Rock of Faith

Although I know it to be an unrealistic pursuit, I am continually frustrated by not being able to connect with everyone on every level.  I even miss the mark with my soul friends on occasion.  I was lamenting such the other day when my wife Bobbi reminded me that that’s why it’s really special when you do actually connect.  Of course, she is right as usual and in my head, I hear my 15-year old son Danny saying “Holy Connections, Batman.”  Then there are those times when it goes so horribly wrong.

Individuals are so complex, multifaceted and ever changing.  What does that say about family dynamics?  Holy shit, Batman, it seems a miracle that we communicate at all, let alone connect on any higher level.  Think of how many violations are called in an NBA game.  Then think of how many are committed and go uncalled.  You may be familiar with the “make-up” call which is where the referee unofficially acknowledges a prior bad call, by giving the other team a gift call.  This should be referred to as affirmative whistling, ha!  My real point is that everything affects everything.  You can quote me on that one.  Nothing happens in this world that does not eventually have some direct or indirect effect on us.  Greg Lake says it well.  “Just take a pebble and cast it to the sea.  Then watch the ripples that unfold into me.”  So it is that sometimes these tiny waves don’t produce positive feelings.  This could be intentional or otherwise, but seems a shame when one’s intentions are misunderstood.

It is indeed a shame to argue about small things.  A la ripples, these small things are usually related to a whole bunch of other, sometimes bigger things.  The Animals song, Please Don’t Let Me Be Understood comes to mind. (I’m now hearing in my mind, my nephew Josh telling me that my whole life is a song).  I usually make mistakes by being either too honest (edit mode switched off) or by completely confusing my audience by developing my actual feelings as I speak.  The latter is extremely satisfying, but means maneuvering in the danger zone.  It’s is somewhat easier to edit my blog.  Occasionally I never get to a point, as was the case a few days ago.  My friend Sher was listening so intently to me and I’m thinking to myself, I have no idea what I’m talking about and finally admitted so.  At least she got a good laugh.

I believe, for the most part, I communicate my intentions regarding small things well.  I sometimes wish I had not said them, however.  I have been encouraged to be less honest about certain things in order to be a better person.  I have embraced this idea, but struggle with the implementation of it.  Because I have given some constructive criticism in the past, my boys know that when I tell them they’ve done well, that I am sincere.  There is obviously a delicate balance to find.  The ultimate truth, the one of how we really feel about one another, is the most important part of a relationship.  I’ve not always made this clear or said it enough to those I love.  Another song comes to mind.  Imagine that.  Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young’s Teach Your Children implores parents to teach their children well and for children to teach their parents well; ………and know they love you.  So it should be, whether it’s a teenager fighting with her father or a 53-yr old arguing with his mom.

I am eternally grateful for my ideal childhood, due in no small part to my mom’s consummate love and devotion.  Now that I am older I realize how special my relationship with my mom was and is.  Not every mother possesses the motherly instinct.  Mine has it in spades.  In fact, if they did such things in the non-sports world, she’d probably be tested for performance enhancing drugs for being too momly.  Momly is a clever adjective coined by my son Mike to describe his mom.  As a small child through early adulthood, I possessed the closest bond any boy ever had with his mama.  She will still tell you how extraordinary I was as a child, even though she now wonders aloud, what happened to me, ha!  She was my confidant.  She was my Rock of Faith!  As I grew older, I started to question her unwavering faith.  I challenged her on nearly every point, because in my mind, it just couldn’t be that simple.  You know how it works though, I can talk about my mom, but no one else can.  About the time I’d think she was really out there, she’d be exactly right about something.  She may not believe this, but as much as I have disagreed with her, I didn’t necessarily want her to change her mind about certain things.  Her faith in God and family has been my peace and, in strange way, has given me the freedom to think more critically.  Sometimes when I do have a different perspective about a topic, I believe my subconscious might be thinking “geez, I really hope Mom is right about that, because I don’t want to be.”

As I have alluded, relationships change for a multitude of reasons.  Different is not necessarily bad, it’s different.  However, more often than not in recent years, neither of us has practiced much patience.  Certainly my attempts at being a better person by leaving things unsaid have been lame.  Despite the uneasiness that presided during our visit to Arizona last Christmas, I was encouraged how she lit up when I asked about certain specifics of her childhood.  It was truly great to both hear the stories and to see how enthused she was to tell us.  We connected.  It has been postulated by my sister Dianne, that Mom and I don’t always see eye-to-eye because we are so much alike, specifically that we both have to have the last word(s).  So here they are……..

Know that I love you.  Thanks for being my Rock of Faith.  Have a great Mother’s Day!

The Treasure of San Pedro

J. Edgar S.

I suppose it is finally time to capture the infamous Mexican hunting trip in writing as I have related specifics to many over the years, especially the one event for which I shall forever be burdened.  Some memories are too vivid while others tend to be a bit fuzzy.

It was Christmas 1986 and I was staying with my folks in Sierra Vista, Arizona.  Art, Dianne and Josh were there and my best friend Paul also made the trip down from Tempe to spend a few days.  This may have been the Christmas that I gave Josh that huge blow-up Gumby.  I can still hear him swallowing his words as he said “Big Gumby” as soon as he came into the room.  I remember thinking then how children help keep the magic of Christmas alive for all of us.  It was perhaps a couple of days later that we embarked on our journey across the border into Sonora, Mexico.  I had made previous treks to Mexico to fish and hunt, so I knew the drill; apparently not as well as I should have.

Dad, Art, Paul and I piled into the 1981 GMC Vandura early in the morning and headed toward Naco, the nearest port of entry to Mexico.  Like duh, when did we ever go on any trip that didn’t start @ O’ Dark Thirty?  I always thought Naco was a funny name because Dad used to buy cheap gas there and well I assumed the quality was probably that which would cause the engine to knock.  Since Dad had both of his shotguns already registered in Mexico and we all had our proof of citizenship in hand, the entry process was uneventful.  Just the way we like it!  Often the process is expedited by tipping (nice word) members of the Mexican Army twenties.  The disparate affluence between the corrupt controlling army and the town’s common folk was frighteningly evident then and I am sure much worse today.  Dad recounted that on one particular trip, how he saw a desperately poor little girl, dirty and wearing rags for clothes, have the biggest smile on her face as she was enjoying a Coca Cola.  It all depends on your perspective. 

Re-entry, on the other hand, has not always been so smooth.   I have been a part of three episodes in Nogales which were nonstandard.   There were two separate incidents involving a Volkswagen Beetle; the other due to a minor miscommunication by my eccentric Aunt Jenny.  It was probably 1967 when my family drove our Bug across the border to see a bullfight.  The bullfight was a pathetic display of inhumane torture which was particularly traumatic for my sister and me.  On the way back across the border, we were behind an ice truck which evidently was using the clutch and gas pedal instead of brakes.  Just before making it across the border, the truck backed into the front of our tiny car.  The calculated risk of not buying insurance was unfortunately realized.   Then in about 1979, I was in Nogales with some crazy friends, Louie and his cousins Gilbert and Michael.  Gilbert was insistent on trying to bring back a case of tequila.  I can’t remember whether the limit was 2 quarts or 2 fifths, but obviously a case was more than you could legally take back across the border.  We put it under the back seat of the beetle next to the battery.  Someone, perhaps the seller, must have contacted the border guards.  I was rightfully afraid as I’d recently seen the movie Midnight Express.  They did nothing but take away the booze, an expensive lesson for Dr. G.  In retrospect I should have walked across without the other three (And I thought the hunting trip incident was embarrassingly stupid).  Sometime in between these two incidents was when we walked back across the border and the officials, as is practice, asked if we were U.S. citizens.  Aunt Jenny who apparently didn’t grasp the seriousness of the correct answer replied to the question by saying “I think.”  Dad finally got that one straightened out and it is now a funny story.

This particular day was not about traversing borders, however, but perhaps about discovering new things about ourselves and others.  To calibrate, our version of duck hunting is a bit different than the norm.  First of all, we don’t sit behind a blind nor do we use decoys or calls and the biggest challenge is not having four-legged retrievers.  There is also the fact that we only had two guns for all of us to use.  This was not thought to be a major issue though because Paul stopped just short of declaring himself a pacifist and was only along for the ride.  As always, Dad was focused on everyone else having a good time, so he didn’t figure to shoot much either.   Both shotguns were Remington’s, an almost brand new one at the time (model 1187) and a much older 3-shot autoloader. 

Paul H.

After crossing the border and heading south for a couple of miles, our route took us back west by northwest such that we were very close to the US border as the crow flies.  Primitive roads and the San Pedro River crossing in our battle tested van led us to a rugged expanse of private ranches, owners of which were friendly to the likes of American hunters.  Paul amused himself by reciting infamous lines from the Treasure of Sierra Madre; “Badges?  We don’t need no stinking badges!” as we weaved our way in and around hills and canyons.  Our MO was to get just close enough to one of several cattle tanks such that we could see with binoculars whether there were ducks on the pond.  If there were, we’d use our stealthy skills (Oh geez, pretty sure I was wearing red sweat pants. Really?) to get as close as possible before they took to the air. If we were successful in hitting any, it was preferable that they didn’t land in the water.  Otherwise, the rod and reel with a huge lure was our best shot at retrieving the bird(s).  There were also a few spots that Dad suggested we approach on foot without being able to see and be prepared to shoot as the ducks scattered.  Art and I snuck up on a small body of water covered with bushes and trees.  I landed my first shot at a Mallard in flight and we were able to retrieve it on the other side of the water.  I can still see Art shaking his head as if to say “that lucky shit did it again”.  Art is without question a much better outdoorsman than I, but for whatever reason I’ve had a penchant for stealing his thunder on occasion.

As you might imagine, traveling on a ranch or between properties, requires negotiating a number of gates.  The unwritten rule of any rural area is “leave the gate the way you found it”.  Being a farm boy himself, my dad strictly adhered to such rules.  Literally my job was the gate keeper and I had figuratively been down this road before.  The fencing and the associated gates were as primitive as the lands they parsed.  Not one was constructed, nor latched like another.  I struggled with nearly every gate.  Closing the gate exactly the way I found it was particularly frustrating and then I would be critiqued on my performance when I got back in the van.  In looking back, it was rather like Harry Potter trying to solve a new riddle for each test he went through in the Goblet of fire.  It was funny, but I was also determined to be more efficient in carrying out my duties.  I felt the respect of private property was warranted, but also started to wonder about the rhyme or reason to what I perceived as less than classic use of knots and hitches.   

Quail were also on the menu and Dad spotted either some Gamble or Bobwhite running in and out of the sides of the canyon road we were on.  Paul got out with Dad and Art and somehow Dad convinced Paul to carry a gun.  Paul and Art chased the covey up the canyon.   I can’t remember if they got anything, just that Paul came back with a crazed look in his eye and it was clear that he wasn’t giving up any more turns.  I just wondered if we would have enough ammunition for the day.  I envisioned him like Kwai Chang Caine, with a bit of blood in the crease of his mouth, saying that he was a priest and then kicking everybody’s butt.  I swear my dad tried to take the gun away from him so we could continue down the road and he pulled it back to his chest with a very tight grip.  So Paul was in all the way now.

As I mentioned, Dad had been teasing me about how long it would take me to close the gates.  As we pulled through one particular gate, I was as determined as ever to quickly and accurately close and latch it exactly as it had been found.  I pulled the gate shut dragging the flimsy wood and barbed barrier to the hitching post.  I quickly retied the knot such that the gate was taught.  I almost thought to myself “that wasn’t half bad”.  Then I looked up.  Oh Shit!  I had latched myself on the wrong side of the gate.  I could feel the heat of my embarrassment prickle the hairs on the back of my neck as I gave the van a quick glance.  It was bouncing as if the van itself were laughing. It might as well have been.  Oh man!  Perhaps because I didn’t want to feel the laughing eyes from the van as I unlatched the gate, I tried to squeeze between the post and gate.  As I did so, I caught my leg on barbed wire and was left with about 4 inches of ripped pants and flesh.  The literal scratch was not that deep, but the emotional scar lingers today.  You’ve heard of adding insult to injury, well I did the opposite, injury to insult.  I sheepishly climbed back into the van and my dad said “you’re not my son” as the other two, especially Paul broke into uncontrollable laughter.

I don’t really remember what I said after that but do recall eventually laughing at myself.  What else could you do?  I’ve used this story as an example to my employees and my kids.  You’ve got to keep your eye on the big picture and not get buried in the weeds.  I also point out that locking yourself on the other side of the gate could have much greater negative consequences.

We did rock the van at least one more time as all three passengers sat in the back and jumped up and down so we could get enough traction to make it to the top of one hill. We stopped at the crest and looked though the binoculars.  Dad says “I believe that is a goose!”  “I just might crawl on my belly for a few yards for a goose”.  There were also several ducks on the pond.  Art and I went far to one side of the pond where there was a spillway.  We crawled for several yards with our weapons riding on only our arms, being careful not to get them in the mud.  As we peered over the edge of the tank, to our dismay there were no birds of any kind.  Somehow they had left without us seeing them.  I guess we weren’t that good at stalking our prey.  It must have been the smell of dumbass that chased them away.  Disappointed, we started walking back from the dam, skipping a bit to avoid muddy areas.  Art suddenly lost his balance and fell into the mire.  He and the new shotgun were completely covered in mud.  It looked as if he might have hurt himself, but his primary concern was the condition of Dad’s new gun.  I felt terrible for him being cold and embarrassed.  On return to the house, he painstakingly took every piece of the gun apart and cleaned it.

I’m sure Art remembers our trip fondly despite the swan (goose) dive into the mud.  He can always think of me on the other side of the gate.  I know Dad also remembers the trip with a smile and a chuckle.  I miss you Paul.  I can still see you with that crazed look of a blood thirsty hunter and then how you laughed your ass off at me and teased me mercilessly by telling the story to our friends.  The Treasure of San Pedro is our memory of a great adventure.   

Partners in Crime

For a few years now, I have resisted the pleas of others to join facebook.  I just recently did so at the request of my friend Mark, who suggested that if I wanted him to know that I had a new post to my blog, that facebook would be the perfect method of communication.  Little did I know that my sister Dianne had loads of photos to which I could now be tagged.  I also started looking for old photos already on my hard drive that I could post.  I ran across one of my favorites, one of me with three of my buddies at Dianne’s and husband Arthur’s wedding reception.  Of course many comments followed on facebook which rekindled the memories and antics of that momentous evening.

I was truly honored to be an usher and frankly did most all of the ushering as Art’s three brothers were more than willing to let me earn my spot in the rotation.  Dianne and Art had tried to have a dual or combined ceremony where both Catholic and Protestant clergy would preside.  It is my recollection that our long-time pastor declined to participate so Dianne agreed to be married in the Catholic tradition.  While she did not convert to Catholicism, she did commit to rearing her children that way and I must say they’ve turned out awesome. 

At the time, the Catholic thing was kind of big for our family.  Despite my protestant perspective that grace cannot be earned versus the Catholic tenants of faith and good works, the long-term impact upon our family dynamics could not be more benign.  I was thrilled that Dianne and Art chose each other and am still proud of how well they have made things work.  As I recently wished them congratulations on their 28^th anniversary, they are our inspiration.

If I remember correctly, I only made one potentially disrespectful move (in the church that is).  Prior to anyone else being in the church, I asked my cousin Tim to take a picture of me with my arm around the Virgin Mary.  Tim thought better of being connected to my immature stunt so he refused to do so.  His judgment would get far worse as the night progressed however.

They were married on December 17^th, 1983 and had both graduated from Arizona State the prior day.  Joshua David would be born nine months later.  The pair also experienced the typical whirlwind of activities as family and friends had come from across the country to help them celebrate.  I also had come home from Dallas and was excited to be part of the experience as well as seeing my family and friends.  Dianne and Art were kind enough to invite my friends Paul H., Mike B. and Paul G., a move they are probably still questioning.  In speaking with Art recently, I’m pretty sure he wasn’t in on the Paul G. thing:).

After the wedding, the reception was held at the Holiday Inn.  I had no mischievous intentions whatsoever until Mike B. kept bugging me to find out where they were spending the night so that we could do something fun (for us I guess, mean to them).  Mike was next to youngest of eight brothers and sisters and had lots of wedding prank experience he was more than willing to unleash on our innocent newest of newlyweds.  The rest of us, including a surprisingly party ready Tim, were feeling pretty good or at least on the way there, so we put our/Mike’s plan into action.

It was not a stretch to assume that the couple was staying at the Holiday Inn.  It only took a ten spot to buy off the bell hop and he obliged us by even letting us into their room.  Apparently the last trick Mike had been a part of entailed tearing the bed down and putting it in the shower.  Okay, well that’s exactly what we did.  Then we, mostly me I think, drank the bottle of champagne intended for the couple.  I left something like a five or ten dollar bill, like that would have bought a replacement bottle.  Dianne still claims this was the worst thing I did.  We all signed our names as though we were proud of our handiwork.  However, I am pretty sure by this time that the Paul(s) were working on just being able to stand upright.  I probably had their delegation authority. 

We joined the party back at Art’s folks’ place as the couple opened gifts.  Only two things stand out during that time as we were hyper-focused on when the bride and groom would return to their presumed refuge.  One is that I remember Art’s brother (Martin I believe) serving me a White Russian, perhaps an omen.  I don’t drink those any more, I prefer Swedish vodka:).  The other memory was a lowlight for Paul G.  As I was most recently reminded of by Dianne, the spirits Paul had imbibed earlier were exorcised onto the hosts’ lawn.  So Paul H. checked him backed into the rehab facility (his parent’s house a few blocks away). 

We raced back to the hotel without the Paul(s) to watch the couple go to their honeymoon suite.  They got to their room as we peered from behind a nearby bush.  It was a short stay.  Minutes later a hotel manager came.  We stayed long enough to see them move to another room.  After a few minutes, we had Tim, who had probably not participated much up until now, knock on their door and wish them congratulations.  It was our thought that having Tim be the one to represent us was a way of shielding ourselves from any wrath.  No 

one could get mad at Tim.

I wasn’t done with the mischief.  I stayed at their house while they were on honeymoon.  A lot of uncooked pasta was distributed.  I believe this was spearheaded by my mama who actually taught me about putting spaghetti in the sheets as well as short-sheeting the beds.  I was most proud of the pasta I strategically placed on top of the ceiling fans.  They didn’t receive that surprise until summer.

Bobbi and I were on the receiving end of the pasta and other funny things in 1991.  Dianne’s and Art’s retribution was substantial.  Although Paul and the gang tried to find out where we were staying, I learned from others’ mistakes.  We did find cat food and pasta in our ice cubes and wine glasses well into the next year following our wedding.  Then there was my 40^th birthday surprise which Dianne trumpets as one of her biggest achievements.  She might be the master, but I was first:).

Happy Anniversary Art and Dianne!













P.S. Dianne found the original note.  Unbelievable not that she had it, but that she found it.  Clearly PVG was not present during the act and Joyce R. was.  How could I forget her?  I think we danced until the next day and I can't even dance.

TDML (A Tribute to my Aunt Mary)

From the archives; written about 4 years ago.

In our family, the acronym TDML refers to Trip Down Memory Lane.  I believe Dianne coined this term once as we mercilessly teased our parents for reminiscing fondly of times gone by.  Of course they loved returning the favor when catching us doing the same.  When recently compiling a slide show for my Dad, I experienced deep feelings of reflection that I can not fully describe.  Some of the pictures which I’d never really seen or paid attention seemed to come to life.  In particular, seeing my folks and relatives as they were in their youth, struck me in a numinous way.  A way in which says loudly that we belong to each other and always have.

My soul is imprinted with the best memories of my Aunt Mary.  It was years before I realized that not everyone had an AuntMary (one word).  There was absolutely nothing as exciting as going to Aunt Mary’s.  Are we there yet?  Of course, Aunt Mary meant all of the Smiths as she was the definitive matriarch.  She was beautiful in every sense of the word.  Not a bigger heart ever.  Boy did I ever feel special around her.  She even made Bobbi feel special the few times they were together.  You’ve made the grade when you get your own pie.

My sister and I both feel that we have had close to ideal childhood experiences in which our Aunt Mary played a major role.  These experiences are a part of our very being.  I believe that Mary even through her struggles with Dementia and Alzheimer’s could somehow see into the windows of her soul and know that she was blessed.

I have not lived close to my extended family for more than half of my life.  I did not experience the harsh reality of seeing Aunt Mary decline in health over the last few years of her life, so it may be easier for me to remember her as she was.  She was beautiful.  Thank God for my Aunt Mary and her family.  We belong to each other and always have.

God Bless

Hambledon Hill (Mental Medication)

Was I high on Hambledon Hill or was it the oxycodone I was taking to avoid further disruption to my ailing back?  No doubt both were at play, but the moments spent with my youngest son Trey in the morning, and later that day three weeks ago with my friends at Six Flags over Texas seemed timeless. 

It was Raytheon Day at Six Flags which meant that employees, friends and family had the run of the park at a discounted price.  Although she is not a Raytheon employee, I had ironically been alerted to the event by my friend Sher which not only suggests my lack of attention to such things, but the complete absence of effective communication within my own company.  Regardless, it seemed a great idea and I planned to take the whole family only to find out later that Mike and Danny both had conflicts.  What a surprise.  Trey had recently missed an orchestra Six Flags event due to a conflict, so I promised him that he and I would attend.  Bobbi graciously volunteered for basketball fundraiser duty.

It was a beautiful fall day with a chill in the air reminiscent of my early childhood in Indiana.  We were up early as Trey had texted me from his upstairs bedroom by 6:00 a.m. wanting to know when we would be leaving.  I was determined to have a good time, but dubious about how my back would hold up to the obvious perils of riding roller coasters.  Mr. Freeze loomed large on the horizon.  By the time we got to Arlington, it was 10:00 and I felt the need to prepare myself in the event of a mid-ride muscle spasm, so I took an oxycodone I’d saved from a previous need.  By the time Trey and I had ridden our first roller coaster, I was ready for the day come hell or high water.

We rode one ride after another, including the Superman Tower of Power and the aforementioned Mr. Freeze roller coaster which was Trey’s favorite.  The thrill of any ride could not have surpassed the one of watching Trey thoroughly enjoy himself.  To make things even more fun for him, he ran into a couple of his buddies.  I took this opportunity to relax while he and his friends tried to set the world’s record for riding the Texas Giant and Titan roller coasters.

By this time, I was ever so content to sit on a bench and let the sunshine warm my soul.  I seemed to drift in and out of consciousness and started to hum a familiar, but forgotten tune in my mind.  Although I knew it was by Gordon Haskell and I had a sense of some of the lyrics, I could not remember the title of the song.  Without doubt the scene that the song creates, including the brisk but sunny morning, was how I felt.  I was at peace.  For the rest of the day and frequently since, I have been thinking about, and listening to Hambledon Hill.

The lyrics are obviously unique to the artist, but a few lines are eerily close to my own feelings that day.  Suffice it to say, the subconscious is a powerful thing.

Hambledon Hill Lyrics

Gordon Haskell

We walked in the sun on a Saturday morning
You and the baby on Hambledon Hill
And the passing of time was your friend for the asking
And all you were asking was the passing of time

And the whole of my world stood so wonderfully still
And I knew I was tumbling head over heel
And all in the space of a Saturday morning
High on Hambledon Hill

All I remember was not really knowing
Where we were going on Hambledon Hill
The pain you had gone through, the dream you held onto
No longer mattered on Hambledon Hill

And the whole of my world stood so wonderfully still
And I knew I was tumbling head over heel
And all in the space of a Saturday morning
High on Hambledon Hill

It all hangs in my head
All of the heaven on Hambledon Hill
It all hangs in my head
All of the heaven on Hambledon Hill

And if you should need me one Saturday morning
I will be walking on Hambledon Hill
I'll turn every stone there for what I have known there
For it all lies buried on Hambledon Hill

And all the king's horses and all the king's men
Couldn't put us together again
And all the king's horses and all the king's men
Couldn't put us together again

And all in the space of a Saturday morning
High on Hambledon Hill

It all hangs in my head
All of the heaven on Hambledon Hill
It all hangs in my head
All of the heaven on Hambledon Hill
It all hangs in my head
All of the heaven on Hambledon Hill
It all hangs in my head
All of the heaven on Hambledon Hill

     

The phone rang.  Stop dreaming Dave.  It was Sher calling to say that she and her family had arrived as we had planned to meet them and others sometime during the day.  Trey is off trying for the world’s record, so I tell her that we’ll have to see them later.  Remarkably, I am not at all feeling any internal pressure to be accommodating, because I somehow sense things will happen naturally and they did. 

Trey sends me a text that he and his friends are riding the train to the Batman area.  As I make my way there, I walk up behind Sher, her husband Mark, Steven a workmate of Sher’s and his wife Beth.  Much like Trey, Mark and Sher’s daughter Heather had gone to spend time with her boyfriend.  I had just earlier met Beth, but it was the first time to meet Mark even though I felt as though I already knew him through Sher’s many anecdotes.  The greetings went well as they waited with me to catch Trey.  I kidded that I would lose that “Dad of the Year” award that I’d just earned if I lost him.  Beth took it to heart and became my lookout for the rest of the day.  While we waited on Trey, Sher coerced a “coaster averse” Mark into riding Batman.  Beth spotted Trey, so I told him to wait until he met my friend before he left again.  Shortly thereafter, Steven spotted Mark and Sher coming off the ride and joked that my friend’s husband might not be in a condition to meet anyone.  As it were, he seemed no worse for the ride.  Unfortunately, this was not to be a harbinger for further coaster events.  I let Trey run off again with his buddies and I became a willing 5^th wheel for the afternoon.

Again, just like the song lyrics, one of the things I liked best about the afternoon was not knowing or really caring where we were going or what we did.  I was just along for the ride so to speak.  I did suggest that the ride formerly known as Tony Hawk’s Big Spin had been pretty easy on my back earlier in the day and that Mark would probably be okay.  After a short wait during which Steven and I agreed to disagree about appropriate disciplinary actions for kids (another indication that I was chillin’) we embarked on our roller coaster ride.  Boy did I have a short memory.  Of course a ride with the words “Big Spin” in its title should have been our first clue.  Within seconds I was wishing aloud that I’d taken another pill and Mark was verbally regretting his choice to trust my judgment.  All the while, Sher was laughing so hard at us, that she was crying.

Sher and I were the only ones interested in the next ride, a pendulum-like carriage that eventually goes full circle, turning you upside down.  Trey and I had also ridden that one earlier in the day.  After we’d been locked down for safety, it became clear that Sher was being pressed too tightly to the seat.  After we complained, the attendant actually asked if we wanted her to reset it.  Duh, YES.  After what Sher later referred to as her free mammogram, I think she had an enjoyable ride.

Heather finally responded to her dad’s persistent texting as she and her boyfriend Christian joined the group.  It was great to finally meet Heather, a very cute girl whom I also felt familiar because of her mama’s stories.  From my perspective she quietly accepted more than her share of grief regarding an award winning bridge built from spaghetti.  Apparently Steven was under the impression that she received too much help from her father.  Oddly enough, this was the most awkward I felt the entire day and it really had nothing to do with me.  To spare her any further angst, her mother adeptly and thankfully suggested the topic be dropped.

We all headed towards the big roller coasters which included the newly reconstructed Texas Giant.  Seeing as though the last time I had ridden this thing had been at least fifteen years ago and it hurt me then, I decided discretion the better part of valor and stayed with Mark as the others rode.  As luck would have it, Trey and his buddies also showed up and rode the same coasters.  Mark and I rested and talked shop while occasionally bonding with a moment of shared conservative political views.  Meanwhile, the others concluded their day of coaster riding at various times.  Unfortunately Beth became somewhat ill and Sher would suffer from vertigo for a few days. 

Of course Trey was the last one standing and we all waited on him to finish his last ride on the Texas Giant as the park closed.  As the shadows drew near, I was glad to be wearing my fleece vest and I again recollected the many times during the day that I felt the sun shine upon me.  I felt warm inside. 

There have been many times that I have had feelings that were directly connected to both music and lyrics.  Seldom have they resulted in the feeling where the whole of my world stood so wonderfully still.  Another song, one which actually describes this process is Mental Medication by the late seventies progressive rock band U.K.  A brief snippet of the lyrics follow.

Mental medication
Sweet music's conversation
Play for all creation here

Melody fair.
Lost in contemplation
Drowned in meditation
Need your inspiration near.

I’m sure my physical medication was a factor for my mood, but on this timeless Saturday, Hambledon Hill, sunshine, great kinship and friendship were my mental medication.

I Believe in Father Christmas

A familiar ring each holiday season, especially in the Sinclair household, is Greg Lake’s I Believe in Father Christmas.  It is one of the most played Christmas songs since its release in 1975.  It was written by Greg Lake with Peter Sinfield who was a long-time collaborator with Greg in King Crimson and ELP.  For years, the song was only available as a single and difficult to locate at best.  In High School, I remember staying up late to watch the ABC Midnight Special so that I might see the video only to fall asleep just as it began.  With the advent of the compact disc and the internet, it is now available in multiple versions including hundreds, if not more, covers by other artists.  WARNING to all, although I generally like U2, Father Christmas was not meant for Bono. 

I love the tune and the video, but was always conflicted about the lyrics.  It was my impression that they were anti-Christian in nature.  Other Lake and Sinfield lyrics tended to be harsh and iconoclastic so this lent even more credence to my belief.  More recently, Lake has indicated that this was not his intent and that the song was more about a return to child-like idealism as well as a statement against the over-commercialism of Christmas.

The most perplexing line of the song for me was “They sold me a dream of Christmas; they sold me a silent night.  They told me a fairy story; ‘till I believed in the Israelite”.  Calling it a fairy story bothered me because I thought that meant it wasn’t true, and I thought that was absurd seeing as the guy is singing about believing in Santa Claus whom I’m sure was a fairy tale.  Sorry Mom:).

Even though there are historical and practical aspects of the Bible, I’ve long held the belief that the most important parts are lyrical, poetic and metaphorical in nature.  After all, by the time they had reached 3^rd grade, my own children wanted to know why the Bible doesn’t say anything about dinosaurs.  I’ve made the statement many times that I do not believe that the Bible is the literal word of God, but of inspired men trying their best to explain something beyond their comprehension.  It still is the Greatest Story Ever Told and the keystone of Tolkien’s and Lewis’ concept of True Myth.  Just because it may not have naturally occurred in our space and time, does not mean it doesn’t represent something naturally true.

I believe there are other works of art and literature that are similarly inspired that are relevant spiritual themes including Lewis and Tolkien fantasies such as The Lord of the Rings and The Chronicles of Narnia.  Some folks scoff at Harry Potter and Star Wars as being Christian corollaries.  I’m not sure, but as long as there are people trying to make connections, I think it is a worthwhile debate.

I am surely not a linguist, but it seems to me that words are symbols that allow us to understand and communicate both mundane information as well as being artistic components for intimating personal feelings and expressing greater than thou reality.  The best of the Bible is not mundane.  To quote Chris Rock (okay now I’ve really discredited myself), “I don’t think my diet will be called into question on judgment day.”

More word fun includes consideration of the multiple translations of the original scriptures included and excluded from the canon.  When describing greater than thou reality, you really need all of the words you can get.  English has but one word for love.  Greek has four.  Agape means unconditional love, or higher love of God.  Eros means I want you (now:)).  Philos means brotherly love or affection as in friendship.  Storge means affection for offspring or similar.  Obviously translations from Hebrew and Greek into English don’t always convey the intended feeling.

Mainstream Christians also needed a bit of Greek influence to help us attempt to describe the nature of God.  The Trinity is probably befuddling to many, but not unlike the multiple definitions of love in the previous paragraph.  I believe the Trinity arose from inspired thought, perhaps imperfect, yet a true characterization of God as The Father, Christ the Son and the Holy Spirit.

Oh yes, back to God and Santa.  Don’t anyone go Church Lady on me now (Santa not Satan).  According to P.J. O’Rourke, God is a republican and Santa is a democrat.  God holds you accountable for your actions and Santa brings you what you want regardless of whether you deserve it.  It’s kind of funny despite the over generalizations.  However, I’ll bet that P.J. himself would even go for the ideal Christmas if he knew he wasn’t paying for it.

I’m not suggesting that the myth of Father Christmas is as core to our being as our religious ideology, but there is no question that the spirit of Santa Claus is also a true representation of our Christmas experience.  Just ask Mom.

 

I wish you a hopeful Christmas

I wish you a brave New Year

All anguish pain and sadness

Leave your heart and let your road be clear

Greg Lake & Pete Sinfield

Happy 15^th Birthday Danny!