I almost went to Rome today... but at the last minute, I decided to wait until Sunday.
It turned out that was a fortuitous decision. Late this morning, I found out from Wachovia that there were "complications" (their word, not mine) regarding the disbursement of the funds from Dad's IRA. The first two were lost paperwork issues... but since I was here in Marietta, I was able to fax replacements to the bank and get those problems solved. The second?...
Well, it appeared that someone at Wachovia interpreted the beneficiary clauses differently than everyone else thus far and had decided that the funds should be evenly divided between Kimberly and me. I could tell that Wachovia anticipated a fight--I guess a lot of people get really upset about the idea of getting less money from a relative's estate than they anticipated.
"So you want to give Kimberly half the money?" I asked.
"Yes, it appears so," they said.
"Great! Can you have a her a check this afternoon?"
Stammered confusion, then momentary silence.
"Ummm.... I think so. But you realize that this means that you will only be getting half as much as--"
"That's great! Kim's in a lower tax bracket than me, so she'll get to keep more of the money!"
And that settled that! Kim was going to get the money all along, whether through Wachovia or from me... this way, she gets to keep even more of it rather than losing more in taxes.
I remain amazed that there are families that will fragment over estates and wills and the like. And I am so thankful that Kimberly and I never been that way.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Cloud Cuckoo
Last night, Whitney brought a birthday surprise to the store: a chocolate cloud cake, which is best described by the culinarily-untrained (i.e., me) as an extremely rich chocolate souffle with a whipped cream topping, dusted with cocoa.
Yes, it was every bit as good as it sounds. Superb texture, decadently rich chocolate taste, rich and light at the same time...
Happy birthday to me!
Yes, it was every bit as good as it sounds. Superb texture, decadently rich chocolate taste, rich and light at the same time...
Happy birthday to me!
Monday, August 27, 2007
Birthday Gift
One topic of conversation that Mom, Dad, and I never tired of was weather. Mom was an inveterate record-keeper of weather statistics, and I inherited that trait from her; since my retirement from teaching in 2000, I have kept records of the highs, lows, rainfall, and memorable weather events on a daily basis, and every day Dad and I would discuss the weather, comparing it with the same day's weather in years past.
This has been an excessively dry summer here in Georgia; at our house, we're some ten inches below normal in rainfall for the year (although we're still ahead on a five-year basis, for those who like to look at the big picture), and in Rome, the situation is far more dire at almost twenty inches below normal. Before Dad was taken from us, he and I had kept each other apprised of the dryness in both Rome and Marietta, and we'd frequently wish for rain for either our locale or the other's.
According to the only records I can find, I was born at about 2 in the afternoon on August 26, 1953.
Today, at about 1:30, a uniformly dark cloud moved over our area and, at about 2 in the afternoon, it began to rain. It rained steadily for an hour, giving us almost an inch of soaking rain with no lightning or heavy winds. Just three miles away from here, it didn't rain at all; three miles in the other direction, there was lightning damage; three miles north, a few trees were uprooted by strong downbursts.
What did I get for my birthday? I got rain... and I will always think of it as a gift from two loving people who always shared my appreciation for a summer rainstorm that breaks the dryness and brings a burst of cool air to a sultry summer afternoon...
This has been an excessively dry summer here in Georgia; at our house, we're some ten inches below normal in rainfall for the year (although we're still ahead on a five-year basis, for those who like to look at the big picture), and in Rome, the situation is far more dire at almost twenty inches below normal. Before Dad was taken from us, he and I had kept each other apprised of the dryness in both Rome and Marietta, and we'd frequently wish for rain for either our locale or the other's.
According to the only records I can find, I was born at about 2 in the afternoon on August 26, 1953.
Today, at about 1:30, a uniformly dark cloud moved over our area and, at about 2 in the afternoon, it began to rain. It rained steadily for an hour, giving us almost an inch of soaking rain with no lightning or heavy winds. Just three miles away from here, it didn't rain at all; three miles in the other direction, there was lightning damage; three miles north, a few trees were uprooted by strong downbursts.
What did I get for my birthday? I got rain... and I will always think of it as a gift from two loving people who always shared my appreciation for a summer rainstorm that breaks the dryness and brings a burst of cool air to a sultry summer afternoon...
Deservedly Discarded
ABC's Masters of Science Fiction aired its final episode last night--and after sitting through all four sub-par hours, I can see why the network chose not to air the remaining two episodes that'll be seen only in Canada (and on some syndicated cable network in a few months, I'll bet). All four hours were ham-fisted, preachy, and poorly developed, and three of the four were also cliched and embarrassing in their scripts as well as production values (only the Heinlein episode had a few moments of redemptive writing, although much of it was reduced to absurdity that detracted from the central point of Heinlein's story).Last night's episode, based on Harlan Ellison's "The Discarded" (and featuring Ellison himself in a cameo), was the worst of a bad lot. The story itself was the sort of inept socio-commentary that all too frequently typifies bad science fiction: plague-infected outcasts (some would inaccurately call them mutants, I guess, even though a mutant must be differentiated genetically from prior generations, not modified by disease) are found to bear the antibodies for a cure that will help save the planet that has ostracized them. Of course, after they sacrifice their own ethos for the chance to return to Earth, the planet that once shunned them uses them and subsequently discards them once again. Take that tired and predictable format, add inappropriate film noir private eye music for no apparent reason than the fact that they must have had some on hand, add in laughable effects and acting derived from the "yell the lines loudly and they won't sound as stupid" school of delivery, and you have a painful hour of television.
I know that Ellison is capable of writing better--and in fact, has done so for television as well as for print. However, this was below the standards of the worst episodes of the relaunched Outer Limits, and rivals the abominable quality of those avert-your-eyes-in-pity original films on the Sci Fi Network.
Bear in mind, though, that the producers of this series managed to reduce a well-crafted Robert A. Heinlein short story to a dull, plodding experience; I am convinced that everyone associated with this show must secretly despise science fiction. That's the only way they could possibly try to sell this to the public as the Masters of Science Fiction....
Birthday Surprise
For some reason, people maintain that I'm hard to shop for. I have no idea why they say that, since I have no trouble finding things to buy for myself. Nevertheless, it's rare when someone comes up with something that I want that I've never even heard of until I receive it as a gift... but that's what Susan came up with.Pictured here is Frey's Dark Chocolate with Chilli Pepper (no, I didn't misspell it... "chilli" is the manufacturer's spelling, so that's what I'm going with here). The best way to describe it is a richly flavored chocolate redolent with the intensity of a 70% cocoa base, to which have been added crisply piquant bits of dried chilli peppers that add an almost toffee-bit crunch to the candy. The chillis are fresh enough that opening the wrapper conveys the bouquet of chillis along with the headiness of dark chocolate.
I admit to being slightly dubious when I first saw it, but curiosity outweighed caution as I unwrapped it and broke off a square. The combination, it turns out, is inspired; I think those Mayans were on to something!
Susan tells me that she found it at Target--and she advises that, if you're interested, you act quickly. No, they're not selling out--in fact, they're not selling any at all! The bar she bought was the only bar taken from an otherwise full box, so the odds are it'll go on close-out very soon...
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Stumbling Forward
It's been eleven days since Dad's death, and twenty-seven days since the hospital first called me to tell me Dad was there. I think I'm learning to deal with it better, but I still have those moments of unexpected sorrow and loss.
I had been accustomed to discussing even the most mundane events with Dad; it's still force of habit to pick up the phone and give him a call, and I have done it several times without thinking. Dad never recorded his own answering machine message, preferring to use the "prepackaged" one on the phone; now I wish that he had, just so I could hear his voice on the machine once again.
I know that I have some family recordings of Dad from various happier times, and I think I'll get them out in the next few days just to hear Mom and Dad again. I miss their voices so much; since we lived miles apart, I relied on the phone to stay in contact. Now I can talk to them, but I can't hear those voices any longer, except in my memories.
Today I'm mopey; Kim and I spent an hour or two at Dad's house on Thursday, sorting through a few things and making some plans as to what we need to do. Being there with her was good for me, because there's no one alive other than she and I who can remember what it was like to live in that house--and that's a bond that we will always share. There are many wonderful memories there, and those memories make the solemnity of the coming months more bearable.
And I know this sounds remarkably self-indulgent and egocentric, but there's also something particularly sad about my birthday tomorrow. This will be my first birthday without either of the two people to whom my birth and existence really mattered for each and every one of the past fifty-four years... sort of a lonely thing, and it leaves me disinclined to want to do anything to mark the day.
I had been accustomed to discussing even the most mundane events with Dad; it's still force of habit to pick up the phone and give him a call, and I have done it several times without thinking. Dad never recorded his own answering machine message, preferring to use the "prepackaged" one on the phone; now I wish that he had, just so I could hear his voice on the machine once again.
I know that I have some family recordings of Dad from various happier times, and I think I'll get them out in the next few days just to hear Mom and Dad again. I miss their voices so much; since we lived miles apart, I relied on the phone to stay in contact. Now I can talk to them, but I can't hear those voices any longer, except in my memories.
Today I'm mopey; Kim and I spent an hour or two at Dad's house on Thursday, sorting through a few things and making some plans as to what we need to do. Being there with her was good for me, because there's no one alive other than she and I who can remember what it was like to live in that house--and that's a bond that we will always share. There are many wonderful memories there, and those memories make the solemnity of the coming months more bearable.
And I know this sounds remarkably self-indulgent and egocentric, but there's also something particularly sad about my birthday tomorrow. This will be my first birthday without either of the two people to whom my birth and existence really mattered for each and every one of the past fifty-four years... sort of a lonely thing, and it leaves me disinclined to want to do anything to mark the day.
Friday, August 24, 2007
Words from Dad: Part Two
Thanks to Aunt Barbara, who sent me a wonderful birthday present of several of Dad's columns from years past, I can share a few more of Dad's words with you. Of all the pieces that Aunt Barbara sent me, this one is my favorite; I'll explain why after I give Dad his turn, with this piece from May 10, 1981:
I don't recall that Mom ever put a hand on me in anger during my growing years. It's not that she never had good reason to give my behind a few well-placed smacks. I have to admit, I got into my share of trouble, and I wasn't above stretching the truth if it meant I could wiggle out of a tough spot.
But Mom never spanked me. Not to my knowledge, anyway. It wasn't her style.
Let me tell you a little about my family. There are seven of us kids: five girls and two boys. I grew up with three of my sisters and it was a normal childhood inasmuch as we fought and argued like other brothers and sisters.
As I think back now, I remember that it was my oldest sister who gave me my first bloody nose. It was also my oldest sister who rushed to my side when the neighborhood rowdies got out of hand.
Two other sisters and a brother came along much later. They were Mom's second family. That's her choice of words, not mine.
Mother didn't need to turn us over her knee to teach us discipline. She had a more devastating weapon at her disposal. Her face could tell you all you ever wanted to knew, even if her lips never moved. Just a glance into her face and you knew you had crossed the line, that you had said or done something wrong.
It wasn't anger that you saw, either. It took a lot then--as it does even today--to make Mother angry. But the disappointment was clearly there. It was written in her eyes, and her silent lips delivered an unmistakable message. I had twisted the truth and not a word was said to dispute it, but I knew that she knew. It left you with a feeling that you had betrayed your first true love.
Today is Mother's Day, and if you will allow me the privilege, I have a few feelings I would like to share with this delightful lady. Quite possibly, they are the same feelings you want to share with you mother.
Dear Mom: It's Mother's Day. It's your day and your children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren will be there again to let you know how much you mean to them. The truth is that I have been thinking a lot about you lately. I worry about your health and how it has robbed you of the independence you cherish so much. I worry about not being able to be with you as much as I would like. I know you say there's no cause to worry, but I worry anyhow.
It's funny how, as I grow older,I am able to recall so many pleasant memories from the past--things I haven't thought about for years. Like the angel food cakes you used to bake for my birthday. How you used to keep what seemed like a stalk of bananas in the house because you knew I liked them so much. And the tears in your eyes the day I cut my hand while trying to chop up some kindling.
I remember when I used to go to sleep on the couch listening to my favorite radio programs. You said I needed my sleep, but you didn't insist that I go to bed. I'd wake up the next morning and a quilt would be over me. No one had to tell me who put it there.
I remember so well that time when I met my future bride. You sensed almost from the beginning that it was something special, so you backed off to give me room to grow up. There were so many subtle encouragements that I didn't recognize then, so much patience that I didn't appreciate. I have since learned that it's not so much what is spoken between mother and son as it is what is felt.
There was the time when, as a young adult, I left toe loving family warmth you had created. I knew you were always there if I needed you. And knowing that gave me the reassurance that helped me get over some of the rough spots.
You don't ask much from life--never did. You seem to enjoy it so much when your sons and daughters visit. I can tell that there are times when the grandchildren are aggravating, but you share a patience with them that you have long shared with me and your other children.
I think of all these things today because it's a special day--it's your day. In truth, however, I think of these things on other days as well. You're a special person in my life every day of the year. I don't tell you that as much as I'd like, but you know how grownups are. Sometimes I feel guilty for it... and then I remember how it has always been with us. We can tell each other so much without ever saying a word.
Happy Mother's Day.
***
Dad wrote several Mother's Day columns, and I'll reprint a couple of more of them over the next week or two. But this one had one of the most vivid images of all, a picture that will stay with me forever: Dad as a boy, falling asleep as he listened to his favorite radio programs. I never saw that, but I often saw Dad fall asleep in front of the television set, watching his favorite programs. Mom and Kim and I would joke about the fact that Dad may have never seen the last fifteen minutes of half the programs he watched because he would inevitably doze off.
In the past few years, Dad had begun to watch television primarily in his bedroom; knowing he enjoyed this, I had gotten him a Toshiba television with a built-in DVD player and VCR so that he could watch whatever he wanted to. Dad loved it; he would buy DVD's to watch before he went to sleep--and often they were the same movies he enjoyed so much in his younger years. In the past few months, as I would go to Rome to help Dad manage his finances and take care of various odds and ends, I would bring up a handful of DVDs--usually two for each day between that visit and my next. Dad loved it; he wanted to pay me for the DVDs, but I would have none of that.
Now I know that Dad's habits were set early--and I can see how little any of us change. We get older... we have to become more mature... but our habits and our joys remain much the same, following patterns set in our childhood.
Dad mentions bananas--and again, it strikes a chord that resonated through his adult life. Dad loved bananas--he would eat bananas by themselves, he would eat them in Mom's Waldorf salad, he would eat banana and mayonnaise sandwiches, he would eat banana and peanut butter sandwiches, he loved banana pudding... After Dad's stroke, when I went to his house to clean up anything that needed to be addressed immediately, I found three over-ripe tomatoes and two overripe bananas on his counter (Dad liked both bananas and tomatoes "two days too ripe," as I called it), because Dad always wanted to have both on hand at all times.
Those glimpses into Dad's childhood make this the most memorable of all his columns.
I don't recall that Mom ever put a hand on me in anger during my growing years. It's not that she never had good reason to give my behind a few well-placed smacks. I have to admit, I got into my share of trouble, and I wasn't above stretching the truth if it meant I could wiggle out of a tough spot.
But Mom never spanked me. Not to my knowledge, anyway. It wasn't her style.
Let me tell you a little about my family. There are seven of us kids: five girls and two boys. I grew up with three of my sisters and it was a normal childhood inasmuch as we fought and argued like other brothers and sisters.
As I think back now, I remember that it was my oldest sister who gave me my first bloody nose. It was also my oldest sister who rushed to my side when the neighborhood rowdies got out of hand.
Two other sisters and a brother came along much later. They were Mom's second family. That's her choice of words, not mine.
Mother didn't need to turn us over her knee to teach us discipline. She had a more devastating weapon at her disposal. Her face could tell you all you ever wanted to knew, even if her lips never moved. Just a glance into her face and you knew you had crossed the line, that you had said or done something wrong.
It wasn't anger that you saw, either. It took a lot then--as it does even today--to make Mother angry. But the disappointment was clearly there. It was written in her eyes, and her silent lips delivered an unmistakable message. I had twisted the truth and not a word was said to dispute it, but I knew that she knew. It left you with a feeling that you had betrayed your first true love.
Today is Mother's Day, and if you will allow me the privilege, I have a few feelings I would like to share with this delightful lady. Quite possibly, they are the same feelings you want to share with you mother.
Dear Mom: It's Mother's Day. It's your day and your children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren will be there again to let you know how much you mean to them. The truth is that I have been thinking a lot about you lately. I worry about your health and how it has robbed you of the independence you cherish so much. I worry about not being able to be with you as much as I would like. I know you say there's no cause to worry, but I worry anyhow.
It's funny how, as I grow older,I am able to recall so many pleasant memories from the past--things I haven't thought about for years. Like the angel food cakes you used to bake for my birthday. How you used to keep what seemed like a stalk of bananas in the house because you knew I liked them so much. And the tears in your eyes the day I cut my hand while trying to chop up some kindling.
I remember when I used to go to sleep on the couch listening to my favorite radio programs. You said I needed my sleep, but you didn't insist that I go to bed. I'd wake up the next morning and a quilt would be over me. No one had to tell me who put it there.
I remember so well that time when I met my future bride. You sensed almost from the beginning that it was something special, so you backed off to give me room to grow up. There were so many subtle encouragements that I didn't recognize then, so much patience that I didn't appreciate. I have since learned that it's not so much what is spoken between mother and son as it is what is felt.
There was the time when, as a young adult, I left toe loving family warmth you had created. I knew you were always there if I needed you. And knowing that gave me the reassurance that helped me get over some of the rough spots.
You don't ask much from life--never did. You seem to enjoy it so much when your sons and daughters visit. I can tell that there are times when the grandchildren are aggravating, but you share a patience with them that you have long shared with me and your other children.
I think of all these things today because it's a special day--it's your day. In truth, however, I think of these things on other days as well. You're a special person in my life every day of the year. I don't tell you that as much as I'd like, but you know how grownups are. Sometimes I feel guilty for it... and then I remember how it has always been with us. We can tell each other so much without ever saying a word.
Happy Mother's Day.
***
Dad wrote several Mother's Day columns, and I'll reprint a couple of more of them over the next week or two. But this one had one of the most vivid images of all, a picture that will stay with me forever: Dad as a boy, falling asleep as he listened to his favorite radio programs. I never saw that, but I often saw Dad fall asleep in front of the television set, watching his favorite programs. Mom and Kim and I would joke about the fact that Dad may have never seen the last fifteen minutes of half the programs he watched because he would inevitably doze off.
In the past few years, Dad had begun to watch television primarily in his bedroom; knowing he enjoyed this, I had gotten him a Toshiba television with a built-in DVD player and VCR so that he could watch whatever he wanted to. Dad loved it; he would buy DVD's to watch before he went to sleep--and often they were the same movies he enjoyed so much in his younger years. In the past few months, as I would go to Rome to help Dad manage his finances and take care of various odds and ends, I would bring up a handful of DVDs--usually two for each day between that visit and my next. Dad loved it; he wanted to pay me for the DVDs, but I would have none of that.
Now I know that Dad's habits were set early--and I can see how little any of us change. We get older... we have to become more mature... but our habits and our joys remain much the same, following patterns set in our childhood.
Dad mentions bananas--and again, it strikes a chord that resonated through his adult life. Dad loved bananas--he would eat bananas by themselves, he would eat them in Mom's Waldorf salad, he would eat banana and mayonnaise sandwiches, he would eat banana and peanut butter sandwiches, he loved banana pudding... After Dad's stroke, when I went to his house to clean up anything that needed to be addressed immediately, I found three over-ripe tomatoes and two overripe bananas on his counter (Dad liked both bananas and tomatoes "two days too ripe," as I called it), because Dad always wanted to have both on hand at all times.
Those glimpses into Dad's childhood make this the most memorable of all his columns.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
One Day at a Time
As you noticed, I haven't posted anything for the last few days. I also haven't done much of anything for the last few days; after the stresses and pressures of the past three weeks, I needed to take a few days to bury myself in mundane activities, to turn my mind off to a degree, and to learn to deal with the new reality of a world without Dad.
It hasn't been a steady process; I'm surprised at how the most trivial things can cause a flood of powerful feelings to boil over. Foods that Dad really liked; songs that he often sang along with in a melodious voice that I constantly envied; casual fragments of conversation that echo the frequent phone chats that Dad and I had... all of them can pull me out of a normal mood and lead me into dark, lonely corners of my thoughts. All of these will become cherished memories in time, but right now they force me to confront my loss--and not on my own terms.
As my good friend Dr. Mike said, "you never get over it. After a while, though, it hurts less."
It hasn't been a steady process; I'm surprised at how the most trivial things can cause a flood of powerful feelings to boil over. Foods that Dad really liked; songs that he often sang along with in a melodious voice that I constantly envied; casual fragments of conversation that echo the frequent phone chats that Dad and I had... all of them can pull me out of a normal mood and lead me into dark, lonely corners of my thoughts. All of these will become cherished memories in time, but right now they force me to confront my loss--and not on my own terms.
As my good friend Dr. Mike said, "you never get over it. After a while, though, it hurts less."
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Redefining Normalcy
Today was the beginning of a return to normal life after the intensity of the past two weeks and five days. Even as I write that, I ask myself, "has it really been just under three weeks since that evening phone call from Floyd Medical Center?" It's true: that Sunday night call began one of the most far-reaching emotional odysseys of my entire life.
Normalcy began with my first full night's sleep since July 29th. I was in bed by 1 a.m. and didn't get up until 9 a.m. (even though I did wake up about an hour before that--I didn't actually get up, so I think it counted as sleeping late). And for the first time since that day, I didn't go to Rome.
In fact, I didn't do anything particularly productive today. I know that I should have worked on Comic Shop News, I should have cleaned up the clutter I've made around the house, I should have filed away a lot of paperwork... but I felt like doing nothing at all, which is just what I did.
The day wasn't totally normal, as I doubt that any day will be totally normal for a while yet. When I was walking, I found myself reaching for my phone to press button 2--Dad's auto-dial button--since I always called him during my morning walk. Then, when I was taking a few things out of the car, I found the hospital bag containing Dad's clothes from July 29th--a more disturbing moment than I would ever have anticipated.
A trip to the grocery store... an afternoon walk... an idle phone conversation with an old friend, another with a good neighbor... a trip to a local department store... all things I would have taken for granted once. Now, each of them embodies an engaging mundanity that I crave.
It will be a while before life is truly normal. There will still be too many sad moments, unexpected remembrances, and rediscovered loss. There will be more good memories and recollections of past happiness, too. And of course, there is the real world that must be dealt with--there is a will to file, there are notices to Social Security and the Veteran's Administration that must be submitted, there are accounts to transfer, and there are the accumulated fragments of a magical lifetime that must be sorted through as the house welcomes a new generation and a new child who will, I hope, have a childhood every bit as wonderful as my own in this love-filled home...
Normalcy began with my first full night's sleep since July 29th. I was in bed by 1 a.m. and didn't get up until 9 a.m. (even though I did wake up about an hour before that--I didn't actually get up, so I think it counted as sleeping late). And for the first time since that day, I didn't go to Rome.
In fact, I didn't do anything particularly productive today. I know that I should have worked on Comic Shop News, I should have cleaned up the clutter I've made around the house, I should have filed away a lot of paperwork... but I felt like doing nothing at all, which is just what I did.
The day wasn't totally normal, as I doubt that any day will be totally normal for a while yet. When I was walking, I found myself reaching for my phone to press button 2--Dad's auto-dial button--since I always called him during my morning walk. Then, when I was taking a few things out of the car, I found the hospital bag containing Dad's clothes from July 29th--a more disturbing moment than I would ever have anticipated.
A trip to the grocery store... an afternoon walk... an idle phone conversation with an old friend, another with a good neighbor... a trip to a local department store... all things I would have taken for granted once. Now, each of them embodies an engaging mundanity that I crave.
It will be a while before life is truly normal. There will still be too many sad moments, unexpected remembrances, and rediscovered loss. There will be more good memories and recollections of past happiness, too. And of course, there is the real world that must be dealt with--there is a will to file, there are notices to Social Security and the Veteran's Administration that must be submitted, there are accounts to transfer, and there are the accumulated fragments of a magical lifetime that must be sorted through as the house welcomes a new generation and a new child who will, I hope, have a childhood every bit as wonderful as my own in this love-filled home...
Friday, August 17, 2007
Ceremonial Sorrow
Today was the day of Dad's funeral.
Our original plan was to have someone from Jennings Oaknoll deliver a fairly non-religious eulogy, but plans changed. Last night, at the funeral home, Aunt Jean brought us a copy of Dad's column from 11/27/1983, a piece entitled "If we only look, there are many reasons to give thanks." Kim thought it defined Dad in so many ways that she read it at the funeral today.
Here is that piece:
As we prepare to pause from our daily labors to observe another Thanksgiving--hopefully with our loved ones--it is only appropriate that e also reflect on our many reasons for giving thanks. Oh, the reasons are there, if only we are willing to look beyond the troubles we somehow allow to occupy our lives.
And if you'll permit me the opportunity offer several of my own reasons, I think you, too, will agree.
I'm thankful for a wife who is the one person I can always count on for support when I need it most and for two wonderful children who have grown into equally wonderful adults.
I'm thankful for the excitement that stirs in an old body when my daughter tells me I'm going to be a grandpa.
I'm thankful for true friends who are not influenced by my many weaknesses.
I'm thankful for the cup of coffee that gets me started each morning and for the one that helps me unwind each evening.
I'm thankful for deadlines that are easily met and for stories with happy endings. The former is a relief; the latter is a pleasant rarity these days when so much bad news is being reported.
I'm thankful for sheets that have been warmed by an electric blanket on a cold winter night.
I'm thankful for fifty percent off sales on those things I always wanted but thought I could never afford.
I'm thankful for the winter grass that forces its way out of the soil and creates a green blanket beneath bare trees.
I'm thankful for the aroma of hamburgers cooked on outdoor grills and for my wife's homemade chili that makes it a special meal.
I'm thankful for the coolness of an unexpected breeze on a hot summer day, and for the sun that sneaks out of the clouds to brighten these dreary winter days.
I'm thankful for the sound of rain dripping out of the downspout next to our bed and how it stirs memories of those old tin roofs.
I'm thankful for birthdays and all other special occasions that bring the family together fora few precious hours.
I'm thankful for the smile of a stranger who passes me on the street.
I'm thankful for someone in sports like Dale Murphy because it reminds me that not all athletes are spoiled brats.
I'm thankful for traffic lights that remain green on those days when I'm running late.
I'm thankful for someone who telephones unexpectedly with a kind word.
I'm thankful for nature's magic that transforms tiny plants into delicious tomatoes, and little seeds into giant ears of corn.
I'm thankful for the quite time I can spent just sitting out on the back porch, forgetting for the moment all that remains to be done.
I'm thankful for a restaurant meal that is all the menu claims it to be.
I'm thankful for vacations that provide a weird sort of relaxation even though I stay on the go much more than I ever do at home.
I'm thankful for street lights and for the kids who use them as their playgrounds after darkness has taken away the day.
I'm thankful for movies that make me laugh and those that bring a tear to my eye.
I'm thankful that the music of the 1950's is still around to enjoy.
I'm thankful for being able to voice my opinion and vote for whomever I please.
I'm thankful for grocery stores and gasoline stations that stay open all night.
I'm thankful for utility bills that are less than I had imagined they would be.
I'm thankful for a friendly face that emerges from out of the crowd at some out-of-town place.
I'm thankful for the Falcons, who possess an uncanny ability to win or lose in the final seconds on any given Sunday afternoon.
I'm thankful for those rare opportunities to visit with farmers and walk over the land.
I'm thankful for family reunions and the chance to exchange small talk with those I haven't seen since the last family reunion.
I'm thankful for politicians who admit they don't know everything, or that theirs isn't the only answer to any given problem.
I'm thankful for delivery and repair men who arrive when they say they will.
I'm thankful for the smell of freshly mowed grass that brings back memories of watermelon.
I'm thankful for friends who drop in and for neighbors who know and care when everything isn't right.
I'm thankful for a snow that paints the lawn an antiseptic white.
I'm thankful when the final leaf has fallen and has been hauled off, just as I am thankful when a new season's growth begins to emerge on trees and shrubs.
I'm thankful for those who poke fun at me, because I know they care.
And finally, I'm thankful for those minutes when my wife and I can reflect on all we have to be thankful for.
--Don Biggers
Kim read the piece with grace and power, conveying a tranquil serenity that Dad had intended with this piece. I could hear Dad's tone in her voice, and I took comfort in it.
I had prepared nothing in writing, but I related two brief experiences, which I will recreate here.
I remember when my Dad's sister Barbara--who became involved in genealogy long before the Internet made research quick and easy--discovered the Biggers family crest and motto. I remember that Dad was a little bit surprised; "I didn't know that plain folks like us had crests and mottos," he remarked.
The motto was only three words. "Giving and forgiving." And no one ever epitomizes those three words more than my father, who was the most giving and forgiving man I ever knew.
I also remember that, whenever anyone asked Dad how he was doing, he would look at them earnestly, smile, and say, "Just wonderful."
I can still hear Dad saying, "Just wonderful." The difference is, today it's true. He's healthy and happy and whole again, and he's with Mom, and at last, he really is "just wonderful."
Our original plan was to have someone from Jennings Oaknoll deliver a fairly non-religious eulogy, but plans changed. Last night, at the funeral home, Aunt Jean brought us a copy of Dad's column from 11/27/1983, a piece entitled "If we only look, there are many reasons to give thanks." Kim thought it defined Dad in so many ways that she read it at the funeral today.
Here is that piece:
As we prepare to pause from our daily labors to observe another Thanksgiving--hopefully with our loved ones--it is only appropriate that e also reflect on our many reasons for giving thanks. Oh, the reasons are there, if only we are willing to look beyond the troubles we somehow allow to occupy our lives.
And if you'll permit me the opportunity offer several of my own reasons, I think you, too, will agree.
I'm thankful for a wife who is the one person I can always count on for support when I need it most and for two wonderful children who have grown into equally wonderful adults.
I'm thankful for the excitement that stirs in an old body when my daughter tells me I'm going to be a grandpa.
I'm thankful for true friends who are not influenced by my many weaknesses.
I'm thankful for the cup of coffee that gets me started each morning and for the one that helps me unwind each evening.
I'm thankful for deadlines that are easily met and for stories with happy endings. The former is a relief; the latter is a pleasant rarity these days when so much bad news is being reported.
I'm thankful for sheets that have been warmed by an electric blanket on a cold winter night.
I'm thankful for fifty percent off sales on those things I always wanted but thought I could never afford.
I'm thankful for the winter grass that forces its way out of the soil and creates a green blanket beneath bare trees.
I'm thankful for the aroma of hamburgers cooked on outdoor grills and for my wife's homemade chili that makes it a special meal.
I'm thankful for the coolness of an unexpected breeze on a hot summer day, and for the sun that sneaks out of the clouds to brighten these dreary winter days.
I'm thankful for the sound of rain dripping out of the downspout next to our bed and how it stirs memories of those old tin roofs.
I'm thankful for birthdays and all other special occasions that bring the family together fora few precious hours.
I'm thankful for the smile of a stranger who passes me on the street.
I'm thankful for someone in sports like Dale Murphy because it reminds me that not all athletes are spoiled brats.
I'm thankful for traffic lights that remain green on those days when I'm running late.
I'm thankful for someone who telephones unexpectedly with a kind word.
I'm thankful for nature's magic that transforms tiny plants into delicious tomatoes, and little seeds into giant ears of corn.
I'm thankful for the quite time I can spent just sitting out on the back porch, forgetting for the moment all that remains to be done.
I'm thankful for a restaurant meal that is all the menu claims it to be.
I'm thankful for vacations that provide a weird sort of relaxation even though I stay on the go much more than I ever do at home.
I'm thankful for street lights and for the kids who use them as their playgrounds after darkness has taken away the day.
I'm thankful for movies that make me laugh and those that bring a tear to my eye.
I'm thankful that the music of the 1950's is still around to enjoy.
I'm thankful for being able to voice my opinion and vote for whomever I please.
I'm thankful for grocery stores and gasoline stations that stay open all night.
I'm thankful for utility bills that are less than I had imagined they would be.
I'm thankful for a friendly face that emerges from out of the crowd at some out-of-town place.
I'm thankful for the Falcons, who possess an uncanny ability to win or lose in the final seconds on any given Sunday afternoon.
I'm thankful for those rare opportunities to visit with farmers and walk over the land.
I'm thankful for family reunions and the chance to exchange small talk with those I haven't seen since the last family reunion.
I'm thankful for politicians who admit they don't know everything, or that theirs isn't the only answer to any given problem.
I'm thankful for delivery and repair men who arrive when they say they will.
I'm thankful for the smell of freshly mowed grass that brings back memories of watermelon.
I'm thankful for friends who drop in and for neighbors who know and care when everything isn't right.
I'm thankful for a snow that paints the lawn an antiseptic white.
I'm thankful when the final leaf has fallen and has been hauled off, just as I am thankful when a new season's growth begins to emerge on trees and shrubs.
I'm thankful for those who poke fun at me, because I know they care.
And finally, I'm thankful for those minutes when my wife and I can reflect on all we have to be thankful for.
--Don Biggers
Kim read the piece with grace and power, conveying a tranquil serenity that Dad had intended with this piece. I could hear Dad's tone in her voice, and I took comfort in it.
I had prepared nothing in writing, but I related two brief experiences, which I will recreate here.
I remember when my Dad's sister Barbara--who became involved in genealogy long before the Internet made research quick and easy--discovered the Biggers family crest and motto. I remember that Dad was a little bit surprised; "I didn't know that plain folks like us had crests and mottos," he remarked.
The motto was only three words. "Giving and forgiving." And no one ever epitomizes those three words more than my father, who was the most giving and forgiving man I ever knew.
I also remember that, whenever anyone asked Dad how he was doing, he would look at them earnestly, smile, and say, "Just wonderful."
I can still hear Dad saying, "Just wonderful." The difference is, today it's true. He's healthy and happy and whole again, and he's with Mom, and at last, he really is "just wonderful."
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