“The life of the dead is placed in the memory of the living.” Marcus Tullius Cicero Today would have been dad’s 84th birthday. He died 983 days ago and I think it is safe to say that my sisters and I miss him very, very much. Dad was a great salesman, father, community member and small businessman. He loved his family, The University of Tennessee, to eat, to read, to fall asleep in his chair, to work hard (why he fell asleep in his chair), trading cars, golf, basketball and his cat. When he died, we stood in the receiving line listening to stories from over 40 years about how he had helped people. He set a powerful example. I often tell the story of how he taught me to waterski. Dad loved to ski (he skied at 78!) and really wanted me to learn. I fought it for a while (I was a pain as a kid) but one day, I relented and he took me out into the middle of Fort Loudon Lake (on the Tennessee River near Knoxville). Dad drug me up and down the river. Over and over and over and over. I, being eight and apparently not very bright, did not release the rope so I ended up drinking enough water to develop gills. Then a miracle happened — I popped up out of the water! I struggled to stay in between the wake and stay up. But as we went along, I could see dad starting to get bored. (Dad was a big kid and you didn’t want him getting bored). He put the boat into a tight circle and I got slung outside of the wake. For those of you who don’t understand centrifugal force, the boat goes 20, the little boy on the skis goes 795 mph. I was hanging on for dear life when I hit a piece of driftwood. CRASH! I looked like the skier from ABC’s Wide World of Sports (agony of defeat) opening. I tumbled, lost me skis and hit the water hard. And the water hit back. So did one of the skis — it whacked me in my head. I was half-dazed when he pulled the boat back around. He carefully pulled it next to me and started poking me with a paddle. I think he was messing with me. “You OK?” he asked. “Go away.” I responded. He then said, “Grab the rope.” “I’m swimming back.” “You can’t swim that far. Grab the rope.” “Why?” “Because we’re making your story about how you got back up, not how you fell down.” I grabbed the rope, popped back up and skied for the rest of the day. Twenty-five years later, I was lying in bed after my melanoma surgery. I was floating around in a haze of opioid painkillers, dreaming of purple unicorns and feeling sorry for myself because I had cancer. Then I felt pressure on my forehead. It was almost like tapping. THUMP. THUMP. THUMP. I opened my eyes and saw my dad leaning over me. “Get up,” he said. “We’re walking around the block.” “But I just had surgery.” “Get up. I’ll help you. But we’re going to make your story about how you beat cancer, not how you had cancer.” You see, he knew what I was going through. He had had cancer a couple of years before I had. Dad wasn’t Yoda by any means, but he had a gift of teaching things indirectly. Any resilience I have is from him. And for that, I will be eternally grateful. Now when I get knocked down, I know to grab the rope. Grabbing the rope after dad died has been tough. But I know that’s what he would want. The man wasn’t big on pity parties. Let me just say this though: Dad wasn’t Saint Dave and that is not what this post is about. He was flawed and could at times be a butthead. (n that respect, the apple did not fall far from the tree.) And he and I could also butt heads. But after he died, my sisters and I realized just how much he loved and protected us. Dave Ramsey was about family and community. He loved my mother in a way I can’t understand. He loved his children deeply. In the video my friend Mike Frascogna III gave me, dad talks about me for about 30 minutes. He was so proud — not only of me but of my sisters. When we came up in the video, his eyes twinkled. Dad had many funny quirks. He’d point on maps with his middle finger. He’d get mad and say, “That’s wrom!” I thought for years that Washington was pronounced Warshington. He loved to laugh — I wish I had his sense of humor. It was that good. Dad always said after a big meal, “That was the best meal I ever had.” It was funny, actually, because we could predict it every single time. So tonight, I’m going out to eat. I’m going to eat a big meal. And in his honor, I am going to proclaim it to be the best meal I ever had. He changed when his dad died. When Grandpa passed away, dad really opened up. I understand why now. Happy birthday Dad. Thanks for all you did for us three kids. We love you. And we always will.
Watching my career change faster than you can say, “newspaper,” I’ve learned a couple of things about change. One, it’s going to happen whether you like it or not. The second, is that like an orange, you discover what is inside of you when you are squeezed. I know. I have been fired (once) and made part-time (once) — neither were fun. I have fumbled, bumbled, succeeded and failed in the past eight years. I can tell you, though, that if you want change to be real, you can’t patch up things on the surface. You have to take a good look at your heart.
I don’t mean go to the cardiologist (although if you are my age, that’s not a bad idea). No, I mean, you need to really ask yourself what’s driving you. What’s your purpose? Are you doing it to serve yourself or others? Is fear driving you? Or love?
You just vomited, right? I know I gagged a little. But when I say love, I don’t mean the sappy crap you see on Valentine’s Days cards. No, I mean you should use your talent in ways that make those around you lives better — you know, showing your love by your actions.
For example: Do something today out of the blue that makes your spouse or partner’s life better. Do something extra that makes your boss’ life better. Do something randomly that makes a friend’s life better. That’s what I mean by changing your heart. Give your time, talent and treasure. That will change your world. And will make the bigger one that much better.
I’m writing this because I’m not trying to be Zig Ziglar. I am writing it because I am in the process of rethinking why I am doing what I am doing. Time is speeding up on me. I am sitting here deciding what’s the best way to use my time on Earth.
Have a great day today. Find some way to make a difference.
Somewhere in a library in a community college, there is a student drinking her third cup of coffee. Her term paper is due in a week but she isn’t waiting until the last minute to finish it up. No, she is taking her time and putting her heart into it — which is something she does with everything she does. She saw a Snap on Snapchat about parents bribing people to get their kids into exclusive colleges and for a minute, she was at a crossroads. She felt a wave of anger rise up in her stomach just thinking about someone getting an advantage over her. Had that person stayed home on Friday nights trying to learn AP Calculus and AP Chemistry? Had that person worked a part-job and saved money for college? Had that person cried when the community college scholarship arrived in the mail and then cried again when the scholarship to the local university did too? No. But the student quickly took a breath and pushed those thoughts away. Jealousy, envy, anger were all a fool’s emotions. She didn’t have enough energy for them and they didn’t fit into her plan. She was going to be a doctor. And while she would not go into Harvard Medical School, she would become one of the finest oncologists in the world. Her formable work-ethic and raw drive overcame any lack of connections her divorced mom might have had. And one day, in the irony of ironies, she ended up saving the life of one of the kids whose parents bribed her into college. As her healed patient walked out the door, she said, “Thank God I am rich. It’s the only way to know the very best at what they do.”
Rivers of yellow wind their way down the street as the ran washes the pollen from the air. The trees remind us that another Southern Springtime is upon us. The brown and gray landscape erupts in various shades of green. Blossoms that survived last week’s hard freeze are exploding in beauty. Rebirth. Renewal. Rejoice. There are so many reasons for love living in the South. The food. The people. The history. The stories. The kindness that is exhibited when disaster strikes. It’s the whole chainsaws and casseroles phenomena that I like to talk about. When your house is hit by a tornado, before you can get out of the rubble, there will be a church van full of people with chainsaws and casseroles. They’ll cut the tree off your house and then feed you. Maybe we’re so good at it because we have so much experience. But it is that moment when we don’t look at our differences, but we realize we are in the same boat. It’s when what we learn on Sunday mornings comes to life. The South is not perfect. We have major problems to solve. Hate and fear are like rabid locusts trying to destroy crops of good will. But that very irritant is what creates the art that we celebrate. Like an oyster covering a grain of sand and making a pearl, our stories and music have been a balm for pain and changed a nation. For example, without the thorns of hatred, we would not have the rose called the Blues. This is a place where we love our mamas, cherish our friends, tell our stories, cheer our favorite sports teams, worship on a Sunday and gather around a table to celebrate our blessings with food. We drop our g’s and sometimes chase shiny objects. We sweat profusely in the Summer and dodge tornadoes in the Spring. But there are good people here. Their caring and goodwill help choke out hatred’s weeds. As I listen to the rain come down and watch the pollen wash away, I think of this truth: If you had a compass that pointed to home, it wouldn’t point North. It would point South.
In the spirit of Lent, I sat down and thought about all of my problems. And then I came to the realization that every single one of them is my fault. Yup. Every. Single. One. Of. Them. This is a more brutal form of the serenity prayer. I am sitting here right now because of all of the choices I’ve made. Yes, there have been situations beyond my control. But if they are a problem, I needed to react to them better. I own them. No, I am not being hard on myself. My life is really really good and I am also working hard on realizing that, too. But what I have been doing is basically fumigating any victim mentality out of my brain. I am not a victim in anyway. Yes, there have been some things that I wished were different. But they shaped me into who I am. That’s what I have to work with. My job, from here on out, is to own the present and own who I am. If I want to get better, I need to decide what “better” is and start working towards it. Otherwise, I am just wishing — or worse, complaining. If feels good to complain. Sometimes, I guess it is therapeutic. But it is also a colossal waste of energy. And I only have so much of that. It’s my fault. It’s also my choice how to deal with it. If you believe in free will, which I do, use it to heal yourself, one day at a time. Own the situation you are in and change it.
Happy Ash Wednesday. Um… that’s probably an oxymoron.
I mean, c’mom, you don’t want to read, “ashes to ashes, dust to dust” when you open your birthday card, right?
Growing up, Ash Wednesday wasn’t really on my family’s church calendar. Nor was Lent. I guess as Presbyterians, we weren’t predestined to celebrate it (note, if you are a Presbyterian and celebrate it, I guess you were predestined to celebrate it. My church just wasn’t.) I would note my Catholic friends giving up chewing gum or would occasionally see a smudge of dirt on their foreheads, but I didn’t really get the power of today. Yes, I knew the scripture behind it and always admired Jesus’ strength for being able to hang out in the desert for 40 days and to avoid the Devil’s temptation (second note, this was an 8th-grader’s understanding of the Good Book, don’t @ me your Sunday school take, please.) But I just didn’t GET it. One of blessings of youth is being naive when it comes to death. But there were rude wake up calls. A friend’s dad was taken from him too early. When I got to college, two classmates were run over by a drunk driver right in front of my dorm. I heard the impact and saw the bloodstains for days. Another friend died while drinking and driving. Other classmates died in a plane crash over the Smokies.
Death began to peck at my armor of perceived immortality. But that was someone else’s problem, right? Three of my grandparents died in their late 80’s. My maternal grandmother passed at 95. I had decades to waste, right?
A malignant melanoma took a chunk out of my armor (and back) in 2001. Random deaths of classmates, illnesses of friends, stumbling across fatal car wrecks and then the deaths of my own parents stripped it away all together. We all die. And we don’t know when. It can be slow. It can be sudden and unexpected (Luke Perry? C’mon). The best we can hope for isto die in our sleep (as Kenny sang in the Gambler.) Most of us won’t be so lucky. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
Today is a powerful day. As I stumble, bumble, refine, focus and appreciate the 40 days of Lent, I will struggle not to live in the past or worry about the future. Death is a part of life. My goal is to face it with no regrets. Yes, I am giving up a few things and cutting back on some others. This is a handy time to get some goals and obtain them. I’m also adding a few things, too. I hope to come out of my proverbial dessert a stronger husband, father and man.
The moment we are in is a blessing. Ash Wednesday is a very strong reminder to seize that moment and make the most of it. Time is precious and it is time to treat it that way. Happy Ash Wednesday. Peace be with you. And if you’re giving up chewing gum, good luck. My friends always said that was a hard one.
This is a World War 2 fighter plane known as a P-63F Kingcobra. It’s one of two F models built; the other prototype crashed. It’s also one of three Kingcobras still flying in U.S., so it’s a very, very rare aircraft. (it’s insured for a lot of money). It is armed with a 37mm cannon in the nose and two 50-caliber machine guns. While not flown by U.S. in combat, Kingcobra was bought and flown by Soviets, who had great success using it to fight German tanks with it. This is an amazing aircraft. John Mosley from Clinton Body Shop repainted it. #ww2#aviation#kingcobra#USArmyAirForce
The first week I worked at The Clarion-Ledger (in 1996 back before the “The” and the hyphen were laid off), a group of us went to the Thai House (when it was located in an old Howard Johnson’s restaurant building off McDowell Road in South Jackson.) As we ate Watt and Tim’s delicious Thai food, the paper’s popular columnist made a frustrated observation, “They can’t cut The Clarion-Ledger anymore.” Of course Orley Hood was wrong. He was the second person laid off from the building as a tsunami of cuts began in 2008. On February 21, 2014, cancer took Orley from us after a very brave fight. I always suspected a broken heart played a role in his death too. Dammit, I wish the man hadn’t been stolen from us so soon. I always wanted to read an Orley Hood novel or at least a memoir. And when a collection of his sports columnsis published, I will buy one the first day. I miss his stories about his boys, his love of M.A., William Styron, Willie Morris and his dog. I miss the lunches at the Thai House. (Hell, I miss the Thai House.) I look back on my 22-year-career at the now Clarion Ledger with many found memories. Not because of the work I produced there, but because of the people I had the honor of working with. David Hampton, Bill Hunsberger, Sid Salter, Rick Cleveland, Rusty Hampton, Bobby Cleveland, Mike Knobler, Keith Warren, Chris Todd, Billy Watkins, Joe White, Jim Ewing, Earnest Hart, Debbie Skipper, Barbara Gauntt, Orley just to name a few — It’s hard to describe to those who weren’t there, but it was special. I watched my coworkers laugh, work insane hours, fight, argue and get the paper out every single day. For me, seeing their passion made me want to get better every single day. And one thing is absolutely true: We were a family. (That’s why the lame insult, “The Glarion Liar” always annoyed me. They weren’t taking a shot at a paper. They were taking a cheap shot at my family) The rounds and rounds of layoffs and buyouts were like funerals. Watching your friends walk out meant that our family was torn apart. That’s what made Orley’s actual funeral so hard. We looked around the room at each other, seeing a few more gray hairs and feeling a sense of loss that I can’t describe here. While I understand the realities of the newspaper industry (do I ever), one thing I don’t think the beancounters ever got was that the people were what made the product. Like I said, it is hard to explain. When I walked out of the building in December for a new job at Mississippi Today (to take better care of my actual family), I took one last tour around the building. I could hear my old friends’ voices echo in the now abandoned newsroom. When I stood in Orley’s empty office, I saw him doing a crossword while thinking of a column idea. I missed the hell out him. Today, I wish the new generation of writers at the Clarion Ledger well. They, too, are a family and I know their passion is like ours was “back in the day.” They are fighting against some strong headwinds. I wish them luck. I can’t wait to see this new exhibit; it is so well deserved. But it will sting a little bit. Change and time moving forward does that sometimes.
