Out of the clear blue sky, one of your best buddies keels over from a sudden heart attack and dies eventually after spending a week in a coma. Another tragically loses a child. A couple you thought you knew oh so well decide to get a divorce after many years of what seemed to be an extremely happy marriage. What does a true friend do or say to try and offer comfort?
One of the things I vividly remember about losing my dad occured as I stood next to his casket, looking back at a small group of mourners filing into the funeral home viewing area. Most of the people moving slowly down the line towards my family to offer their sympathies were relatives that I hadn't seen for quite some time. In the very back of the room stood a small group of people who I was really surprised to find. Ten or twelve of my co-workers stood quietly.
It was probably a forty minute drive for most of them to the small town I grew up in and none of my work pals had ever met my dad to my knowlege. To this day, what impressed me the most was the simple fact that they were there for me in this time of need.
It also felt wonderfully good to tell them stories about my dad and my home-town: How we used to go fishing in Canada when I was a young boy; what a great athlete and dancer he had been; what it was like to grow up in a city by a river; what it was that I felt dad had died from. As I look back now, I am so thankful they gave me a reason to talk about my family and my life. It isn't good to hold things in.
The main thing I felt truly grateful for was the simple fact that people came. It's so easy to moan, "I can't go...what would I talk about?", or "What would I say?". You don't have to say anything, just be there and listen.
To all those of you who are going through rough times now, I say to you...I will always be there for you. If I can't be there in person, I will be there in spirit-either in my nightly prayers or while jogging down a country road. And if you ever feel a need to talk...my ears, or this computer will always, always be open.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Friday, March 26, 2010
REAL AMERICAN IDOLS
The girl moved slowly to the front of the crowded auditorium, a microphone clutched in her right hand as the opening notes of the Stevie Nicks' song "Landslide" poured out of a speaker system somewhere in the room. She was dressed in a white t-shirt, black slacks and beneath a long mop-head of dark hair, she wore a huge smile on her face. The audience waited for Kerry to sing.
If Simon Cowell had been critiquing the performance he would have said something like;
"That was horrific, Kerry"
Randy Jackson might have commented; "Yo, listen up, Kerry...there were some definite pitch issues but I gotta say, you looked like you were having a real good time up there." Lord knows what Ellen Degeneres would say.
It takes an amazing amount of courage to get up and perform in front of a live audience. The special needs students we watched in this wonderful talent show had all that bravery and more. They gave the audience the best they had and even if Kerry got lost in the lyrics occasionally or the word "Landslide" sometimes came out as "Randside", none of us noticed because of her joy and unbridled enthusiasm. More than one of the spectators had a tear in (his) their eyes after she had finished.
Some of the actors and singers were in wheelchairs; some had to be led in clutching a teacher's hand; one wore a pale blue diaper peeking out from beneath the brown hand-sewn donkey suit he had donned for a barnyard animal skit. Many of the older male performers sported mustaches and facial hair. While their innocence and mannerisms often remain forever young, time cannot stop it's ceaceless march toward adulthood for these "kids', or any of us for that matter.
What we can learn from watching amazing performers like them, are things like loving ourselves for who we are, how to co-operate and above all - how to build friendships. Every student on that stage worked to the best of their ability to accomplish all of those traits and that is exactly why they should be our true American Idols.
If Simon Cowell had been critiquing the performance he would have said something like;
"That was horrific, Kerry"
Randy Jackson might have commented; "Yo, listen up, Kerry...there were some definite pitch issues but I gotta say, you looked like you were having a real good time up there." Lord knows what Ellen Degeneres would say.
It takes an amazing amount of courage to get up and perform in front of a live audience. The special needs students we watched in this wonderful talent show had all that bravery and more. They gave the audience the best they had and even if Kerry got lost in the lyrics occasionally or the word "Landslide" sometimes came out as "Randside", none of us noticed because of her joy and unbridled enthusiasm. More than one of the spectators had a tear in (his) their eyes after she had finished.
Some of the actors and singers were in wheelchairs; some had to be led in clutching a teacher's hand; one wore a pale blue diaper peeking out from beneath the brown hand-sewn donkey suit he had donned for a barnyard animal skit. Many of the older male performers sported mustaches and facial hair. While their innocence and mannerisms often remain forever young, time cannot stop it's ceaceless march toward adulthood for these "kids', or any of us for that matter.
What we can learn from watching amazing performers like them, are things like loving ourselves for who we are, how to co-operate and above all - how to build friendships. Every student on that stage worked to the best of their ability to accomplish all of those traits and that is exactly why they should be our true American Idols.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
MOMMA'S DAY
It won't be long until that favorite holiday for bearers of children arrives; Mother's day. One of the best gifts I've ever heard a mom getting was in the form of a simple letter, telling how much a daughter appreciated all the special things her mother had done for her.
Not only did the letter bring tears of joy to the mother's eyes, the contents also created more than a small lump in this writer's throat and yes, it ended up being a song:
MOMMA'S DAY
There were so many times I wondered
If she'd ever heard a word I said,
As she passed on through her childhood years
To those times in her troubled teens
In my mind she would always be my "little girl"
Tried to keep her sheltered from this often cruel world,
Did she love her Momma after all this time?
When she handed me her letter, I just broke down and cried
Cause she wrote; "Mom I remember playin Scrabble with you,
It's still my favorite game-
You put my hair up, into little brown pig-tails
And called me pretty, sweet names.
If I haven't told you lately, If I've never said it enough...
I love you Momma, I always will,
Thanks for being my friend.'
"And I'll play "I Love My Kid's Day"
With my own little girls.
I'll tell them just like you did Momma,
They're the prettiest daughters in this world.
And we'll listen to soft blues tunes,
On lazy Sunday mornings,
Yes I'll be there to protect them
From the day that they are born,
I'll love them just like you did Momma
From the day that they are born."
I have another friend who wrote his dad a similar letter. Mike told his father how much he admired all the things his father had accomplished in his life as well as how much he loved him. A couple of years after Mike opened his heart up in written form, his dad died from terminal cancer.
Shortly after the funeral in a moment of quiet with his mom, she told him that his father would pull that letter out every week or two and re-read the whole thing. That is how much it meant to him.
On Mike's 60th birthday, I voiced to him the hope that each of his own children would one day write something similar to their dad. A note that would perhaps vindicate the effectiveness of Mike's fatherhood. Every man (and woman) has more than the occasional doubt that they have been a good, loving and helpful enough parent.
Happy upcoming Momma's Day to all of those who are one and remember "kids"; flowers and candy are cool, but nothing says "I love you" like Hallmark.
Not only did the letter bring tears of joy to the mother's eyes, the contents also created more than a small lump in this writer's throat and yes, it ended up being a song:
MOMMA'S DAY
There were so many times I wondered
If she'd ever heard a word I said,
As she passed on through her childhood years
To those times in her troubled teens
In my mind she would always be my "little girl"
Tried to keep her sheltered from this often cruel world,
Did she love her Momma after all this time?
When she handed me her letter, I just broke down and cried
Cause she wrote; "Mom I remember playin Scrabble with you,
It's still my favorite game-
You put my hair up, into little brown pig-tails
And called me pretty, sweet names.
If I haven't told you lately, If I've never said it enough...
I love you Momma, I always will,
Thanks for being my friend.'
"And I'll play "I Love My Kid's Day"
With my own little girls.
I'll tell them just like you did Momma,
They're the prettiest daughters in this world.
And we'll listen to soft blues tunes,
On lazy Sunday mornings,
Yes I'll be there to protect them
From the day that they are born,
I'll love them just like you did Momma
From the day that they are born."
I have another friend who wrote his dad a similar letter. Mike told his father how much he admired all the things his father had accomplished in his life as well as how much he loved him. A couple of years after Mike opened his heart up in written form, his dad died from terminal cancer.
Shortly after the funeral in a moment of quiet with his mom, she told him that his father would pull that letter out every week or two and re-read the whole thing. That is how much it meant to him.
On Mike's 60th birthday, I voiced to him the hope that each of his own children would one day write something similar to their dad. A note that would perhaps vindicate the effectiveness of Mike's fatherhood. Every man (and woman) has more than the occasional doubt that they have been a good, loving and helpful enough parent.
Happy upcoming Momma's Day to all of those who are one and remember "kids"; flowers and candy are cool, but nothing says "I love you" like Hallmark.
Monday, March 22, 2010
ANOTHER ALMOST PERFECT DAY
At first I wasn't sure what the brownish colored objects were as they bobbed slowly in the middle of a stubbled cornfield. Feeding deer? Tiny ostriches? Then I heard a strange, cackling cry echoing across the muddy, furrowed earth and I knew; the sandhill cranes had returned. One of the surest signs of impending spring.
It was a sun filled, wind-still day as I entered the fifth mile of an eventual six mile "wun" (combination of walking and running these days), and the old hips/thigh muscles don't always work as well as they once did. Rounding a corner into the last stetch of deserted country road, I came across another sure sign of winter's end; styrofoam coffee cups, thin plastic shopping bags, and a seemingly inexhaustible amount of trash left behind in the roadside ditches by thoughtless people.
Usually, because I am already tired and sweaty, I will try and find someone's discarded white Walmart sack fluttering from a bush and do my small part in cleaning up the environment. As I stuff my container full on debris I wonder: Were the people drunk? Was it a carload of kids who just don't care? Why don't fast food restaurants serve take-out food in nothing but cardboard containers? At least those would biodegrade eventually.
The rest of this day would be filled with small treasures; a late afternoon cook out and camp fire with my wife, the air filled with the smell of wood smoke and the sound of crows calling out to each other from the tops of nearby pine trees; an evening of insanely exciting sporting events on t.v.. Go State!!!
On my next journey through the countryside, I will undoubtedly observe even more of nature's exciting happenings and this time, I'll already have a trash bag stuffed in my pocket. On an almost perfect day, it's just as likely a jogger will find more empty cigarette packages than he will sandhill cranes.
It was a sun filled, wind-still day as I entered the fifth mile of an eventual six mile "wun" (combination of walking and running these days), and the old hips/thigh muscles don't always work as well as they once did. Rounding a corner into the last stetch of deserted country road, I came across another sure sign of winter's end; styrofoam coffee cups, thin plastic shopping bags, and a seemingly inexhaustible amount of trash left behind in the roadside ditches by thoughtless people.
Usually, because I am already tired and sweaty, I will try and find someone's discarded white Walmart sack fluttering from a bush and do my small part in cleaning up the environment. As I stuff my container full on debris I wonder: Were the people drunk? Was it a carload of kids who just don't care? Why don't fast food restaurants serve take-out food in nothing but cardboard containers? At least those would biodegrade eventually.
The rest of this day would be filled with small treasures; a late afternoon cook out and camp fire with my wife, the air filled with the smell of wood smoke and the sound of crows calling out to each other from the tops of nearby pine trees; an evening of insanely exciting sporting events on t.v.. Go State!!!
On my next journey through the countryside, I will undoubtedly observe even more of nature's exciting happenings and this time, I'll already have a trash bag stuffed in my pocket. On an almost perfect day, it's just as likely a jogger will find more empty cigarette packages than he will sandhill cranes.
Friday, March 19, 2010
BACK TO REALITY
My banana, in it's post breakfast form now occupies my little tummy...almost time to head out onto the country roads adjacent to the house for a good run. No more sugar-sand beaches, seagulls or huge gelatinous jelly fish to occupy my thoughts while jogging. It's all relevant to where you're at though isn't it?
There is something about being in springtime Michigan that makes life seem just as magical as a month by the seashore. Yesterday, as I made my way down a stretch of brown, muddy dirt and crushed gravel the miracles of a season in renewal were sprouting up all around me; rivulets of melted snow soon to be filled with a thundering chorus of spring peepers; the soft green nubs of emerging buds tipping the branches of lilac bushes; the smell of warming hay and mud covering a small pasture where several cows stood lazily, their big, soft eyes monitoring my progress.
Soon the tilling of the garden will begin. Tiny, delicate shoots will blossom into crispy, juicy snap-beans. Towering tomato plants in moveable pots on small wheeled platforms will need to have their overloaded, fruit bearing branches staked up. Even with all of the work involved, every chore will be a labor of love because seasons pass quickly the older one becomes.
And at some point, sometime - probably after the first hard frost or when I am staring at an enormous mound of fall leaves that need to be raked, my thoughts will return to the view from a different place; on a balcony by the ocean.
There is something about being in springtime Michigan that makes life seem just as magical as a month by the seashore. Yesterday, as I made my way down a stretch of brown, muddy dirt and crushed gravel the miracles of a season in renewal were sprouting up all around me; rivulets of melted snow soon to be filled with a thundering chorus of spring peepers; the soft green nubs of emerging buds tipping the branches of lilac bushes; the smell of warming hay and mud covering a small pasture where several cows stood lazily, their big, soft eyes monitoring my progress.
Soon the tilling of the garden will begin. Tiny, delicate shoots will blossom into crispy, juicy snap-beans. Towering tomato plants in moveable pots on small wheeled platforms will need to have their overloaded, fruit bearing branches staked up. Even with all of the work involved, every chore will be a labor of love because seasons pass quickly the older one becomes.
And at some point, sometime - probably after the first hard frost or when I am staring at an enormous mound of fall leaves that need to be raked, my thoughts will return to the view from a different place; on a balcony by the ocean.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
A LAST LOOK FROM THE BALCONY...and other thoughts
3-14-10
An older couple moves grudgingly down the shoreline into a nearly gale-force wind. Dressed in light jackets and tight fitting caps they walk arm in arm until the woman stops, turns her back to the breeze and huddles in the shelter of her husband's backside. After she blows her nose, they continue their journey.
The man who must return to Michigan soon took a long walk himself this morning on the nearly deserted beach. He marvelled at the furious forces of the wind gods as he worked his way past several mounds of trash left by spring breakers. Dozens of red plastic cups, crushed beer cans, empty glass bottles and a well-drained fifth of liquor lay partially submerged in the sand. The sight saddened the man. Had he ever been so environmentally unconscious? He knew the answer to that particular question..at least partially.
It is early afternoon of our last day on the beach and we have just returned from the local urgent-care clinic after a stop at Walgreens. Eileen's cough got a lot worse late yesterday evening. Unbeknownst to me, she even drove herself to get some Nyquil last night while I slept in the other bedroom so we could both rest peacefully. Thank God for good insurance and drugs because she seems a lot better as I am writing this; scurrying around the condo rooms trying to figure out the most efficient means of cramming a month's worth of vacation crap into the very restricted confines of our Saturn Vue.
In the elevator with one of our first mini-loads, I shared space with two cleaning crew members who worked in our condo. There isn't a lot of time to chat in the space of moving five floors down, but it was still an interesting and meaningful conversation:
"I just wanted to tell you what a nice job you guys do on this place. It must be rough having to clean up after all the spring breakers," I said while also mentioning some of the early morning destruction I had noticed when leaving for my run.
The lady worker shrugged her shoulders, flashed a gap-toothed grin and remarked,
"Oh, it ain't so bad. We was all young once weren't we?" Her buddy smiled shyly, bobbing his head in agreement.
"I was young once a long time ago but I just don't remember being that stupid", I replied.
On my way to the car I had a moment to digest my comments as I struggled with the load of golf clubs, a suitcase and some musical paraphenalia; Truth is, this old man raised more than his share of heck on spring break and other vacations to the southland. Getting popped for a "minor in posession" back in 69 was one of my first thoughts. Swimming full blast into the side of a pool after draining three or four 16oz Buds while racing a pal was another instant flashback (I wore glasses then but not while swimming, obviously). Those are memories for another blog, maybe.
Meantime, I reminded myself during that last glorious frolic on the seashell-strewn sand this morning that I too was once young. Then I proved it to a few young bucks who had merged in behind me from some hotel after I had already run about five miles. They're probably still talking about the balding, grey haired dude who left them in his dust during the last of his wonderful runs in Gulf Shores, Alabama.
3-14-10
An older couple moves grudgingly down the shoreline into a nearly gale-force wind. Dressed in light jackets and tight fitting caps they walk arm in arm until the woman stops, turns her back to the breeze and huddles in the shelter of her husband's backside. After she blows her nose, they continue their journey.
The man who must return to Michigan soon took a long walk himself this morning on the nearly deserted beach. He marvelled at the furious forces of the wind gods as he worked his way past several mounds of trash left by spring breakers. Dozens of red plastic cups, crushed beer cans, empty glass bottles and a well-drained fifth of liquor lay partially submerged in the sand. The sight saddened the man. Had he ever been so environmentally unconscious? He knew the answer to that particular question..at least partially.
It is early afternoon of our last day on the beach and we have just returned from the local urgent-care clinic after a stop at Walgreens. Eileen's cough got a lot worse late yesterday evening. Unbeknownst to me, she even drove herself to get some Nyquil last night while I slept in the other bedroom so we could both rest peacefully. Thank God for good insurance and drugs because she seems a lot better as I am writing this; scurrying around the condo rooms trying to figure out the most efficient means of cramming a month's worth of vacation crap into the very restricted confines of our Saturn Vue.
In the elevator with one of our first mini-loads, I shared space with two cleaning crew members who worked in our condo. There isn't a lot of time to chat in the space of moving five floors down, but it was still an interesting and meaningful conversation:
"I just wanted to tell you what a nice job you guys do on this place. It must be rough having to clean up after all the spring breakers," I said while also mentioning some of the early morning destruction I had noticed when leaving for my run.
The lady worker shrugged her shoulders, flashed a gap-toothed grin and remarked,
"Oh, it ain't so bad. We was all young once weren't we?" Her buddy smiled shyly, bobbing his head in agreement.
"I was young once a long time ago but I just don't remember being that stupid", I replied.
On my way to the car I had a moment to digest my comments as I struggled with the load of golf clubs, a suitcase and some musical paraphenalia; Truth is, this old man raised more than his share of heck on spring break and other vacations to the southland. Getting popped for a "minor in posession" back in 69 was one of my first thoughts. Swimming full blast into the side of a pool after draining three or four 16oz Buds while racing a pal was another instant flashback (I wore glasses then but not while swimming, obviously). Those are memories for another blog, maybe.
Meantime, I reminded myself during that last glorious frolic on the seashell-strewn sand this morning that I too was once young. Then I proved it to a few young bucks who had merged in behind me from some hotel after I had already run about five miles. They're probably still talking about the balding, grey haired dude who left them in his dust during the last of his wonderful runs in Gulf Shores, Alabama.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
TIME TO GO HOME...ALMOST
From 3/8/10 to 3/13/10
"Hush! Hush! Hush!",
The ocean advises endlessly as it caresses the beach beneath my balcony. I gaze over the railing's edge at the terra-cotta colored tiles surrounding an empty swimming pool. It is nearly six-o'clock p.m. and everyone inside of our condominium is occupied in one way or another.
Eileen doodles on her Sudoku puzzle as she, Scott and Shannon are mezmerized by some sort documentary about the lives (and death) of sperm whales. Kari fiidgets with the computer; she's been concerned with the possibility of a substantial grant which may or may not be forthcoming to the sustainable living community that she calls "home" out west. On the other hand, I enjoy the simple act of watching them. Who knows when we will ever have another chance to be all in the same place at the same time again?
Flash forward:
Eileen is in bed, nursing a wretched cough that she somehow managed to contract during this festive and fun filled week with the kids. We have just returned back to the condo from dropping Scott and Shannon off at the Pensacola airport, forty miles away. Kari went back to Oregon the day before. Somehow, the simply overwhelming urge to visit Krispy Kreme Donuts got the best of me on the way home and my sugar buzz advized me to go "blogging" instead of curling up in bed again. We left for the airport at 3:45 a.m.
There are many things this father and husband will long remember about being on this beautiful beach:
Death match Scrabble games between Scott, Shannon, Eileen and Kari while Dad provided background music on his trusty Taylor guitar to his surprisingly appreciative audience.
A couple of late-night jam sessions and having the opportunity to sing harmony with Scott, Shannon and Eileen. Kari played guitar while I did my best on mandolin as we warbled our way through tunes like "Country Roads" and "The Port Of New Amsterdam" by David Bowie. My children have increased their father's musical vocabulary exponentially.
Jogging down the beach barefoot with my daughter on her last day here and somehow miraculously finding (finally), a "cat's-eye" seashell; delicately brownish-green and slightly broken, it was still a thing of beauty. Above all, Kari is absolutely, incredibly talented and amazingly gifted as a hoop artist. Seeing her perform on the beach in late afternoon one day took our breath away.
Watching the look of contentment on the faces of Scotty and Shannon via text-photos as they sat on the beach front sipping cold beers, enjoying the sun and soaking up every single minute of a well deserved respite from the drudgery of working back in good old Michigan. You are two of the most kind-hearted and thoughtful "kids" a dad and mom could hope for. Pretty talented jugglers too!
Best memory for last: Without a doubt, strolling down the sand and holding hands with my wife of almost forty years. Her hair has picked up some lovely streaky-blonde highlites and I still feel like a young buck most days as we splash our ankles through the surf and I skim pieces of broken sand dollars across the ocean's surface trying to impress her.
The sugar buzz is wearing off and it has been over an hour since this very slow typist began writing. The wind is blowing hard from the west, sending five-foot swells rolling towards our condo and I know Eileen will probably awaken again sometime soon. Hopefully, if her cough is better we'll have another chance to slip off our sandals, feel the powdery white sand between our toes and reflect back on what a nice month it has been, especially when the "kids" were here.
From 3/8/10 to 3/13/10
"Hush! Hush! Hush!",
The ocean advises endlessly as it caresses the beach beneath my balcony. I gaze over the railing's edge at the terra-cotta colored tiles surrounding an empty swimming pool. It is nearly six-o'clock p.m. and everyone inside of our condominium is occupied in one way or another.
Eileen doodles on her Sudoku puzzle as she, Scott and Shannon are mezmerized by some sort documentary about the lives (and death) of sperm whales. Kari fiidgets with the computer; she's been concerned with the possibility of a substantial grant which may or may not be forthcoming to the sustainable living community that she calls "home" out west. On the other hand, I enjoy the simple act of watching them. Who knows when we will ever have another chance to be all in the same place at the same time again?
Flash forward:
Eileen is in bed, nursing a wretched cough that she somehow managed to contract during this festive and fun filled week with the kids. We have just returned back to the condo from dropping Scott and Shannon off at the Pensacola airport, forty miles away. Kari went back to Oregon the day before. Somehow, the simply overwhelming urge to visit Krispy Kreme Donuts got the best of me on the way home and my sugar buzz advized me to go "blogging" instead of curling up in bed again. We left for the airport at 3:45 a.m.
There are many things this father and husband will long remember about being on this beautiful beach:
Death match Scrabble games between Scott, Shannon, Eileen and Kari while Dad provided background music on his trusty Taylor guitar to his surprisingly appreciative audience.
A couple of late-night jam sessions and having the opportunity to sing harmony with Scott, Shannon and Eileen. Kari played guitar while I did my best on mandolin as we warbled our way through tunes like "Country Roads" and "The Port Of New Amsterdam" by David Bowie. My children have increased their father's musical vocabulary exponentially.
Jogging down the beach barefoot with my daughter on her last day here and somehow miraculously finding (finally), a "cat's-eye" seashell; delicately brownish-green and slightly broken, it was still a thing of beauty. Above all, Kari is absolutely, incredibly talented and amazingly gifted as a hoop artist. Seeing her perform on the beach in late afternoon one day took our breath away.
Watching the look of contentment on the faces of Scotty and Shannon via text-photos as they sat on the beach front sipping cold beers, enjoying the sun and soaking up every single minute of a well deserved respite from the drudgery of working back in good old Michigan. You are two of the most kind-hearted and thoughtful "kids" a dad and mom could hope for. Pretty talented jugglers too!
Best memory for last: Without a doubt, strolling down the sand and holding hands with my wife of almost forty years. Her hair has picked up some lovely streaky-blonde highlites and I still feel like a young buck most days as we splash our ankles through the surf and I skim pieces of broken sand dollars across the ocean's surface trying to impress her.
The sugar buzz is wearing off and it has been over an hour since this very slow typist began writing. The wind is blowing hard from the west, sending five-foot swells rolling towards our condo and I know Eileen will probably awaken again sometime soon. Hopefully, if her cough is better we'll have another chance to slip off our sandals, feel the powdery white sand between our toes and reflect back on what a nice month it has been, especially when the "kids" were here.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
THE KIDS HAVE GONE EXPLORING...
At least I know they will all be back in awhile, no doubt with tales to tell mom and dad about their own adventures in the beach. Our son and his wife will have been married for ten years this coming August and our baby girl will turn thirty-four years old in April. Could someone please explain to me exactly where the time has gone? I tried hard to describe how it feels for a parent to watch their children grow up so fast when I wrote this song for Scott and Shannon's wedding in the summer of 2000;
TIME TO FLY AWAY
Was it so long ago that I read stories to you
In my soft-backed chair?
And was it yesterday, I watched you play "tag"
On a summers eve?
You've grown so, I don't know...
I can't imagine where
The years have gone,
The years have gone.
A baby girl, with your big brown eyes,
Your daddy loves you so.
Across the miles, momma calls to you,
"Baby, come back home!"
"Can't now mom, I'm grown now-
And I've found a love,
Forever of my own".
Spread your wings, it's time to fly away,
We bless your lives on this-
Your wedding day.
In our hearts you're always here,
Through the good times and the tears
Two one time "kids",
Now a family of their own!
Mmmm... a rockin chair on the big front porch
A glass of lemonade,
Grandma and I cast our memories back
Into the evening shade -
It's gone so fast, I don't know,
Someday you'll wonder where
The years have gone,
The years have gone.
Perhaps as I am writing this, Shannon's mom who lives completely on the other side of this great country, is wondering how her little girl with the big brown eyes is getting along. If I could, I would tell her she is just fine; slowly cruising down the sugar-sand waterfront on this fine spring day, giggling and laughing with my son and daughter - creating wonderful memories for the days when they too will all be "old".
At least I know they will all be back in awhile, no doubt with tales to tell mom and dad about their own adventures in the beach. Our son and his wife will have been married for ten years this coming August and our baby girl will turn thirty-four years old in April. Could someone please explain to me exactly where the time has gone? I tried hard to describe how it feels for a parent to watch their children grow up so fast when I wrote this song for Scott and Shannon's wedding in the summer of 2000;
TIME TO FLY AWAY
Was it so long ago that I read stories to you
In my soft-backed chair?
And was it yesterday, I watched you play "tag"
On a summers eve?
You've grown so, I don't know...
I can't imagine where
The years have gone,
The years have gone.
A baby girl, with your big brown eyes,
Your daddy loves you so.
Across the miles, momma calls to you,
"Baby, come back home!"
"Can't now mom, I'm grown now-
And I've found a love,
Forever of my own".
Spread your wings, it's time to fly away,
We bless your lives on this-
Your wedding day.
In our hearts you're always here,
Through the good times and the tears
Two one time "kids",
Now a family of their own!
Mmmm... a rockin chair on the big front porch
A glass of lemonade,
Grandma and I cast our memories back
Into the evening shade -
It's gone so fast, I don't know,
Someday you'll wonder where
The years have gone,
The years have gone.
Perhaps as I am writing this, Shannon's mom who lives completely on the other side of this great country, is wondering how her little girl with the big brown eyes is getting along. If I could, I would tell her she is just fine; slowly cruising down the sugar-sand waterfront on this fine spring day, giggling and laughing with my son and daughter - creating wonderful memories for the days when they too will all be "old".
Thursday, March 4, 2010
THE KIDS ARE COMING! THE KIDS ARE COMING!
While my wife and I are excited beyond measure that my daughter, son and daughter-in law are coming for a visit on the beach, we are also sad because we both realize our time on the balcony is coming to a close. It is the beginning and the end of what has been a truly wonderful month away from the snows of northern Michigan.
That having been said, there is nothing that can replace time spent with your children, no matter how old they (or you) are these days. Here are some thoughts in song form that I have written over the years about what each of them means to me, beginning with the moment I realized my daughter was leaving home for good.
KARI'S SONG
Up the stairway, to her room
I walk softly,
In the fading afternoon-
And as I gaze upon the walls
A tiny tear drop falls,
Because I know my little girl
Will soon be gone.
The friends she loves,
Her high school letters-
Words she's written
Dancing pictures
All blur into my eyes
I guess all good daddys' cry
When its' time for grown up sweethearts
To say goodbye...
And I know her mom and I
Can accept the loss
As time goes by,
But a parent's empty hearts'
So hard to fill.
And all the memories in this world
Can't replace my college-bound girl,
Oh you know we love you still-
Goodbye Kari.
Crowded closets, rock star posters
Plays shes' been in,
Draw me closer...
To this comfort that I feel
And I know that I must steal away
'Cause soon she might come home
And find me here,
And I know that she'd ask "Why?"
Not understand why daddys' cry
Until shes' had a sweet soft baby
Of her own,
And all the memories in this world
Can't replace my once little girl,
Oh you know we love ya still...
Goodbye Kari.
We used to let her do anything she wanted to her small bedroom and in my minds eye I can still visualize the poetry, pictures and artifacts adorning the walls. Kari has become an amazing, creative and beautiful woman these days and yes, I'll miss her all over again after our last glorious week together (for this year), on this magnificent beach.
Two days after Kari gets here, our son and daughter arrive for the final, festive piece of this vacation extravaganza. My "little" boy and his wife's song will be the next entry in this blog, probably after they have already returned to their own home in the northland. It is past time to get my butt out of this chair and soak up each remaining moment in the sun and these days spent together will undoubtedly be the best of our entire trip. But you'll find out all about that...later!
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
BILLY GETS HIS GROOVE BACK...SORT OF-
It is almost nine o,clock p.m. and the surf outside our bedroom window looks like a backdrop for "Deadliest Catch". Inky, white-frothed waves are hammering the beach as a howling wind whistles through a tiny crack in the doorwall next to my bed. Much earlier today, in better weather conditions - I hit a couple buckets of balls at the local driving range. The key word in that last sentence is "hit".
Some balls were hit, some were shanked, a few popped skyward and many blazed a scorching path across the burned out winter grass that covered the ground in front of me. Those were just the balls in my first bucket.
Much like the weather, my golf game seems to be in a state of permanent flux, even with new clubs, a shiny just-purchased golf cart (pull type), and a pair of barely broken in, snazzy sandals. I think this flux must have a lot to do with another recent golfing equipment addition: A subscription to "Golf Digest".
Here is a sampling of thoughts going through my noggin as I draw back my enormous 460 cc, 10.5 loft driver with it's unique grooves designed to facilitate proper swing path: Left arm straight; right upper arm close to the body; rotate right hip, bringing club parallel to shoulders; do not move head; follow through - hands slightly ahead of shaft and finally...duck - hook tiny white sphere a hundred and fifty yards left. DAMN YOU, GOLF DIGEST!!!
Fortunately, by my second bucket of balls many of the tips I had mentally ingested started to work a bit. Keeping my hands slightly ahead of the shaft while chipping and pitching, then following through really seemed to work. My drives are beginning to go further also - when I do connect. I think this all boils down to another term I may have read in some other magazine; It is called "practicing". Maybe I will give that a shot.
Meanwhile the latest copy of Golf Digest will be left on a table in our condo lobby, where tenants often leave gifts of reading material for other unsuspecting souls to peruse. A lovely present that another golf junkie can use to fill his own noggin with useful tips while awaiting a break in this raging weather.
I'll know who took it when I see them at the range, muttering and cursing softly under their breath while trying out all of their own recently acquired swing thoughts.
It is almost nine o,clock p.m. and the surf outside our bedroom window looks like a backdrop for "Deadliest Catch". Inky, white-frothed waves are hammering the beach as a howling wind whistles through a tiny crack in the doorwall next to my bed. Much earlier today, in better weather conditions - I hit a couple buckets of balls at the local driving range. The key word in that last sentence is "hit".
Some balls were hit, some were shanked, a few popped skyward and many blazed a scorching path across the burned out winter grass that covered the ground in front of me. Those were just the balls in my first bucket.
Much like the weather, my golf game seems to be in a state of permanent flux, even with new clubs, a shiny just-purchased golf cart (pull type), and a pair of barely broken in, snazzy sandals. I think this flux must have a lot to do with another recent golfing equipment addition: A subscription to "Golf Digest".
Here is a sampling of thoughts going through my noggin as I draw back my enormous 460 cc, 10.5 loft driver with it's unique grooves designed to facilitate proper swing path: Left arm straight; right upper arm close to the body; rotate right hip, bringing club parallel to shoulders; do not move head; follow through - hands slightly ahead of shaft and finally...duck - hook tiny white sphere a hundred and fifty yards left. DAMN YOU, GOLF DIGEST!!!
Fortunately, by my second bucket of balls many of the tips I had mentally ingested started to work a bit. Keeping my hands slightly ahead of the shaft while chipping and pitching, then following through really seemed to work. My drives are beginning to go further also - when I do connect. I think this all boils down to another term I may have read in some other magazine; It is called "practicing". Maybe I will give that a shot.
Meanwhile the latest copy of Golf Digest will be left on a table in our condo lobby, where tenants often leave gifts of reading material for other unsuspecting souls to peruse. A lovely present that another golf junkie can use to fill his own noggin with useful tips while awaiting a break in this raging weather.
I'll know who took it when I see them at the range, muttering and cursing softly under their breath while trying out all of their own recently acquired swing thoughts.
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