Remembering Mom on a Rainy Day

It’s the 6^th day of March and I’m feeling as gray as the sky outside my window. I’m sitting in my office and it’s hard to keep pretending like this is any other day. Especially with the rain tapping on the glass pane. Tapping and tapping a refrain of dreariness that won’t let me forget that my mother died two years ago today. One year ago, I gathered with my family at the columbarium where my mother’s ashes are resting in a nook that has her name engraved on its covering. We took comfort in the company of each other on that day, acknowledging that this was not an ordinary day. Ashes to ashes is the cycle of this temporal existence. And so, as all things pass, so too must this day. This day will pass. This day will die and take its gloominess with it. I welcome the birth of tomorrow, because it will not be remarkable in any way. The sun may rise to more gray skies, but it will rise.  I will let myself mourn the loss of my mother today. But tomorrow I will do what Mom would have done. I will show up. Mom showed up for every single day she had on this earth. She squeezed every bit of happiness she could out of each minute she was granted. She would want nothing less for any of us.

Today I miss my Mom’s voice, her hugs, and her relentless nature. I can feel the energy she left in her wake carrying me into the dawn that is the life ahead of me. I remain the beneficiary of her relentless nature that never allows me give up or lose hope. Tomorrow I will remember that I can still hear her words inside my head. I still know her voice and what she would be telling me. She would say, “It’s a new day out, go and enjoy it.”

Guns and Children

I knew where Dad kept the pistol. I was seven years old. His old reporter’s desk in the basement had some secrets. You know those old desks where the typewriter was hidden upside-down under a flip-up top. Simply fold back the top and as it disappeared down the back of the desk, a typewriter emerged from the front. It was like magic. The desk also had a secret writing tablet made of sturdy wood that could be pulled out to have your notes ready to type up the latest news story. Dad used to pull out that tablet so I could sit on it and watch him type. The desk had another secret. If you pulled one of the drawers way out, there was a hidden compartment at the very back. I knew what was kept in that compartment. It was a Smith and Wesson .22 caliber pistol. A revolver. It wasn’t ever loaded that I know of, but I would often take my grade school friends down to the basement and show it to them.

We were not gun people. My father never hunted or showed any interest in shooting a gun. He was a photographer, so he shot cameras. However, just like most families I knew in our growing southern town, we had a .22 rifle that hung over the mantle. We also had and old musket that was broken beyond repair. They were mostly conversation pieces. The .22 rifle was from the year we moved to Signal Mountain, Tennessee and lived like hillbillies. I was only one year old, so I have no memory of this period. But the rifle served as a reminder for the rest of the family of their carefree days of shooting soda bottles off a fence post. It sounded wholesome and healthy. A fun family activity. A way to bond in a manly sort of way that I missed out on.

I knew another secret. In the German beer stein, also on the mantle was one .22 caliber bullet. I knew it was for the rifle. One bullet in case my father ever had to defend his family. That’s all he seemed to need. And I admit, it made me feel more secure knowing that my father had that small little arsenal. Fortunately, it never occurred to me that the same bullet might also fit in the pistol. I certainly had a few friends who would have wanted to try it out had we known. There are photos that my brothers and I staged. There is the one where at age ten or so, I am pretending to play an organ with my brothers as bandmates around me. The pistol was prominently placed on the top of the organ. We were tough rockers with guns. One of my brothers loved to make films with his Super 8 camera. In one scene, Eleven-year-old me is wielding the pistol, aiming at my brother and some other kids recruited to be in the film. I fake fire the gun. They fall to the ground. The camera zooms in for close-ups of the vampire blood carnage I had just reaped.

When I was twelve, we moved to a large lake in a mostly rural part of the county. This is when I met “gun families.” All family members had multiple guns. They had large glass gun cases full of rifles, shotguns, and artillery. I was fascinated. To them, it was normal. I learned about dove season, deer stands, and duck blinds. Some friends regularly hunted squirrels and ate them. These were good people. They were some of the best neighbors you could have. They gardened and shared their bounty. They pitched in when a pier or deck needed repair. None of these avid gun owners had an automatic or semi-automatic weapon. They had tons of guns, but felt no need to own military assault rifles. I believe that they would have found the idea of hunting with an assault rifle ridiculous. They actually wanted the animal to have some sporting chance. I loved these neighbors. I spent countless hours hanging around at their homes watching TV, lounging around, playing pool and basketball, swimming, and water skiing. Never once did anyone suggest that we get out a gun and go shooting. They were not enamored with their guns. The guns were just tools for a sport, like a golf club or tennis racquet.

I’m writing this, because it seems like something changed since my growing-up-years. One bullet won’t cut it for gun enthusiasts. In fact, it seems that they only feel safe while surrounded by military size stockpiles of ammo. Gun lovers today laugh at .22 caliber guns. Hunting with shotguns or rifles are not good enough. Apparently, they are not able to protect their families with those civilian style guns. They must have military style assault weapons. They seem to only find security by having the capability to kill dozens of people in less than a minute. So, what has changed? Are burglars and rapists now storming households by the dozens?  Do we expect that our own military is going to raid and pillage our homes? I’m really trying to understand. And I’m sorry, but I need a better answer than it’s my right.

I believe that the change started with Columbine. After the massacre at Columbine high school, there was a loud outcry for gun control. And certainly, it made sense to question our gun laws after a tragedy like that. Unfortunately, this scared the people who had made a nice living manufacturing and selling guns. They could see that this circumstance could take us down a road that could make it more difficult for them to continue turning the kind of profits that they had become accustomed to. So, they developed a strategy that has been wildly successful. They told people that the government was going to come for their guns. It would be like the fascist governments we had witnessed across Europe and Russia. They would take our guns and impose authoritarian rule. They raised a lot of money this way. They used that money to back politicians who would then feel beholden to them. They were so effective that as the blood baths grew worse and worse, it only made people fear losing their guns more. So, they bought more powerful weapons. They pictured themselves in stand-offs with government agents.

Our government did its part by playing into those fears. The pro-gun lobby used the 1993 raid on the Branch Davidians commune to fortify their arguments. And I will say that what our federal agencies did in that case was a travesty. And it became fodder for the storyline that the gun industry was pitching. This campaign was so successful that even the horrific events at Sandy Hook elementary did not lead to meaningful dialogue, let alone action. Kindergartners and teachers were slaughtered and yet nothing was done. Thoughts and prayers are made of nothingness when seen through the eyes of a parent who senselessly loses a child.

What happens now as we have witnessed yet another lunatic on a rampage with a legally attained AR-15 assault rifle? 17 dead people. 17 funerals. On one hand I am heartened by the brave and outspoken survivors who are pledging “Never Again.” On the other hand, I am sickened by the profiteers of the gun lobby digging in with the same old excuses and arguments. I am angry that these talking heads and politicians are attacking the kids who survived this horror. They are calling their stories fake and saying that they are paid actors. They might as well be holocaust deniers. I can only conclude that these people have lost touch with their souls. That their hearts are made of stone. And that their god is the almighty dollar.

They worship the dollar as our children die. They kneel before the towering banks praying that the voices of our children will be silenced.

But I have a good feeling about these kids. They have their priorities straight. They have passionate hearts. They have beautifully compassionate souls. And I will do everything in my power to make sure that they are never silenced.

Never Again. 

I Met Her in a Bar

“How did the two of you meet?” asked the social worker. She was conducting a home study that would determine if we were fit to adopt a child from China. My wife and I exchanged nervous glances. We had not done a mock interview like a politician prepares for a debate. We had not thought to anticipate what types of questions might be asked. We could have answered this question two different ways. However, as we looked at each other, our anxious faces melted into a shared smile. It was clear that we each knew what the other was thinking. Simultaneously, we answered, “We met at a bar.” It was one of those magic moments when two people in love know each other so well that a quick glance communicates volumes.  The social worker judgmentally clucked her teeth and clicked her pen a couple of times. Then she said flatly, “I’ll say you met at a social club.”

Since our mutual friend, James, had been at the bar with me and had made the introduction, we could have just said that we met through a friend. According to a recent study conducted by Stanford University most people meet through a friend. In 1989, the year we met, forty percent of couples met this way. Twenty percent met at a bar.

I have been telling the story about how we answered the social worker to people for over ten years now. I have wondered to myself about why my wife and I answered the way we did. It was a slightly risky answer given that this person had the authority to deny us the ability to adopt our daughter. I think that maybe because meeting at the bar marked the point where our two separate paths met. It was from that place that we began to walk the same road together. And what a glorious trip we had been on since meeting in that smoke-filled, crowded, and noisy tavern. By the time we were required to sit down with this adoption official, we had fallen in love.  Together, we had hiked mountains, swam in the ocean, and picked wild blackberries. We had given birth to a baby girl. Our daughter had joined us on our path and the three of us had become a family. Together, we had read stories, taken bike rides, and played in gentle streams.  Fine. The social worker can say that we met at a social club, but we know that we met at a bar. And it was a beautiful thing.

Love in a Tavern

A sonnet of sorts by LeGette 

Dream of a diamond in the depths of a cavern

Waiting to be discovered, polished, adorned.

Love may be biding in a back-alley tavern

Still yet to be uncovered, recovered, or born.

Blackberries will always be found in graveyard fields.

We believe rivers will remain easy to cross.

Knowing ever ripe sweetness our vineyard will yield

Stones in our path will be softly covered in moss.

 

And yet diamonds are still forming now as we speak

And blackberry season returns year after year.

Just as the ocean is filled by stream and by creek

From a tap in a tavern, love is flowing like beer.

Abandon not the cavern, keep crossing the stream

Find love in a tavern, more real than a dream.

With the help of Jamie Hoover, this sonnet is now also a song. Here it is: Blackberries!