Jon today

Today we went to another town, to the home of people we don’t know and attended a barbeque in honor of my grandson who will be leaving Wednesday for navy basic training in Michigan.  There he was, standing tall, posing for pictures with bunches of different people.  There he was, sitting with his arm around his girlfriend, laughing and joking in a not quite shy grown up manner.  There he was cutting a huge cake that looked like an American flag.  He hugged me long and hard before we left and I saw a wetness in the big boy eyes. 

For the last month, he’s come to see me at least once a week and we have laughed and dreamed and discussed.  He gave me his kitten.  Well, it wasn’t his technically, but he had adopted it out of their cat’s last litter and he knew he couldn’t take it with him.  So, when he learned I wanted a yellow cat, he brought it to me without remorse.  Last week, he sat in the floor playing with the cat and his (the cat’s) Barbie tent while I finished with my art students.

When he was small, he was gramma’s boy.  I have so many memories, so many pictures.  His birthday is 2 years and 2 days after my youngest daughter’s.  When they were little, they were together so much and were so close to the same size, coloring and general appearance that people assumed they were twins.  We always celebrated birthdays together.  My daughter and family came to our house a lot.  Gramma loved her Jonny and Jon loved his gramma.

I took him to his first large art museum when he was 5.  That night he was talking to daddy and told him about the museum with great intellectual excitement.  He finished by saying “Oh, yeah, and I saw a great big statue of a guy who didn’t have any arms, but he had a great big penus.”  We were all shocked, but laughed at the workings of a 5 year old male mind.

On that same trip, he and Amanda loved the hotel swimming pool, which was a little on the cool side, and loved it so much their skinny little bodies both turned a shade of blue.  Noticing this, I called them over to the not quite hot tub I was sitting in to get their body temps up.  Jon stood on the side looking at me in horror refusing to come in.  Amanda a little slow to respond came and got in, dog paddling to my side.  Finally after insisting, Jon came gingerly toward me big tears in his eyes.  He thought it was boiling.

He was in early elementary when, during a family visit, he was helping me in the kitchen.  His brother Josh wanted up on the step.  Mom insisted Jon was there first and gramma worked happily on trying to ignore the squabble.  A couple of times Josh tried to push him aside to no avail.  I’m not sure just why Jon had to leave, maybe the call of a parent, maybe the call of nature, but he ran off promising to be right back.  No sooner had he gone than brother Josh climbed the step to “help”.  Jon returned to see the situation and demanded his spot to which mom replied that he’d left and Josh was on the step now.  Eyes flaming Jon surveyed the room and found an ice pick.  Gramma averted a disaster of Biblical significance by pulling the ice pick from his hands in route and quietly saying “We don’t take up weapons against our brother.”  A short time later, having proved his equality, Josh found other things to occupy his interest while Jonny mounted the step to help again.

As teens he and his brother were proud scouts.  Our family camped a lot and the boys loved to show off their skills and knowledge.  Coming back from a long all day hike tired, cold and wet from a common Rocky Mountain thunderstorm, we saw that the teenagers had made it home ahead of us.  We assumed that anyway, because they always did.  This night long before we reached our base camp, we could see the fire.  Actually, they could have seen the fire from the international space station had it been overhead at that time.  Walking into camp I saw Jon’s big proud smile.  I also noticed that there was not one stick of firewood left for the night or next morning.  Dull and tired I simply said “You guys could make a person hate boy scouts,” and went about my business.  Before the twilight died off, I had a large neat pile of wood gathered, and stacked for the morning.  I did say “Thank you.”

As a child, Jon came to see me at least once or twice a month and the memories are so many.  Some pride and decency will not allow telling, but mostly time and respect for the reader leave them contained only in my heart and memory.  Then there came that business of the teen years when friends and school and work and whatever took their toll and the visits grew seldom and were shallow.  But now: the impending separation.  I faced it sadly at first, missing the joy of the bygone closeness.  I guess I wasn’t the only one who remembered how much we once shared.  So I cherish the sweet little stories and plans and suggestions we’ve known for the past month.  They’ll have to do till Christmas. 

Hurry Christmas.

to an awesome guy

I am married to an awesome guy.

Last Valentines Day he came in after his post work shower to find me slaving over a graphic job in my studio.  "Do you have time to stop for a while?"

I growled that the job had grown and the person was coming later that evening to pick it up.  Kindly, he said "What can I do?" and got to work helping me.

Later, after the person told me she'd forgotten that this was Valentines Day and she'd just get it tomorrow, I learned that Louis had bought tickets to a special dinner for us.  He was kind about it as I ranted.  I felt horrible - on all counts.  I sat by my computer feeling sad, ashamed, frustrated, tired and began to write.  I thought I'd share it here.

While I serve others, you come up short

as I neglect so many things

But you are always a good sport

and take with patience what life brings.

I love you so and never mean

to slight, ignore or turn away

And still I take on more it seems

Each time we face a special day.

So thank you for the grace you give

While I complete just one more thing

And in the future as we live

Perhaps some joy for you I’ll bring

So for today, I work and wish

That I was freer for some task-

Brownies, meatloaf, chocolate gifts-

To give you more while less I ask.

The picture was taken in North Carolina by one of my daughters.  I cropped it.

My Father . . .

The day he died, I stood in his room and said to him, “You can go now.”

He could not respond.  He was somewhere between this life and the next. 

For some time he’d lost his zeal for living and it broke my heart, for he had more zeal for life than anyone I knew.  Though I saw his torment and prayed that God give him rest from it, I never said that to him until that morning.  In a short time, he was gone.  No big thing, just gone.  It didn’t hit me at first.  Eventually, I struggled with the moment.  Had my words killed or released?  Truthfully, I’m not that powerful.

I was laying a rock patio behind my house.  I worked furiously the morning of the funeral.  I saw the verse “We’re surrounded by a cloud of witnesses” in a different light.  My dad was a man of simple faith, always surprised at the result like a child who asks for a treat and does not know if the treat will be given.  Yet he asks, trusting the good in people, the good in life, the love of a parent.  The receiving brings a light heart and a confident joy.  So was my father and that morning I knew he was hearing and seeing from afar.

I put a few cds in the player and programmed a set of songs.  Leader of the Band;  Goodbye My Friend; Elijah; The Last Time I Was Here; North of the Sky.  I put it on repeat sequence and worked and cried.

My niece was staying with me, getting ready for the funeral.  Later she told me that when she heard the songs the first time, she was intrigued by my choices.  When they came round the second time she thought, “Well, that’s neat.”  The third time she listened quietly.  The fourth time, she said “I think I’ll just stay in my room.”  I didn’t mean to scare her.  That night she stayed with my mom.

There was a cleansing, solidifying quality to that list.  I’ve never listened to it that way again, though I consider it each Memorial Day.

When I am pressed in by the direction or non direction of this world, it comes back to me eventually.  My father stood for what he believed, sometimes quietly, sometimes not.  He was a man of integrity; he was my hero, my mentor. 



My father was a good man.

Jackie

I wrote this for my daughter this past spring.  I think she 'got' it.  The poem speaks into my life as well.

My daughter dear, I do not know

just where the paths we follow go

and I must trust Who takes us there

is good and right and kind and fair.

For if we push and plan and scheme

in our own strength to own our dream,

we will not reach a better end

than we can have through God our friend.