Author Archives: writerontheriver

08/18/12

Father’s Day @ 9,000 Feet

Terry Wilson and I are not related, share no common blood, friends, life skills, or job interests. We do share the fact that we were once married to the same woman (not at the same time)…and one other critical thing. We share, along with Mary Beth, an uncommonly common bond.

We share daughters.

It came to light as I contemplated the lunacy of jumping 9,000 feet to my certain death.  Well, not actually certain death…the previous hundreds before me that attempted skydiving had never discovered that sudden, breath-taking impact. They all survived. And so would I, I concluded, while I waited in the terminal (inappropriate choice of words I think) for my time to come…my first skydive. A gift from my daughter and step-daughters for Father’s Day.

What happened to the time-worn tradition of a gaudy tie and a hug? Or maybe just a casual dinner with goofy cards?  I encouraged them to be creative but this was outside the lines.

Layne is my birth daughter. Tiffany and Hailey are Terry’s birth daughters, who became my step-daughters by marriage. We all know the differences, yet the heart forgets and takes it own course. All three girls became full sisters in heart and mind, and remain so today.

So today, here we all were, blood and not, celebrating Father’s Day with Terry and Ray. We shared the father-feast with Elmer, Tiffany’s husband, and granddaughters Lily and Rosalie. And with Tom, Hailey’s soon-to-be hubby who would later father grandson Finn.

It was a good excuse to gather. My eventual plunge headfirst into open air from 9,000 feet, dropping like a rock toward the patchwork of verdant fields below, was literally a leap of faith. It defies the natural senses to look down, see nothing but a mile and a half of open air…and then step out anyway. The knowledge that I was plummeting toward the earth at 62.4 feet-per-second was exhilarating. Then at 6,000 feet, feeling the reassuring “catch” of the parachute as it responded to my tug on the rip cord… that was exhilarating. And as Mike (my tandem coach) and I glided down, using the guide lines to perform several 360’s, challenging my stomach to keep the faith, the thrill of the gentle descent through clean country air at dusk was part peaceful and part exhilaration as well.

But as I glided closer and closer to the landing zone, my extended family waiting and cheering and laughing and videotaping every goofy move, I found a strange exhilaration that was un-related to physics or gravity or the environment, but rather of the pure joy of the moment.

My skydive was without a doubt a “high” point in my life.  Certainly part of it was the actual plunge from a perfectly good airplane.  But most of my emotional high originated and ended at ground zero, as I realized how my daughters had planned, organized, coordinated, participated in, and paid for such a luxury.  The thought was original and a little bizarre, the picnic spread impeccably planned, and the cumulative party one for my mental highlight reels.

But I measured the success of the entire day as I quietly observed the entire group, gathering, hugging, laughing, sharing, living the moment. It was quite spellbinding. I watched an un-choreographed dynamics of beautiful daughters, step-daughters, grand-daughters, amazingly original sons-in-law, even ex-husbands of ex-wives, all bonding in one mass of laughter and joy, forsaking all parts past for the joy of parts present and the promise of parts future.

I know the day was not entirely mine.  I caught Terry several times beaming with paternal pride. And Elmer’s shared joy, with two perfect daughters of his own, was clearly equal to ours.  But I did realize a virtual “high” on this day I may never be able to adequately describe.

And the skydive was pretty cool, too.

08/17/12

McMansions and the Meaning of Life

One Sunday afternoon a few years back, some friends and I attended an open house for a local McMansion in a gated community in Central Kentucky, a 15,000 square foot, $3-million beauty. As an admirer of good architecture, I expected to see a fine home, and it was a specimen. Strangely, though, at the end of the afternoon I left the tour, and my friends, with a poignant sense of gratitude.

The house itself was a treat.  I have not seen as much marble, cherry paneling, and upscale architectural detail in a residence since my last flip-trip through a dog-eared copy of Architectural Digest in my doctor’s office.  The talented use of ceramic tile, walnut hardwood flooring, designer wallpaper, and mega-piece crown molding was enough to make us all dizzy.

As I drifted off alone out into the sprawling backyard, past the super-sized swimming pool and guest house with the teak bar, I was drawn to the sound of water, a pristine creek that ran the length of this 9-acre tract, bounded Walden-like on both banks by lush, verdant woods.  Strolling along the bank, I noticed a couple of young boys, seining for minnows and laughing.  Probably not as financially secure as the family that lived in this mansion, but having a fine time on a Sunday afternoon and enjoying God’s bounty.  And a thought began to grow.

I’m guessing the various family members that lived here had, from time to time, made this same stroll, either together or alone in reflection, and I wondered if their lives had been as joyful as those two boys, playing in the creek, unconcerned with how little they possessed. Without a doubt I respected the earned wealth that had bought all the elaborate materials and expensive artwork in the mansion, as well as the hard work and creative ingenuity that spawned it, and I hoped it had contributed to their happiness.

I could not help myself when the “fantasy” switch in my brain clicked on and I played that game of transference to which most of us never admit, substituting myself for the owners of this fine home, walking this shaded trail.  Then it struck me at that moment like a forgotten anniversary, that all of the expensive artwork, the layers of elegant building materials, and endless pieces of designer furniture that was making all those house-tourists like me back in the McMansion gawk and fawn, would not have made my life any more fulfilling than it was before I came.

True to the spirit of the TV unreality shows I threw off the constraints of rational thinking and played out my fantasy. If I had been the owner of this house, I surely could have hosted endless pool parties, staged elaborate dinner affairs under giant, multi-colored tents, probably even kicked in with a frequent beer blast or two with burgers and dogs.  I could have been party central, Mr. Entertainment, and I know all of my friends would have come, not to mention friends of friends, and their friends as well.  But would they have come to enjoy life with me and listen to me regale them with lame jokes and bawdy limericks…or to see my teak bar and crown molding and to marvel at my cut stone veranda and three family rooms?  Would the party-goers have talked fondly of me when they left or would they speak of my indulgences?  Would their after-party conversations be tainted with jealousy or with love?

Actually, I know my true friends, in my fantasy as in real life, would come to my get-togethers, not because of my wealth, but in spite of it, because they are just that – friends. And I supposed that was the case for the current residents. So it came to me, in that moment, with the creek running wild and clear, and the sunlight glittering through millions of slits in the leafy branches, that despite the excesses and toys wealth can buy, it wouldn’t, by itself, improve my real friendships nor increase their number. And I realized, if that’s the case, why envy it at all.

You may say that I am missing the point, with all those amenities to enjoy for myself, to admire with pride as I throw my chest out and walk through my mansion day after day in my brocade smoking jacket, Chevas Regal in hand, marveling at the sheer talent and dollars it took to produce them all, would be a serious measure of bliss.  But as I strolled in real time back through that mansion that Sunday, observing the expensive furniture, each carefully-selected piece of art, all the elegant materials – seemingly endless excesses of beauty – it made me a little wistful to wonder how much those material things would contribute to my happiness.

And it became clear.  As much as I admire fine things, it’s not the worth of the wood nor the mass of the marble that instills a glow of contentment in me, but the feeling I get when a daughter or grandchild hugs me, or a good friend or an acquaintance at work smiles back, or laughs at a really bad joke, or one of us proffers a thank you for a small gesture.  Happy comes when I create a picture, a paragraph, or a poem, even if it is not good.  Happy comes when I laugh out loud at a funny movie – or cry at a sad one.  Happy comes when I actually touch that part of me, deep inside, that says I am alive.  And Happy comes when I share that with others.  And only then.

So I left the tour, being duly impressed with the grand home and all that went into it’s planning and construction, but also being okay knowing it wasn’t mine.  I was happy to spend time with my friends, to share the day’s adventure with them and hear them laugh and for me to laugh in return.  I was happy when we stopped by the lemonade stand of some friends’ grandchildren on the way out of the neighborhood and dickered with them over why lemonade was a dollar a glass, and a small glass at that, and then shared a smile with them.  And on the way home I was totally fine with it all, when I realized how few pieces of marble it really takes to make me happy.

07/5/12

Mouths on Fire

My Democratic-leaning computer didn’t burst into flames recently when I ran across a post on one of my Republican friends’ Facebook page. It was a quote from the late Adrian Rogers, a well-known conservative clergyman and past president of the Southern Baptist Convention. In part it read:

“You cannot legislate the poor into prosperity by legislating the wealthy out of prosperity.”

In the beginning, most of the 28 “comments” were rabidly in agreement, but as the hour rolled on, opposing comments, equally as passionate, began to appear.

And it struck me, as it has so often lately, that the vitriol on both sides of the opinion had diluted any hope of dealing with it. Nobody was listening. I could almost hear the arms breaking while everyone patted themselves on the back, and torches and pitchforks quickly appeared on the streets of Facebook.

If I had all the answers, I’d run for sainthood (although fundraising would be an issue). Differing opinions don’t mean either is wrong, they are just, well…different. I imagine somewhere in the middle ground of any rational analysis lies the truth, or some version of it, ordained only by a higher power, challenging us to look for her, to seek her out. And be better than we were before we started.

Sadly, most of us give up without even bothering to look. It’s much easier to shout down the opposing viewpoint than to thoughtfully listen to it, pick out the best of both sides. Mouth open, ears shut. It doesn’t take long before the brisk, passionate defense of our own position overrules our desire to enhance it. And the words begin to turn sour.

Even though I’m a Liberal and back the concept of some form of government support, as long as it is unavoidable and not abused, I still can see the logic in Dr. Rogers’ statement…as far as it went. But to me it stops several miles short, over-simplifying the issue to the point where it describes something that doesn’t exist and nobody wants. A partially-told truth is not the truth at all.

Sometimes, in our zeal to make a point we fall back into self-serving oversimplification, to the point that our words distort. The aggregate of life’s struggles can’t be captured in a clever phrase. It’s infinitely complex. Real life in the trenches involves emotions, hopes and dreams, failures, disappointments, insecurities, and more often than not, random opportunity.

One argument against helping the 99% is obvious and indisputable. The well-documented abuse of a well-intentioned system by thousands, maybe millions, that aren’t willing to help themselves, only poisons the well for all of us. Those self-serving scavengers are on my crap list too. But geeze-o-pete, if the car is broken, maybe instead of setting it on fire, we should just repair it. We’re smart enough to find a way to deny the offenders without punishing those that desperately want to rise above it.

I say, with some conviction, that if any of the 1%’ers, including and especially our almost uniformly wealthy congress, suddenly found themselves in the Twilight Zone, thrust into the unfamiliar role of not knowing where their next meals or house payments were coming from, their votes would be considerably different.

The late Flannery O’Connor once said “The truth does not change according to our ability to handle it.” I’m not saying Dr. Rogers’ convictions are ill-advised. I get his point. But if we boil away all the rhetoric and verbal cover, I’d wager there is more substance left unstated in his words than one paragraph could ever deal with.

I’ll continue to welcome spirited debate with any of our legislators or blog friends on any issue of their choosing. I could use a good education. But I’ll bet if we jettison the earplugs and pass out chill pills at the beginning of any gathering, it might be possible for all of us to get a fresh take on something we thought was a done deal.

07/4/12

Which F word on July 4?

No, not that one. There’s lots of others to pick from.  Fourth?  Fireworks?  Family?  Fun?  Freedom?  Maybe. But for me this year – Father’s Felt Football. A home-made pillow, a belated Father’s Day gift from step-daughter Tiffany, hubby Elmer, and granddaughters Lily and Rosalie, during my two-day stay with them this week in Nashville.

Biker Chicks

Elmer patiently worked with me trying to teach me how get this infernal blog up and running. Lots of food and laughter, debates and bad jokes around the kitchen table, rolling in the floor with frenetic, energy-laden kids, wild hamsters on the loose, a smorgasborg of nothing…and everything.

On my peaceful motorcycle ride back, a human easy-bake cookie in the 95-degree blast furnace of I-65, I couldn’t help but give thanks for the priceless opportunity to be taken in by adults who teach their children love every day. Some of us aren’t so lucky. It makes me grateful. And a little ashamed when I slip up and gripe during those fleeting moments of frustration and disappointment that follows us around.

My other step-daughter Hailey, with Tom and young Finn, and daughter Layne, with Zach & their 4-legged children Winnie, Munch, and Maggie, are all just as loving. My times with them just as fulfilling, brimming with love and laughter. In reflection I realize, as I often do these days, that the 4th of July is only what we make of it. And every other day after that.