Happy (Late) Father's Day!

June 25 marked the 11th anniversary of my the day my father left this mortal life. The week earlier was Father's Day. The passing of both these dates has caused me to reflect alot about my dad, the kind of person he was and the impact his life left on those who knew him. My father was a humble, unassuming person who possessed more humanity than perhaps anyone I have ever known. Since his death, I have had many opportunities to think about his absence in my life and reflect upon the fact that there are so few people in the world who could ever live up to being the kind of person he was.

Dad had a soft spot in his heart for the people of this world who are marginalized, discarded, overlooked, and otherwise dwell at the lowest echelons of society. He truly cared about others. He worried about their trials, helped carry their burdens, mourned when they mourned, understood their sufferings and, most importantly, felt an obligation to help.

There were many times when Dad would comment that he did something "because it needed to be done." He didn't reach out to people or help them in time of need because it was easy or convenient or even because he liked the person. He did it because he saw a need and he felt a moral obligation to fill it.

When I went home for Dad's funeral there was a woman, I will call her Diane (not her real name) at the viewing at the funeral home who came up to me and told me how much Dad had meant to her and how much he had helped her on many occasions. When she introduced herself, I immediately remembered Dad speaking of her on a number of occasions. She and I had met once or twice years before.

When Diane's two daughters were quite young, her husband shot and killed himself at home in front of the entire family. As if this trauma was not enough for the family to bear, the woman suffered from a serious health condition which left her unable to work. Dad said even with her disability she still did whatever she could to take care of her family, but unfortunately there was very little money for the family to live on without the father's income.

Over the years Dad shared many stories about the struggles of this family. Always he spoke with great respect and concern for their well-being. He spoke of great affection and concern for the young daughters who would now. not only grow up without their father, but who also were dealing with the emotional trauma of watching him shoot himself in their midst. I know there were many times he did what he could to help ease the suffering of this family and I know it was clearly appreciated by Diane and her girls.

Diane was one of the first people to arrive for the viewing that day and one of the last to leave. Every time I walked past her she would reach out to touch my arm and tell me how much she loved my dad and so very much appreciated all that he had done for her and her girls. I don't know all of the details of the things Dad did to help, but I know that Dad truly cared for this family and would have done anything to help alleviate their burdens. There were other, similar stories.

When my sisters and I were teenagers a certain young man from our school would come to the house around dinnertime on occasion. Dad always offered him a seat at our table without comment. Being teenagers, some of us were not on the best of terms with this young man and were not always very nice or hospitable to our surprise guest. We never understood why he came by for those meals until years later, after we were grown and had moved to a different city. Dad explained to us that this young man, whose single mother worked long hours, would often find himself at home alone and hungry with no food in the house. When Dad found out about this situation, he told the young man to come over whenever he was hungry and that he could always have a meal.

Around this same time Dad came home from work, opened the local newspaper to read as he often did, and announced that the paper reported that the Smith family (not their real name) had lost their house to a fire over the weekend. He immediately got up from his chair, told the rest of us to get in the car and drove to the bank to withdraw money from the bank. Within minutes we were parked at the curb where this family's home had once stood. Mr. and Mrs. Smith were sifting through the rubble in search of any possessions which might be salvaged from the ashes. Dad took Mrs. Smith aside and said to her, "As the mother of your family, I understand that your first instinct is to take care of your family, but I want you to take this money and go buy yourself a nice outfit for yourself." He then handed her a sum of money which would cover the cost of the said outfit.

Not quite a week later I was somewhere in town where I ran into Mrs. Smith. She was beaming when she walked into the building. She had never appeared to me more radiant. Her face was beaming with a bright smile and she had a beautiful, new purple dress which perfectly complimented her bright red hair and ruddy complexion. Here was a woman who had lost her home, all of her worldly possessions yet for a brief moment she seemed to not have a care in the world and had never looked more beautiful.

Dad knew someone in town who happened to work in the young men's department of a local department store. My father called on this friend at work one day to ask a favor. He gave the salesman a sum of money and told him to call the teenage son, Bryan (not his real name), and to tell him that an anonymous person wanted to buy him some new clothes to replace the ones he had lost in the fire. I won't go into details here, but after this incident I saw a slow transformation in this young man. Up until that point I had not held up much hope for his future. He did not seem like he was always traversing the right path toward adulthood in my young opinion. But in the years that followed I saw him make many good decisions and today he is a happy, responsible husband and father.

There is even more. One morning Dad had the feeling he should drop by to check on a friend at his place of employment. When Dad arrived, he found the man, I'll call him Mr Reynolds, sitting at his desk in his office contemplating suicide. Dad spoke with him about his situation and eventually made his way to the family home where he found Mrs. Reynolds so disabled by post-partem depression she couldn't get out of bed. There were several children in the family who were in urgent need of care which neither of their parents were able to give. Dad, as he so often did, immediately began doing what he could to help.

For atleast 10 months!!!! he went to the Reynolds' home every single day and cooked dinner for the family. Dad said he assumed the youngest child, a three year old, did not have anything to eat all day until he arrived because as soon as she saw him coming she would go sit in her high chair where Dad would immediately feed her. The older children were given chores each day such as unloading the dishwasher, cleaning the house, taking out the trash, etc. If the chores were not done each day, the kids did not get dessert.

Dad also spoke with an acquaintance who was a mental health professional about what he could do to help this family as well as tried to get them help from the community, church etc. Dad did what he could do to help this family get back on it's feet. Eventually, the parents took over more and more of the responsibilities in the home. Mrs. Reynolds was not only able to get out of bed, but became well enough to get a job to help support the family, which came about the same time Mr. Reynolds lost his job. Eventually Mr. Reynolds found new employment as well. Dad was finally able to stop going to the home every day to cook dinner for this family.

Not long after, Dad was close with another family who lost their 17 year old son to a car jacking. When he found out about the loss, Dad immediately went to the home of the Gordon family (again not their real name) to see what he could do to help. The loss was even more particularly tragic due to the fact that this was the third child the family had lost. Furthermore, the Gordon's were not a wealthy family so the burden of paying for even a simple funeral was a great expense. Dad went with the family to the funeral to make arrangements, he helped gather funds to help pay for the funeral and tried to support the family in any way he could. This was a circumstance which touched him deeply. My father was not a man who easily showed emotion, but he said that speaking at this young man's funeral was extremely emotional and difficult for him as he very much grieved for the loss of his young friend.

Years prior, when I was in grade school, Dad was in charge of delivering Christmas presents to a needy family our church was helping out for the holiday. We drove to the other side of town in a station wagon filled with presents the congregation had donated. Dad stopped the car at a small home he described as a "cracker jack box" where the family lived. My sisters and I helped Dad take the presents to the door where we were met by a very excited and appreciative family.

They referred to my dad as "Santa Clause". I could not imagine how an entire family could have lived in a house which appeared to me to be about the size of a small one bedroom apartment. At that young age, I had never known anyone to live in such a small home. While we were not wealthy, we were far from poor and seemed to have a very privileged life compared to that of Dad's new friends. On the way home from delivering the presents, Dad commented, as he would on countless other occasions, that he had brought us along so that we could have the experience of serving others and becoming aware that there were people out there who did not have as much as we did.

There are many, many stories I could recite her and I am sure many more I don't know about. I do not remember a week went by when Dad didn't do something kind to help another person. Sometimes they were small acts like visiting someone who was lonely, driving a person to run an errand, buying much needed medication for a person who did not have the money, or taking in someone who needed a place to stay for a night, a week, a month for whatever reason.

As I have grown up and gone out into the world I have been shocked to learn that not everyone lived by the same ethos as my father. Not everyone feels the obligation to help another person when it is much needed, but not necessarily convenient or easy or even appreciated. Since my father's death just over 10 years ago I have come across many people whom I have felt would be just the type of person Dad would want to help, only to realize he is no longer on this earth to do so. Furthermore, I have been very disappointed on numerous occasions to realize there is not another person who would care for these people and their problems the way Dad did. It seems that my father was sensitive to the needs of others in a way few other people are and i have to wonder why that is.

Dad was born in 1932, amidst the heart of the Great Depression. He used to say his family was pooooor, taking extra care to draw out the word as if to add emphasis to the family's degree and depth of poverty. When I was 12 years old, Dad turned to me one day and said, "When I was your age, we were in the middle of World War II." He spoke often of the deprivations of war-time rations and a scarcity of goods which had been diverted to the war effort. Somehow my father managed to go to college and obtained a degree in English from the University of Texas. At the age of 30, he married my mother. At the age of 36, my mother died suddenly of an aneurysm leaving him with three young daughters under the age of 4 years of age. He successfully raised us all to graduate from college, stay out of prison, and become independent, functional adults.

My father's life was not easy. Few would have faulted him if he had declined to reach out to others in need due his own adversity. There were many times, as a single parent, when he put the needs of others before his own despite his own struggles.

I believe it was through his own experience with adversity that he became more sensitive to the needs of others. He understood grief, poverty, deprivation, loneliness, despair, and pain through personal experience. He had been to the depths of the darkest abyss more than once and wanted to help his fellow travels find their way back.

My father had a gentle nature masked by a sometimes gruff exterior. He was in no way ostentatious. A humble, down-to-earth facade belied the fact that he had the greatest of appreciation for beauty, the arts, literature and education. He had the most love and concern for those who had the hardest lives. His were the people who had no money, drove broken down cars, wore tattered clothing, were not necessarily physically beautiful by worldly standards or were shunned by the high and mighty.

Once, I spoke of someone I knew whose life had traveled a course much different than my own. I did not understand, at the time, why this person had not been able to do better, achieve more. In a calm, soft-spoken tone that I would come to hear many times, Dad replied, "Life is just harder for some people. Not everyone has the same opportunities." He understood.

At Dad's funeral, on of his closest friends eulogized him with the words which describe him as well as anyone can:


For I was an hungred, and ye gave me meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me in:

Naked, and ye clothed e: I was sick, and ye visited me: I was in prison, and ye came unto me.

Then shall the righteous answer him, saying, Lord, when saw we thee an hungred, and fed thee? or thirsty, and gave thee drink?

When saw we thee a stranger, and took thee in? or naked, and clothed thee?

Or when saw we thee sick, or in prison, and came unto thee?

And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.

Matt 25: 34-40

I can't think of anyone who lived up to this ideal better.

There is No Frigate Like a Book

There is no Frigate like a Book
To take us Lands away,
Nor any Coursers like a Page
Of prancing Poetry –
This Traverse may the poorest take
Without oppress of Toll –
How frugal is the Chariot
That bears a Human soul.

---Emily Dickinson

Anyone who has ever been to my house or who knows me well knows that I own a lot of books.
The fact is, I love books. They are my friends, my respite from a weary world, traveling
companion to lands far away, education,inspiration, thought provocation.

I'll read almost anything, although I do draw the line at romance novels and cheap dime store
novels. Among the collection in my personal library are books on art, philosophy, history,the
classics, southern literature, mythology,religion, poetry, memoir, biography, cycling and even
a cookbook or two from the Junior League.

When I was in college there was a popular professor of English on campus who was purported
to often admonish his students, "Don't let your schooling get in the way of your education." I
must admit, much of the coursework I completed in college may have helped my obtain a college
diploma, but my real education came by way of the many hours I have spent in solitude curled up
with a book.

I know people who don't read books. I pity them. Some of them seem shockingly proud of their
lack of literacy. There was that one roommate in college who owned exactly one book. I have no
idea how it came into her possession or why. It was a John Grisham novel and took her months
to get through the first half of the book. She was not at all embarrassed by this. What she was
seemingly most proud of, however, was her busy dating life. Once, she confessed to me that she
had been asked on a date with almost every boy she knew. What she seemed not to notice at all
is that she never seemed to make it past the third date with any one boy. Even her pretty face
and short skirts showing off shapely legs could not mask the fact that at a certain point she
would be expected to hold up her end of the conversation. A task she never quite seemed to master.

The other day I saw historian and writer David McCullough interviewed on TV by Charlie Rose.
The author spoke of the importance for public officials to be well read on history and that his
advice to anyone who wanted to be a journalist would be not to get a degree in journalism, but
 to study literature, philosophy, history, anything to give them a broad,well rounded education
about the world around them.

When I was a teenager I started reading newspapers and watching the evening news on a
somewhat regular basis. I have kept up this practice over the years. I like to know what is
going on. I like to get my news from different sources, conservative, liberal, international,
local, national, PBS, and online websites. I get great insight by getting my new from
different sources and points of view. I question, reflect, compare, and contrast the information I receive and then
form my own opinions based on my analysis and information. It troubles me when people tell me they don't watch the
news or that they will only read one particular newspaper or watch one particular network or news show.
This shows me a complete lack of critical thinking on their part and indicates that they have completely given up their
right to think independently. People who can't think for themselves easily allow others to manipulate them at a heavy
price.

One of my favorite teachers in school was my 10th grade English teacher named Mr. Henry. It has been many years
since I have sat in his class absorbing his love of literature, being inspired to write by his admonitions, and, most
importantly, being prodded out of my teenage complacency to think. Mr. Henry would bellow, "You people have got to
learn to THINK." I know we frustrated him then. He probably never thought he got through to us on any of these
points, but I loved his class and still hear his voice reverberating in my ears after all these years.

Recently someone advised me that i should get rid of some of my books because I have so many of them as if they
were nothing but clutter. I was horrified to hear my precious tomes of literature reduced to nothing more than fodder
for the landfill. I may own alot of books, but the fact is, I do read them often. And after that I continue to peruse their
pages over and over again. They remind me to value the printed page, ideas, thought, a well told story, education and
art.

It is not so long ago that books were too expensive for most people to afford to have in their homes. Many of us might
be shocked to learn how few generations back we would have to travel to find someone in our family who was the first
person to learn to read or go to school. I see the recent political uprisings in the middle east and am grateful to live in
a country where I am not persecuted to say what I want,speak out against the government and own what books I
choose.

Years ago I was a volunteer tutor in an adult literacy program. I worked with adults who were trying to learn to read at
an age when many people would have given up. I learned first hand how hard life is for the person who cannot read at
a basic level of literacy. They can't fill out a job application, get or keep most jobs, can't read a menu at McDonald's,
read a newspaper or warning sign. The horizon for an adult non-reader is very limited in many ways.

What is really frightening to me is that we live in a nation where books and education are so easily available to the
general population and yet so unappreciated by so many. Those who can read and do not have no advantage over the
person who cannot read at all.

This is the Kind of Day I Am Having

I didn't pay the gas bill because the statement said it wasn't due until July 7. And this month is still June. I might be blonde, I might be a liberal arts major, I might be a youngest child, but I know the order of the months. May, June July. If last month was May, this month is June, then July isn't until next month. Duh. Even i know that. This means i don't have to pay the bill yet. I still have a few days before the due date.

Today the gas was turned off anyway.

I called the gas company. Furious, of course. Spitting mad, ready to take off the head of the next gas company employee I could get to after the 10 minutes of hold time and pressing a never ending series of prompts and more hold time and I'm sorry I didn't get a response press 1 for...Then FINALLY a person. A real live, breathing, eating, sleeping, presumably nap taking, working, live and very inquisitive actual person.

"Can I please verify your name? Thank you."
" Now can I please verify the address where the service is located?"
"And the address where we need to send the bills?"
"And the last 4 digits of your Social Security number?"
"What is your date of birth, please?"
"To update our records, can I please have your marital status?"
"Who is your employer?"
"And your mother's maiden name?"
"How about your blood type?"
"What about the city where you were born?"
"What did you have for lunch on May 8, 1987?"
"What is your most recent credit score?"
"How many times have you been incarcerated for a Class B felony?"
"What is your favorite television show?"
"Who do you think is going to win the next season of American Idol?"
"What is your favorite flavor of ice cream?"
"Okay, thank your for that information. Now how can I help you?"

Long story short, I explained to the Quiz Master that I wanted to know why my gas service was disconnected today when the two bills in my hand said my bill was not due until sometime next Christmas and I wasn't even given a 48 hour notice on my door like the guy across the street gets every other month to warn me the service was going to get turned off. This time she had answers instead of an endless litany of questions.

"Okay, so we sent you a bill in May for X amount of dollars. And then we sent you a 10 day notice on such and such a day for this amount telling you your service was subject to termination"

Nope. Didn't get them.

Immediately I knew she was lying because the two bills in my hand were for different amounts than she was quoting. And the dates were different. I argued. I protested. I demanded my service be turned back on immediately without further recrimination, penalties, deposit, or inconvenience.

The lady at the other end of the line declined. She kept going on and on about the bills for different amounts and different dates that were sent, or not sent, depending on which one of us you asked. She demanded immediate payment of all past due amounts, a $15 late fee , taxes, a phone processing fee, and a deposit equal to the amount of a large house before my service could be restored. Without meeting her demands I could not have hot water for my shower, or to wash dishes, or gas to run the furnace should a sudden cold snap arrive and require the use of the heater in the middle of June. She had me over a barrel. I was stuck, like a pig in a poke (whatever that means). Like Winnie the Pooh in a honey pot. Like a tire in the mud. Like white to rice. Like that sticky stuff to the back of tape. Like toilet paper to the bottom of your shoe at the most inconvenient and embarrassing moment.

Then I noticed a glitch to the scheme. The true reason for the problem was not even my fault. While examining the papers in front of me it became evidently clear that the US Post Office was to blame. The name and the address on the front of the envelope were different from most of the other mail that usually comes to my house.

Soooo...Apparently my neighbor Laura Livingston has another week or so to pay her gas bill, but mine was due at some earlier date. I think I'll wait until September to give her the bill put in my mailbox by mistake just as a little payback. Right now I get to go take a very cold shower. :(

You Mean I Have to Keep on Writing?

Sooo....Apparently with this blog thing you are supposed write and the reader is supposed to come back and read. Which obviously I haven't been doing so you couldn't. It's not like I haven't thought about writing or intended to write or waxed poetic in my mind brilliant pieces of prose late at night when I couldn't sleep. But apparently the words don't write themselves. My bad. I'll try to do better.

I have this writing book which claims that to be a writer you have to write every day. Every. Single. Day. Sometimes that just doesn't happen. Obviously. Some days I don't have anything brilliant to say or any deep thoughts the world might care about. There are days when my brain is occupied with nothing more than making sure the cats have food and water, getting dressed, taking a shower, riding my bike or watching Law and Order reruns on TNT for 8 hours straight. Does the world really need to know about this? Probably not.

There are of course other things to blog about. Some more important. Some not so important. I could write about the book I'm reading, but I'm only on page 8 and I can't remember the title right now. My super cute 11 year old niece and nephew just graduated from elementary school. How is this possible?!?!?! They were only babies yesterday. I could write about that. Or I could write about how I'm afraid of my washing machine because it seriously sounds like it's about to blow up every time I run the spin cycle. Or I could write deep thoughts about philosophy or art or God. That would require lots of thought and use of big words and today I'm feeling pretty lazy so maybe not.

I know people who blog. They post pictures of their artwork, family vacations, dogs, cats, friends, bucolic outdoor scenery. They write sometimes moving or funny or inspirational or poignant stories about their lives. Their blogs have beautiful layouts with cool fonts and colors. I'm lucky if I can upload a post without losing my piece. I have a digital camera. I suppose I could take pictures, but I have no idea how to get the pictures from my camera to the blog. Today I tried to change the font of the text and yet it still looks the same. Why is this? I can't even change the font? Are you kidding me? I am a college graduate. I should be able to do better than this.

Maybe someday I'll be able to write something witty and profound. Maybe someday I'll be able to write on a more consistent basis so my throngs of adoring fans clamoring for more prose won't have to wait so long.

Writing can be hard work. First, you have to think of something to say. Then, you actually have to write it. Sometimes you have to write over and over just to put the words together exactly the right way. Then, in my case, I have to upload the words to the blog without losing the text. That seems to be the hard part.

Sometimes there are mundane tasks or pets which interrupt my blogging. I made the cats go outside a little while ago because they were being too clingy and it was really driving me crazy. It took me a five whole minutes to get them both outside and then I slammed the door really fast so they wouldn't come back inside. Those animals really need to get out more.

The only reason I have been able to write these words is because they are outside and I am inside. Alone. With my computer. Otherwise, atleast one of them would be standing on my keyboard making the computer do bizarre things. Guaranteed. Now I can hear them crying and scratching at the door so I had better go let them in before I make them too mad. If they kill me, I can't write anymore blog posts.

This is going well.

I just spent the past two, count them, uno, dos...one, two hours (atleast) writing what I am sure would have been a sure fire preamble to my future Pulitzer Prize winning literary career only to have the whole thing somehow deleted when I went to preview it before posting.

Technology sucks. Except I am not supposed to use that word so now my sister will hassle me for saying the S word since that is apparently against the rules. So pretend I didn't really say that. Ahem, so, uh...Technology sometimes likes to replicate the performance of an Orbit vacuum cleaner on a bowling ball in the late night infomercials I see on TV when the insomnia kicks in and I am up all night and the good TV shows aren't.

Sometimes life just goes this way. Sometimes your whole life (ie, mine) goes this way for multiple decades in a row and won't change it's course no matter how many self-help books you read, day planners you purchase, alarm clocks you set, sessions of therapy your insurance won't cover, vision boards you collage with cut out photos from magazines or goals you "write down to make it happen" like the book says to do, or positive thinking you never quite seem to master.

Now you understand a bit of how I ended up like this.

Please pray I can atleast post this without losing it again. It's been one of those days. For the past twenty years. Or more.

A Word of Caution....

If you are related to me, you probably don't want to read any further as you may find what follows to be a poor reflection on the family. And if you are not related to me, I should first add the disclaimer that my relations should not be held responsible for whatever uncouth, uncivilized or ill behavior which may be represented in my posts. Afterall, it's not their fault I turned out this way.

My dad really did have the best of intentions. After my mother died when we were quite young, he was saddled with the task of raising three young daughters by himself. He had high hopes of us all. Dad wanted his daughters to be well-mannered, cultured, refined and otherwise civilized in all areas. He exposed us to any manner of the arts and culture. He provided us with fine mentors to teach us by the best example. We were required to take piano lessons, provided with library cards, hauled to every museum, symphony, ballet, theatre, opera and art gallery within 150 miles of our home. A college education was an expectation, not an option.

When other girls we allowed to go bare legged with their Sunday dresses, we were required to wear panty hose or tights. Dad always expected us to wear the appropriate undergarments for the occasion, which meant slips and camisoles were not an option, even in the 100 degree South Texas heat and humidity.

When we reached the age that young ladies like to try on make up, Dad did not want us going around looking like hookers as many of our peers might have done. He took us to the Merle Norman Cosmetics store and the Clinique counter at a high end department store to have someone with real expertise in these matters show us how to correctly apply our make up and tell us which colors and shades were most flattering. Then he shelled at atleast $100 for the complete line of skin care and make up. For weeks I had to read the manual that came with the set up to know which order to use the cleanser, toner, lotion, foundation, blush, eye shadow and mascara, etc.

You would think all of this effort towards my civilization and refinement could have been nothing but a banner success. And you would be wrong. I was having none of it. Well, atleast after I was able to get out of the house and a safe distance from home. I was indeed taught better. It just didn't stick.

To the horror of those around me, I am now known to regularly leave the house without make up or hair combed. On occasion, I have traveled to the grocery store or other public places in broad daylight in my pajamas (ie, bleach stained sweats) with no shame. My nail polish generally comes in hues such as blue, orange, purple or green and is often chipped. Much to the horror of certain siblings, I have a penchant for the odd yard sale or thrift store and proudly wear the ensembles I find there.

Compared to the guests on generally any episode of Jerry Springer, I am seemingly well behaved. However, compared to the former Junior League members in the family, my actions might resemble behaviors typically on display at the local WalMart.

And as for my general career path or pretty much any other adult rites of passage...Well, I'll get to that part later.

You have been warned. I take no responsibility for any dismay I may cause you from this point forward. Afterall...Admit it. I make your life look pretty good. If you don't believe me, stick around.