now.
My grandfather also introduced me to college sports, taking me to Georgetown University basketball games and putting me right in the front row. The Hoyas were coached by a white guy named Jack McGee and the team was lily white as well. One year later, John Thompson arrived, and Georgetown became synonymous with college basketball excellence.
Poppa, as I called him, would take me to Redskins games as well.
Sadly, as I understood his relationship with my parents, and his role in my upbringing, I lost a little respect for him. Now that time has passed, I can put it in a little perspective.
While he was trying to curry favor with me by spoiling me, making life hard on my folks at the same time. After all, how could they compete when he was giving me everything, and they were trying to raise me with reason and perspective?
While I was trying to get into college, he had paved the way for me to enter not only the school I really wanted to go to (Missouri) but also Princeton, Vanderbilt and Georgetown. I applied without his knowledge to SMU, and was accepted there. He was furious. The biggest thing he could have "given me" I would not accept.
It was at that point that being spoiled took a back seat to making life for myself... and a new path was started.
So as I look back not in anger, but appreciation, I guess he was doing what he thought was right. He was making decisions on my economy, and my futures, not that I was asking him to.
Whatever the case, he taught me perspective by the two different ways I could think of his actions, and for that reason, I can see things from multiple viewpoints.
So, thanks Poppa. You thought you gave me many gifts to make me love you, instead you gave me the one gift you didn't expect to give - a reason to see the big picture when only the small one seems clear.
And today, we all can use a little big picture thinking. As my Dad always told me, respond - don't react.
Good Night, Poppa
Yours truly,
Johnny Blogger
PS - I made a celebrity blog!!!
That was my first reaction when I viewed all the financial news of the week.
Time was, when I was eight years old, that yours truly was a stock tycoon. I could tell you all about the Dow. Name a company, I could give you the stock symbol. The sports page was just the wrapper for the business page.
At least that was the story my Grandfather would tell me. He had a reason to push me in the financial world. He used to run it, as he was the Secretary of the Treasury.
I wonder what he would have made of all this hullabaloo called the recession or the correction or whatever it's called.
Truth was, I don't remember being that versed in the Market. I do remember walking by a stock broker and being interested in how the ticker worked. Who knows, maybe that was what got me into scoreboards, where my work lies now.
My grandfather also introduced me to college sports, taking me to Georgetown University basketball games and putting me right in the front row. The Hoyas were coached by a white guy named Jack McGee and the team was lily white as well. One year later, John Thompson arrived, and Georgetown became synonymous with college basketball excellence.
Poppa, as I called him, would take me to Redskins games as well.
Sadly, as I understood his relationship with my parents, and his role in my upbringing, I lost a little respect for him. Now that time has passed, I can put it in a little perspective.
While he was trying to curry favor with me by spoiling me, making life hard on my folks at the same time. After all, how could they compete when he was giving me everything, and they were trying to raise me with reason and perspective?
While I was trying to get into college, he had paved the way for me to enter not only the school I really wanted to go to (Missouri) but also Princeton, Vanderbilt and Georgetown. I applied without his knowledge to SMU, and was accepted there. He was furious. The biggest thing he could have "given me" I would not accept.
It was at that point that being spoiled took a back seat to making life for myself... and a new path was started.
So as I look back not in anger, but appreciation, I guess he was doing what he thought was right. He was making decisions on my economy, and my futures, not that I was asking him to.
Whatever the case, he taught me perspective by the two different ways I could think of his actions, and for that reason, I can see things from multiple viewpoints.
So, thanks Poppa. You thought you gave me many gifts to make me love you, instead you gave me the one gift you didn't expect to give - a reason to see the big picture when only the small one seems clear.
And today, we all can use a little big picture thinking. As my Dad always told me, respond - don't react.
Good Night, Poppa
Yours truly,
Johnny Blogger
PS - I made a celebrity blog!!!
Saturday, August 30, 2008
On the subject of Romantic Notions
A nice poem I like...
it's interesting why the rest of this post is gone... expecially when I live life by the poem. Oh well.
When you get what you want in the struggle for self
And the world makes you King for a day
Then go to the mirror and look at yourself
And see what this guy has to say.
For it isn't the man's father, or mother, or wife
Who's judgement upon him must pass
The feller who's verdict counts most in his life
Is the guy starring back from the glass.
He's the feller to please, never mind the rest,
FOR HE'S WITH YOU CLEAR UP TO THE END.
And you've passed your most dangerous, difficult test
If the guy in the glass is your friend.
You may be like Jack Horner and chisel a plum,
And think your a wonderful guy,
But that man in the glass says your a bum,
If you can't look him straight in the eye.
You can fool the whole world down the pathway of years
And get pats on the back as you pass,
But your final reward will be heartaches or tears,
If you've cheated the guy in the glass.
Yours truly,
Johnny Blogger
it's interesting why the rest of this post is gone... expecially when I live life by the poem. Oh well.
When you get what you want in the struggle for self
And the world makes you King for a day
Then go to the mirror and look at yourself
And see what this guy has to say.
For it isn't the man's father, or mother, or wife
Who's judgement upon him must pass
The feller who's verdict counts most in his life
Is the guy starring back from the glass.
He's the feller to please, never mind the rest,
FOR HE'S WITH YOU CLEAR UP TO THE END.
And you've passed your most dangerous, difficult test
If the guy in the glass is your friend.
You may be like Jack Horner and chisel a plum,
And think your a wonderful guy,
But that man in the glass says your a bum,
If you can't look him straight in the eye.
You can fool the whole world down the pathway of years
And get pats on the back as you pass,
But your final reward will be heartaches or tears,
If you've cheated the guy in the glass.
Yours truly,
Johnny Blogger
Saturday, August 2, 2008
On the subject of You Never Know
You never know what will break the ice.
You never know what can turn a trying relationship into a better one.
You never know how you are going to get through the generation gap.
You never know how a night you're dreading can become a nice one.
Teach a daughter how to score a baseball game, and suddenly there is a conversation.
You never know.
Good Night, Charlotte
Yours truly,
Johnny Blogger
Sunday, June 8, 2008
On the subject of lost and found
"Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me,
I once was lost, but now I'm found, was blind, but now I see."
There I am standing on the beach, but you see another me, seemingly happier, striding away with a smile on my face. Smiles at that time were at a premium, but the photography was what I did to keep myself occupied and detached for a while. A couple of miles up the street, my Dad was laying on his death bed.
The pictures I took on that trip had a life of their own. They were images taken through the eye of someone who wanted to escape from reality. The late night colors... the multiple images... the inanimate subjects were an examination on where my life was, where it was then, and where it would go in the future.
So, in the moments just after dinner, when there was nothing to do for my dad, while the hospice workers did their work, while my sister detached in her own way, I went to the beach. It was in that same ocean that my mom's ashes were spread just a few years earlier. The twilight - the sunset on an Eastern beach with a western view, was the perfect atmosphere for taking a trip to find meaning in a time with no meaning, with every meaning. A walk of consciousness if you will.
Sometimes to walk toward the future, you have to come to grips with the present.
It was on this beach, at this time, that I realized youth, as I knew it, was a thing of the past. I was about to be "an orphan." I was about to become the patriarch of the family. It scared the hell out of me. At the same time, I was not fearful.
My Dad had lived a wonderful life. He was, in every sense of the word, my hero. I looked up to him in every way, even though I would not consider our relationship close until I was out of college. We weren't distant, we just weren't close.
He had spent his life preparing me for this time. "Be a man," he said. "Be a gentleman," he clarified. It was all the advice I needed. It was so simple.
My dad died two years ago today, or at least I think it was today. I don't know. I don't want to know. He died at 1:47 AM, which, for reasons only known to him, my mom and God, was probably close for the perfect time for him to go.
I do miss him, but when I go back and look at the pictures from that time, as I did for some reason today, I get a sense that he never left.
Good night, Dad.
Yours truly,
Johnny Blogger
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