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All I Want For Christmas

This one kinda hit me this morning so I thought I’d better jump on it and see what I can build. I think I’ve done something similar in the past, but tbh I’m not interested in checking, and besides, even if I did, I’m fairly confident this’ll be different enough that there won’t be a bunch of overlap. Even if there is some, everybody likes reruns now and again, right?

Yes, I totally glossed over the fact that I haven’t put anything up here in a good long while. I’ve also conveniently tuned out any voices that may or may not have been harping at me to do something here (I’m looking in your general direction now Ray) but I have, in fact been typing, occasionally furiously, on something else and managed to add several thousand words to it over the last few months. So there’s that.

But now, onward!

With the holiday approaching, whichever one you may celebrate, I felt like this would be a good time to share my thoughts on giving. B2 and I were talking about Christmas the other day, specifically about gift giving. And as I laid out my thoughts, a sometimes opaque process, I’ll grant you that, she saw where I was headed and agreed with me completely. I’d like to share those thoughts with you all (all 7 of you faithful readers) here in case anyone feels moved to appropriate the idea.

I have a pretty good life, by any measure. I have a nice home (due in no small part to the presence of B2 but that’s a story for another time), I have a nice car, I have more clothes than I need and a surprising number of shoes, especially if you’ll recall my comments from a much earlier post about how living with Diane and Caitlin was like living with Imelda Marcos. And if you’re too young to remember Imelda Marcos, I suggest you take a second and GTS “Imelda Marcos and shoes” and this will become crystal clear to you. I guess what I’m trying to say here is that I have gotten to the point in my life where I don’t really need anything and if I decide I want something, I go and buy it for myself. This is not to say I’m a Rockefeller (again, too young? GTS the name) by any means, merely that, by and large, life has been pretty darn kind to me. I mean, when my time to shuffle off this mortal coil comes, my kids are not going to become independently wealthy. This should not be breaking news to any of them btw, and if it is, well I guess they’re not quite as bright as I’d given them credit for being. I mean I’m not going to leave them nothing, they’ll surely be able to enjoy a lovely plate of nachos or some similar, tasty, small plate on my largesse.

Bon appétit you guys!

As I was saying…

Typically, my tendency to buy for myself is not a problem for anyone concerned. However I recognize the stress this can put on my loved ones, particularly around this time of year, well, you feel me, right? So I told B2 instead of spending money on each other, with the exception of surcee type things, stocking stuffers if you will, we should instead look for someone or something in the community that can use a hand up around this time of year. I also reached out to my kids and suggested instead of getting me something their money would be better spent making a contribution to the non-profit of their choice. I made the same request to half of B2‘s kids too. Haven’t had the chance to tell her other one yet, but that’ll be taken care of soon. When her son asked me last week what was on my list, I explained my thoughts. His first comment was confirming Ryan did a run for one and when I told him yes, he said that was where they’d make their donation.

That, my friends, is the essence of what I’d like my Christmas to be. Taking care of those less fortunate. I’m a little embarrassed it’s taken me this long in my life to realize the things that are truly important, but there’s no time like the present to go about doing the right thing, you know? I read an aphorism a while back, that, while I’m certain isn’t new, was the first time I read it and it kind of struck a chord with me. It said –

“The best time to plant a tree is 20 years ago. The second best time is today.”

Man, that was a throat punch to my sense of self satisfaction. It really helped to form this whole thought process too. I should’ve planted this tree some time ago. But I didn’t. So I’m planting it today. And I’m grateful B2 jumped right on it too. Just another of the many reasons I’m fortunate to have found her.

I guess that’s about all I’m trying to get across here today. I hope it helps inspire someone else with a little extra this year to give to those in need. If you’ve been doing this already, good on you, I’m proud to know you. If you’re not at the point in your life where you can do this, I totally get it. File this little gem away for when that time comes for you.

Remember the tree.

And, of course…

Peace

PS- Geez I really haven’t done one of these in a long damn time. I thought I’d try and add something to these posts, infrequent though they may be. I’m almost always at a coffeehouse when I fire off one of these potential Pulitzer nominees and probably equally as often I’ve got something bouncing between my ears at a reasonable decibel level *ahem* and I thought, for the sake of idk what, I’d include the particular artist in the post. So for the inaugural edition, today’s musical guest has been Turnpike Troubadours. It’s been a pretty enjoyable ride too, I must say. Their selection was triggered by a post I saw a couple days ago that their frontman got himself sober and the band is going back out on the road. This is great news for them, of course and on many levels, but for anyone that has ever seen them live it’s a pretty damn good day. They are a rollicking good time live, I assure you and I’m looking forward to them hitting this part of the country.

Ok, that’s all I’ve got for ya. Be well, happy holidays and all that stuff!

Peace

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Time Does What It Does

Marches on, that is. Monday marked the 12th birthday for the Reigning Princess. I still remember when the Quiet Child told me she was expecting, shortly after Diane died. I have never been more certain of the gender of a baby than I was that day. I knew, with 100% confidence, that this baby would be a girl. What I didn’t know, was that she would combine the best traits of her Grandmother, Aunt, and Mother. She has the vivacious personality of Diane and Caitlin, and the Quiet Child’s natural beauty. She grabbed my heart and wrapped it firmly around her tiny fingers from the very first moment I saw her and has never loosened that hold. Whether she’s sending me a random “Hi Papa, I love you, I miss you!” text or, when she sees me in person and launches herself into my arms for a ginormous hug from as far away as she can possibly leap and still stick the landing, she’s got a constrictor-like grip.

As it should be.

Without question, the most difficult part of my decision to move 800 miles away from the cold-ass environs (the week started with 4frickin5 degrees here. On May 20th and 21st. WTF? btw W in this case stands for weather) of northern Illinois, was the knowledge I’d see less of my favorite small humans than I had been accustomed to. Of course I see less of my favorite larger humans too, but that’s a different thing altogether.

I consider myself pretty fortunate to be able to be a part of so much that’s happened with the family littles this spring, from Heir To The Throne’s last baseball games, to the Former Beatle Baby’s first ever baseball game, with the Reigning Princess’s games sprinkled into the mix. From the Little Diamond’s first ever dance recital (a 3 year-old in a tutu, is there really anything on the planet more adorbs than that?) to HTTT’s high school graduation. Oh, just to complete the sweep, I got to try out the Boy Genius’ virtual reality rig while I’ve been back. That was pretty incredible. It also made me feel like a dinosaur as I thought back to the first ever “computer” we had back in the day. And I use the quotation marks, because while it was technically a computer, as compared to today, it really wasn’t. Oh, here’s a thing. Last night Went to the Spring Sports Awards Night at the Heir To The Throne’s school. He got a medal as the leading Run Producer (Runs Scored plus RBI’s) so that was cool. My favorite part of the evening came after, as the Oldest One and I were chatting with the family of HTTT’s pitcher. These two have played ball together for 12 years, and almost from Day 1 the were pitcher and catcher. As we chatted there in the almost empty auditorium, we found out both boys had made the All-Conference baseball team. It was an incredibly cool moment and showed the amount of respect they had earned from the other coaches in the conference, since coaches made up the voting body.

So, yeah, it has been a pretty cool (Ha! See what I did there?) spring here in northern Illinois.

Oh, here’s a random side note. You wanna know how you know when you’ve found a great coffeehouse? When you bring in your (teetering on the brink of a mini meltdown) three year-old granddaughter immediately post hair-braid-tie-thingy (I’m pretty sure that’s not what they’re actually called, but you know what I mean) malfunction and one of the baristas not only has a spare hair-braid-tie-thingy but also rebraids the part of the three year-olds braid that unraveled due to said malfunction. AND gives her extra bunny cookies. Yup, that place is a keeper. As much as I enjoyed the place I used to frequent when I lived here, this coffeehouse is now, solidly, my go-to place when I’m back in Illinois.

Getting back to the theme I had intended with this; I’m down to less than two weeks before I head back to central North Carolina. I know there have been a bunch of people I haven’t seen on this trip, that I had intended to. So, if you’re on that list, I apologize. However, I should have a wee bit more disposable time for the remainder of my stay, so I’m hopeful I can still see many of the people I had planned on seeing. Fingers crossed, right?

Peace

PS- Sixteen years ago tonight our world turned upside down. And I’m learning we’re still dealing with the waves as they ripple through the years. No profound message, no heart rending pleas, and I’m not looking for thoughts, prayers, or sympathy. Just thinking back on sixteen years.

Again, Peace

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In Between Shows

That’s probably not the most clever or original thing I’ve ever titled one of these, but it’s been quite some time since I’ve been here and, frankly, I’m stagnating a little on my side project and I thought I might get the creative juices flowing if I knocked out one of these. Obviously they haven’t started yet…

So, as the title implies, I went to a concert last night, Patty Griffin at Saxapahaw (not a typo) and I’ve got Gary Clark Jr. tomorrow night in Durham. Both concerts are my first time seeing the artists and if last night was any indication, I’ve got a pretty good week here. Patty Griffin was amazing, she has the one of the most beautiful voices on the planet and it was a really nice night.

The evening is also notable for a few other things too. I discovered that I apparently have a deep-seated aversion to standing in line. Note I didn’t say I was opposed to waiting. There’s a difference. Somehow. The doors opened at 7:00, a pretty typical time for that venue. In my previous visits there I was resigned to parking in a field a short walk (between a quarter and a half mile) from the Ballroom. This is not a huge deal in and of itself, but it can get complicated by things like rain (picture the scene in My Cousin Vinny where the Cadillac gets stuck in the mud) or people that are unclear on the concept of parking with no lines painted on the ground to guide them and you get an idea of my frustration. So, to solve this, I determined to arrive an hour before the doors open. There are two restaurants on site, so I figured I’d get a bite to eat while I waited for the doors.

Ha.

I pulled into the main lot to find it filled already. I did however, heed the advice of some folks I’d met at the last show I saw there and quickly found a spot in a parking lot a half block away, yay me! As I walked up to the door of the first restaurant, I saw a line of people, stretching from the counter where orders are placed, to the back of the joint. Undeterred, I walked to the next place only to find an even longer wait. I chose to pass, again. So rather than taking my place in line like a rational person, I chose to walk down along the Haw River, which borders the property. It’s really a pretty area, and I enjoyed myself thoroughly, hunger be damned. As the time approached for the doors to open, I headed back up that way. A line had already formed, so I chose to take a seat on one of the park benches lining the area. It’s General Admission and I’m not one to fight a crowd in front of the stage, so I was fine with my choice. But as I sat there, people watching, it occurred to me that I seemed to be going out of my way to avoid lines, even though had I waited I could’ve had a lovely meal and gotten a reasonable place in line. It also occurred to me that I was fine with my choice, but I have to admit, it got me thinking. Of course, I didn’t come up with any answers, so…

After I got inside and wandered about for a bit, since the show was still 45 minutes-ish away from starting, I made a trip in to the men’s room. Now, if you’re of the gender that doesn’t necessarily visit the men’s room, let me explain to you that there is kind of an unwritten protocol for these things. As in – Keep the conversation to a minimum. If at all possible, leave a one urinal buffer space between yourself and your co-urinators. Don’t make eye contact while taking care of business, under any circumstances (with the possible exception of a major medical emergency) (Maybe). So, as I entered, the middle of three urinals was available. Stepping up to the plate, as it were, the fellow on my left departed, opening a spot. It was quickly taken. And as I, uhhh, finished up, I swear to god I heard the guy next to me say, very softly, “come onnnn.” Now, keeping in mind the rules, I fought the urge to look at him, but peripherally, I’m pretty confident he was looking down at the source of his concern. I’m also fairly confident in assuming his frustration was based on either a shy bladder or a temperamental prostate. I’m one hundred percent certain I didn’t care enough to ask him. Other than joking around with friends (bathroom humor, get it!?!?) that is the first time I’ve experienced something like that. I’m all about sharing here, so I thought you’d appreciate my little insight. And, no, that’s not a euphemism.

A short time later as I was again milling about pre-show, I heard my name being called. This, as you may imagine, does not happen often in this part of the world. I turned to see one of my favorite baristas from my coffeehouse. We exchanged pleasantries briefly, but didn’t run into each other again after that. This was her first show there, I’m curious to see what she thought. So that was nice.

Lastly, as I was heading home, just getting into my town, I saw the outline of someone walking along the shoulder of the road. It was about 11:30 by this time, so while unusual, it probably isn’t terribly uncommon. The thing that struck me though, came about as I moved over into the oncoming lane (Walkers, yes; cars, no. Not at this time of night) to give him (or her, but I’m pretty sure it was a him) room I noticed the walker was wearing a cape. My first thought was superhero but I quickly flushed (see what I did there?) that idea, cause really, why would a superhero be walking? My second thoughts streamed (get it?) towards that it was a bold fashion move. Are capes even in style now? Is this cape season? Who wears a cape? I decided to let it go before my mind turned into a Seinfeld episode.

But if anyone has any answers for me, as always, I’ll be happy to entertain them.

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Musicalitious

For starters, I’m pretty sure that’s not a word. It is however an apt description for my upcoming weekend. I’m off to Athens, Georgia to see two shows as part of the Drive By Truckers annual HeAthens Homecoming. I’m stoked. I’ve also got an extra ticket for the shows on Friday night and Saturday night, if you can make it, let me know.

If you know me IRL you may already know I tend to over purchase because the eternal optimist in me tends to buy more than one ticket to concerts. I may have even written about it here before. I’ve gotten better about that since I moved down here, not having ready access to multiple concert-loving friends has helped. #LillyNO will be in the capable hands of my next door neighbor for the weekend, so other than a relatively short commute (I mean, in the last year I’ve driven to Memphis, Nashville, and Chattanooga for concerts, so Athens, GA is like going across town) I have an excellent weekend on my horizon.

And, before that my favorite sister is coming to visit for a couple days. I’m kidding about the “favorite” part. Mostly. I mean, she does read this stuff, so that counts for something, amirite? My other sister (and/or my brother) might read it though, so I’d better add the disclaimer that I, of course, have no favorite siblings. I won’t even mention the fact that only one of them has come to central North Carolina for a visit. Twice.

Moving right along…

I’ve truly been fortunate since I left the old DGFD as far as sampling tasty live music, and I plan on riding this wave as long as I can, you know?

I’m jumping back to the if you know me IRL part here. I was chatting with one of my neighbors yesterday and she dropped the phrase “functional procrastinator” during our conversation. I immediately told her I was stealing that line, since it applies almost perfectly to me. And I’m mentioning that because the first four paragraphs of this were written last week before I left for the concerts in Athens. I started it at the coffeehouse Tuesday, the day the Cheesehead members of my family were due to arrive. And promptly sat on it until today. Functional procrastination.

This is not a new phenomenon for me. I first became aware of my tendencies to put things off until the last minute in high school. Specifically the last part of my junior year. I started that year taking an Electronics course at the local vocational school. I soon learned Electronics were not my forte. Not by a long shot. I figuratively crashed and burned, but I’m pretty confident had I stayed in the class for the second semester that would have turned literal. At least the burn part. So I dropped the half-day class at the vocational center and instead filled my day with English classes, since they were plentiful then. One of the classes was, oddly enough, Creative Writing. Now my details may be a tad off since I went to high school a million years ago, but, as I recall, it was a half-semester class. The other half may have been Speech, but that’s not particularly germane to where I’m going here. What is relevant is that back then, progress reports were sent home at the six week mark, to let your parents know what a slacker you were. My teacher informed me on a Friday that if I didn’t turn in roughly 20 pages (hand written) worth of assignments on the following Monday, I’d be receiving one of those gems in the mail. So that weekend I cranked out the required page count. And got about four hours of sleep. I did really well though, my grades were all in the 90’s. Except for Haiku and Iambic Pentameter; two things I couldn’t wrap my 16 year old brain around. I took zeros on both.

Now, one would think that a lesson was learned here, right? Do the work as it’s required instead of working like a dope all weekend long and things will go much smoother. Not me. As the end of the grading period rapidly approached, my exasperated teacher once again advised me if I didn’t get my assignments (15 pages or so) in “on Monday” I would likely fail the class. Can I just add here that Mr. Perry was the absolute shit? I loved that guy. Anyway, I again wrote my ass off all weekend, and again scored in the 90’s on everything I turned in.

There are likely several other examples I could relate here, but I think I’ll hold off on them for now…

Peace

PS- because, well, you know… The concerts KICKED ASS! Jesus it was a good weekend! Met some cool people; a firefighter from north Alabama, a couple from outside Nashville and a guy that works at the public library in the Deeg, of all places. Small world, no? I went to an annual charity event the band helps out with on Saturday, to benefit Nuci’s Space and in a total fanboy move, took a selfie with Patterson Hood of the Truckers. That’s out of character for me, btw. But I told a friend I’d relay her greeting to Patterson and figured I’d get photographic proof of said encounter. He was very gracious, I must say, for having an elderly boob approach him as he was chatting with someone and ask for a picture.

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An Open Letter to the Ricketts Family

I’m 60 years old. I’ve been a Cubs fan, literally, for as long as I can remember. My earliest recollections are from after school. I was young, certainly not more than 10 years old, standing in front of the television, doing my best impersonation of Pat Pieper, the old Public Address announcer at Wrigley Field, as he told the crowd who the next batter would be and I followed my version of the introductions with a live-action reenactment of each swing; Kessinger, Beckert, Williams, Banks, Santo, and on down the line-up. Looking back, I’m sure my Mom would have thought her young son had lost his mind. Except for the fact that I learned my love of the Cubs from both Mom and Dad. She probably thought my actions were perfectly logical.

There’s just something about baseball, you know? I mean I love the Bears, and I’ve been a big fan of the Bulls and the Blackhawks since back in the 1970’s too. But it’s different with baseball. There’s just something about the game that endears it to me. Far better writers than I, have waxed poetic about baseball’s romanticism, the soul of baseball, for generations. I’m not going to try here.

I lived and died with the 1969 team, never believing, (I was too young to grasp things like mathematical elimination then, so I truly held on, like a condemned man picking at every scrap of his last meal) until the last day of the season that the Cubs were not, in fact, going to the World Series.

That was most likely the first time I said “wait till next year” a phrase which had become synonymous with the Cubs long ago.

It wasn’t the last time, not by a long shot.

I celebrated when Tribune Company bought the team back in the 1980’s. Surely their financial resources would bring success to the team, I thought. And there was promise, brought by Dallas Green and Jim Frey and Don Zimmer and some really good teams they assembled and coached back then. I remember vividly, the joy of watching the Cubs clinch a playoff spot after Rick Sutcliffe’s gem in Pittsburgh. This, I thought, this is what it feels like! This is wonderful! And then, the NLCS against the Padres brought me back to earth. Wait till next year! From that magical season to 2008 the Cubs made the postseason six times in total, a number that pales in comparison to successful franchises. As a Cubs fan, it was the most successful run of my lifetime. Or my parents lifetime.

And then, in 2009, the Ricketts Family bought the Cubs.

Everything was seashells and balloons as family frontman Tom took to the airwaves and described how he came to love the team and how much it meant to him to bring a winner to the north side of Chicago. And I was all in.

Sure I heard and read things about the family’s political leanings which, except for Laura Ricketts, are polar opposite from mine. I was able to remove them from my fandom. This was baseball after all. It was different. Somehow.

I couldn’t believe it when Theo and Jed came on board, followed by Joe Maddon. As I watched the core of the team grow into actual bona fide stars, I felt the same feelings I had back in 69 and 84 and most other years the Cubs made the postseason. But all the previous years had firmly embedded in me a feeling of impending doom. And despite my best efforts, 2016 did nothing to dispel them. That was a wonderful team, powering through the first half of the season like no Cubs team I’d seen. And then, they brought in Aroldis Chapman. The same season he served his 30 game suspension from MLB for domestic abuse.

And I chose to look the other way. And I have to admit, I felt a little dirty for my fandom.

That fall, in what may well be the greatest sports-related moment of my life, the Cubs, my Cubs, won the World Series. I got goosebumps just writing that. Over two years removed from the event.

Last night I read about the emails written by Joe Ricketts as revealed by Splinter and I feel like the camel’s back may have finally met the last straw. Here’s the deal; I wish the family would release the funds to sign Bryce Harper, Manny Machado, and as many other free agent as needed to increase the odds of this team winning as many World Series’ as possible. However, I am willing to (grudgingly) concede that the family has every right to make as much money as the cash cow at Clark and Addison will deliver. You guys want to buy whatever part of Wrigleyville you don’t own already, that’s cool. If dumping generational wealth on someone not named Ricketts gets in the way of your doing those things, so be it. As the old saying goes; it’s your bat and your ball, you get to make the rules.

But I don’t have to like those rules. Truth be told, I haven’t been to a game in years. It’s not like the family will miss all the revenue I generated for them. But at least I’ll no longer feel the need to take a shower after I watch a game. It’s actually gotten to the point where I don’t know if I can tune in to a game without thinking about the hate-filled rhetoric a majority of the family embraces. That, friends, is a gut punch to my baseball sensibilities.

Hate is a strong word. I really try hard not to use it. But I hate the fact that I feel like I have to make this choice.

The more I think about this, the more I wonder what sap made a Faustian bargain to bring the Cubs a title, only to have fans endure X number of years of bile flowing from the mouths, and computers, of the family in charge. I’ll say this much for the White Sox, Chairman Reinsdorf may well support every statement ever made by Joe, Pete, or Todd Ricketts. But I don’t know because he keeps his opinions to himself, best I can tell. There’s something be said for that.

Peace.

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Veterans Day

If you know me In Real Life, you probably know that I’m not good with statistics.  My mind typically doesn’t process and/or relay that manner of information very efficiently.  Due to my understanding of how my brain works, I almost never speak or write about facts and figures.  It’s far easier for me to relate things from my emotional center than from my logic-driven center.  I’m going to break from that today.  I’m also going to rely heavily on cutting and pasting because I want to get these numbers, facts, and related information correct.  The reason for that is due to another rare occurrence around here; I’m posting on a serious topic.  Today is Veterans Day (the actual day, though it is being observed tomorrow) and in my humble opinion, as well as the opinion of many, many others, the way our veterans are treated is an abomination.  Like, how can many of our elected officials, past and present, look in the mirror knowing they’ve asked these men and women to sacrifice everything, often for not a goddamn thing?

So here’s a batch of facts from Green Doors dot org –

  • The number of homeless female veterans is on the rise: in 2006, there were 150 homeless female veterans of the Iraq and Afghanistan wars; in 2011, there were 1,700. That same year, 18% of homeless veterans assisted by the VA were women. Comparison studies conducted by HUD show that female veterans are two to three times more likely to be homeless than any other group in the US adult population.
  • Veterans between the ages of 18 and 30 are twice as likely as adults in the general population to be homeless, and the risk of homelessness increases significantly among young veterans who are poor.
  • Roughly 56% of all homeless veterans are African-American or Hispanic, despite only accounting for 12.8% and 15.4% of the U.S. population respectively.
  • About 53% of individual homeless veterans have disabilities, compared with 41%of homeless non-veteran individuals.
  • Half suffer from mental illness; two-thirds suffer from substance abuse problems; and many from dual diagnosis (which is defined as a person struggling with both mental illness and a substance abuse problem).
  • Homeless veterans tend to experience homelessness longer than their non-veteran peers: Veterans spend an average of nearly six years homeless, compared to four years reported among non-veterans.

Now, granted these numbers are from 2011, but I assure you this situation has not improved.  Here’s some more current info from a site called Military Wallet dot com  –

  • 89% received an honorable discharge.
  • 67% served 3 years or more.
  • 47% are Vietnam veterans
  • 15% served before Vietnam
  • 5.5% are Iraq and Afghanistan veterans.

You may also be aware that veteran suicide rates are significantly higher than those of the general population.  Again, that’s troubling, and points to a greater need for care than we’ve been providing.  This, from Military Times dot com notes some of the rates, including recent changes –

In 2016, the most recent data available, the suicide rate for veterans was 1.5 times greater than for Americans who never served in the military. About 20 veterans a day across the country take their own lives, and veterans accounted for 14 percent of all adult suicide deaths in the U.S. in 2016, even though only 8 percent of the country’s population has served in the military.

I probably shouldn’t have read these stats at the coffeehouse, because it almost brought tears to my eyes.  This information is ridiculously easy to look up.  But nothing seems to change.  I’ve got a theory or two about the root cause, but I’m not going to politicize an issue like this one.  I promise you I don’t have any answers, other than reaching out to your elected officials and screaming at them to act like a human being and take care of these veterans.  Actually the screaming part is probably not a good idea.  But the reaching out to them part is.  So clicking on this link will take you to USA dot GOV and a page that will refer you to your legislators in both the House and the Senate.  I’m trying to make this as easy as I can for all of us to do something.

Lastly, if talking to a wall is not something you’re prepared to do, I’ve included some links to non-profit organizations that specialize in veteran specific issues.  I encourage you to vet them as carefully as you like, I just took a cursory glance, and if none of these strikes your fancy, it’s just as easy to find organizations charged with caring for veterans as it is to find veteran-specific statistics.

And if you choose to both tell a politician to do the right thing and also assist a vets group, good on you.

Give An Hour  works to match military and veterans struggling with mental health and well-being with volunteer health professionals that can help them recover. The nonprofit has provided 210,000 hours of service with over 858 active volunteers and 390 partner organizations.

Midwest Shelter for Homeless Veterans  is a non-profit agency that provides housing, supportive services and community outreach to help homeless and at-risk veterans and their families achieve self-sufficiency.

Fisher House Foundation  builds comfort homes where military & veterans families can stay free of charge, while a loved one is in the hospital.

Semper Fi Fund  serves all branches of the military, Semper Fi Fund provides emergency financial assistance to post 9/11 vets who are wounded, critically ill, or were injured during their service. The nonprofit also provides support for vets and their families to provide a smooth transition back into their communities.

Our homeless population should be a point of shame for every elected official in the country.  Period.  End of statement.  Now add in the fact that so many of them are also veterans.

We need to fix this.

Peace

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May 24, 2003

It’s been a terribly long time since I sat down at the keyboard to hammer one of these out.  No reason to it, really, I just haven’t.  But I do have plenty to say and a trip back home to get down here.  I’ve got that swirling around my head, so I do expect to get it up here fairly soon, like, tomorrow-ish.

But first things being what they are and today being what it is, I decided I’d rather do this first.

Fifteen years ago today Caitlin died.

Technically that’s not accurate, since we made the decision to donate her organs, her body remained hooked up to the equipment that kept her blood circulating and oxygenated until the 25th when the “harvest team” came to get whatever organs were viable for transplant.  I’ve always hated that term in this application btw.  Harvest.  I suppose it’s accurate, but so completely dehumanizing to someone who you love.

At any rate, today, I felt like putting up another excerpt from that weekend, now fifteen years later.

When we were finally led in to Caitlin’s room in the NICU, around 3:00 AM Friday morning, we could hardly believe our eyes.  It, almost literally, took our breath away.

As we walked into her room in the NICU, the first glimpse of Caitlin took my breath away.  That image is one of the things from this time that is indelibly burned into my brain.  She looked so tiny in the huge bed.  Her arms were bundled up in huge rolls of gauze and she was propped up by pillows under both arms and both legs.  Her face was bruised, swollen and distorted.  She had tubes and wires everywhere.  She was on a ventilator.  She had a broken femur in her left leg and a broken tibia in her right leg.  She had a broken humerus in her left arm and a broken ulna in her right arm.  She had a fractured pelvis.  A lacerated liver, a ruptured spleen and contusions on her heart, lungs, and brain.  Even though she hadn’t regained consciousness since the crash, they had her in a medically induced coma because they were already concerned about the bruising on her brain.  The doctors were concerned that the swelling of her brain, left unchecked, would increase pressure on her brain and reduce blood flow to, and oxygen supply for, her brain.  The brain is surrounded by cerebrospinal fluid.  Among other things, it acts as a cushion for the brain so if, for example, you hit your head against something, your brain won’t smash against the inside of your skull causing even more damage.  Typically, at rest, the pressure in your brain is measured in the low teens.  Caitlin’s intracranial pressure (ICP) was already in the low 20’s and, despite the best efforts of the doctors, it showed no signs of slowing down.

Diane sobbed as we walked up to Caitlin’s bedside.  The nurse was speaking to us, explaining everything we were looking at, but I don’t think either of us heard a word she said.  

It was hardly the first time I’d seen something like this.  In my job, it’s not unusual to be on the scene of a crash like the one Caitlin was in, a crash that results in multi-system trauma.  It’s also not uncommon to be passing through the Emergency Department and see someone with the types of injuries Caitlin sustained.  The problem came in, for me, because very early in my career I learned to de-personalize the things I saw.  I learned how potentially easy it was to assign the personality traits or the physical characteristics of a family member to many of the emergency situations I would encounter.  And how unsettling it would be to me unless I removed every bit of emotion from what I needed to do.  So that’s what I always did.  Not this time though.  This, this was so different from anything I’d ever known.  I couldn’t possibly de-personalize this.  Not that I ever wanted to.  I mean, for crying out loud, this was Caitlin lying there, broken and bruised.  This hurt like nothing I’d ever known before.  And I know it was a hundred times worse for Diane.  A thousand times worse.  

How could it not be?  I think the bond between mother and child is probably the strongest human connection.  At least in most cases.  And the bond between Diane and her girls was always strong.  Sure they had their differences, who doesn’t?  But they genuinely enjoyed the company of each other in any number of different settings.  True, most that I’ve mentioned revolved around shopping, but to leave it at that is an oversimplification and it does a great disservice to them.  

She was a beautiful, vibrant, young woman turned into a shattered shell of herself.  Her face was swollen and bruised.  Her body was propped up by pillows everywhere.  Soon we learned what her injuries were; broken bones in both arms and both legs, a fractured pelvis, lacerated liver, and bruises on her heart, lungs, and brain.  She had chest tubes in both lungs.  She was on a ventilator.  And, even though she never regained consciousness since the crash, she was in a medically induced coma.  The Trauma Surgeon told us they were concerned about the swelling on her brain and they felt that by keeping her in a deeper coma, they might reduce the risk of more swelling.  With good reason.  Every time the nurses checked Caitlin’s vital signs, indications were that her Intracranial Pressure (ICP) was rising.  Typically, for an adult at rest, ICP is between 7-15 mm Hg.  By the time doctors inserted a monitor through Caitlin’s forehead to continuously measure her ICP, it was already in the high 20’s, still with no indication it would decrease.  As we watched that monitor over the course of Friday and on into Saturday it continued to climb, dangerously high.  Although at the time, we didn’t understand how dangerously.  

As family started to gather in Caitlin’s hospital room, we started trying to anticipate the changes we would need to make.  She’ll need some time to recuperate, we thought.  We can turn the dining room into a temporary recovery room for her so she doesn’t need to worry about the stairs, we told ourselves.  

Cassi had been in St. Louis with one of her sorority sisters.  She flew in to O’Hare and Diane’s sister-in-law went to the airport to pick her up and bring her to the hospital on Friday morning.  We spent all day Friday in Caitlin’s room or in the waiting room shuttling family back and forth so they could see Caitlin and be with Diane.  I don’t think Diane or Cassi left Caitlin’s side for more than a minute or two the whole weekend.  I did most of the shuttling.

I had called off work at about 6:00 Friday morning, once everyone was awake.  Around 7:30, one of the guys that worked the day before me at the firehouse, Skip, brought by coffee and bagels for Diane and me.  He said he didn’t want to stay, knew we had a lot on our minds; he just wanted to drop off some breakfast for us. The first of I-can’t-tell-you-how-many kind gestures we would receive in the days ahead.

By late morning on into early afternoon, the nurses told us they were concerned that Caitlin’s intracranial pressure was still not decreasing.  Every time they checked her vital signs, the ICP was up a little.  So they ushered us out of Caitlin’s room and the doctor came in.  He took a measuring device, I don’t know what it’s called, and inserted it, through Caitlin’s skull, right in the middle of her forehead.  Through this device, they were able to continuously measure Caitlin’s ICP.  We watched the monitor nonstop.  And prayed the same way.  Prayed for the number to drop.  

It never did.  

OK, it fluctuated a little bit.  

Up ten points; down five.  

Up four points; down six.  

Up two points; up two more.  The end result was that every hour it was a little higher than it had been the hour before.  

I’m a huge football fan.  I love the Chicago Bears and I’ve been a fan since I was a little boy.  Walter Payton, Sweetness, was one of my favorite players, a Hall of Famer, one of the all-time greats.  Diane and I actually had the opportunity to meet Walter before he passed away.  We went to his restaurant in Aurora one night with my brother and sister-in-law and Walter was there greeting people as they came in.  We shook his hand and Diane was joking with him about his handshake, until he started to squeeze her hand.  We all had a good laugh about that.  When I think now about the number 34, I don’t think about Walter Payton’s jersey number.  I think about how 34 was as low as Caitlin’s ICP got that night.  It soared up over 100 and stayed there for prolonged periods of time.  

Diane and I talked about the boys, Ryan and Maun, in Iraq.  We decided it was time to let them know what had happened.  I opened up my wallet and took out the little slip of paper with the 800 number for the Red Cross.  “Just for emergencies” Ryan had told me.  This qualified.  The lady I spoke with offered us her prayers and said she’d do everything she could to get the boys home as quickly as possible.  

Hug the ones you love, often.  Tell the ones you love that you love them, often.  And please, not just this holiday weekend, but every day, don’t drive if you’ve been drinking.

Peace

 

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Things Left Unspoken

I mentioned here a while back that I wanted to post excerpts of what I’ve written to this point on Caitlin and Diane, and my life without them.  I like the idea of, as I wrote then, “semi-regularly” posting excerpts from what I have done so far.

Today, I’ve decided, is semi-regular, so here’s the next one.  It’s not immediately after the last post I shared from my notes, it takes place about two months after we moved in to Wonder Lake.  In fact, it’s my recollection of some of the events from the night of the crash.

Obviously, it’s an emotional piece, for me at least.  And this post will be a little longer than my usual.  Typically, I try to keep these around 1,000 words and this one will be closer to 2,000 words.

As we move through this holiday weekend, take some time to let your loved ones know how much they mean to you.  That sounds clichéd, I know, but I feel like something that simple really does tend to get overlooked.  I wish I had something really profound to add to that, but instead, I give you this…

The phone rang and Diane answered.  It was Caitlin.  She was done shopping.  She found an outfit she was happy with and called to tell her Mother about it.  Since this was the first time Caitlin had gone to Woodfield Mall since we moved, she wasn’t sure how to get home from there.  Diane tried to tell her which roads to take and where to turn, but after a few minutes Caitlin told her she would just go the way she always went.  It would take longer but at least she would, more or less, know where she was.  Diane was tired.  She had worked that day and I had been off.  I told her to go in and go to bed and I would wait up for Caitlin.  This wasn’t all that uncommon.  She’d had to get up early that morning, at 5:00 AM, to get ready for work and I had nothing going on the next day so it didn’t matter if I slept in a little.  Diane went to bed around 9:15.  

I went into the office in our house and sat down at the computer to wait for Caitlin.  I started playing solitaire, trying to do something to pass the time until she got home.  Solitaire seemed like a nice, mindless way to fill some time.  

I need to get something off my chest here.  This will bother me until the day I die.  

I never told Caitlin that I loved her.  

From before Diane and I got married.  From before the point where we knew we would eventually get married, I felt like Cassi and Caitlin were my own daughters.  I knew they weren’t.  I mean, I knew I wasn’t their biological father.  But I did love those two girls, just like they were my own flesh and blood.  And I still do.  That hasn’t changed.  And it never will.  But I never said those words to her.  I never once, in the eight years between the time Diane and I met, to the day Caitlin was killed, said to her “Caitlin, I love you.”  And it bothers me.  Diane always told me, and Cassi did too, don’t worry about it.  She knew you loved her and she loved you too.  But still.  How could I do that?  How could I be around someone I cared about that much and not say those words?  There were many nights when it was just the two of us at home and we’d hang out and watch TV together until she went upstairs to do her homework.  She used to enjoy watching “Trading Places” a show where neighbors would remodel a room or rooms in each others house.  She started me watching it.  She also loved “Full House” and watched it whenever it was on.  And I made fun of her for that.

She was such a funny kid.  Funny, I mean, with a great sense of humor.  She had a vivacious personality too; it was impossible not to like her.  And she was as cute as a button.  She was about 5’2” tall and 100 pounds soaking wet.  She had the same electric blue eyes as her mother and the same “light up a room” smile.  Her natural hair color was blonde just like her personality, as we used to tease her.  The Blonde Child, we called her.  Plus she had really small feet.  No, I mean really small.  Petite.  And for some reason, Tobi the Jack Russell always felt the need to try and bite her feet.  This resulted in hours of entertainment for the rest of us.  Caitlin was the type of person that, in a room full of people, you could always find.  She was the one in the center of the biggest crowd.  She just had that effect on people.  She told us she’d thought she wanted to try acting.  I’ve often thought it was what she was born to do.

At 9:30 the phone rang again.  I answered.  It was Caitlin.  She was on Route 72 and she wondered if she was going in the right direction.  And I assured her she was.

“Should I be going east or west on Route 72?”

“You should be going west.”

“Oh good.  I’m going the right way.  I’ll be home in a little while.”

“Ok.  Drive Careful.”

I have no clue how many solitaire games I played.  But as 10:30 PM approached, I was getting tired.  I’d spoken with her an hour ago; she should be home by now, or at least very close.  I tried to call Caitlin’s cell phone.  It rang two or three times and went to her voicemail.  I didn’t think too much of it.  There were a lot of bad cell sites where we lived, especially back in 2003.  So I went back to my solitaire game.  And I waited a little while and tried the number again.  

Same result.  Caitlin’s voicemail.  

More solitaire.  

And I kept trying her number, the frequency coming faster and faster. 

I left a message on her voicemail “Hey kiddo, it’s me.  Just checking on you.  Call my cell when you get the message.” 

And I kept trying her cell phone number.

“She’s lost” I told myself.  “She made a wrong turn or two and isn’t sure where she is” I said.  “She knows it’s me calling her and there’s no way she’ll answer the phone.  She knows how much grief I’ll give her for getting lost.” I laughed to myself “That goof.”

And I kept trying to reach her phone, each call closer to the last.

“She must be on her way to Grandma’s house for the night.”  I was certain of it.  “Or maybe she’s going to one of her girlfriends.  She won’t come home this late, she’ll stay in Elgin.”

And then, around midnight, I woke Diane.  

“Caitlin isn’t home yet.”

Diane woke from the last sound sleep she would have for a long time.  She sat bolt upright in bed and said “Oh my God.  Something’s happened.  I’m going to go look for her.”  As Diane tried Caitlin’s cell phone, I told her I thought maybe Caitlin had made a wrong turn or two and had gone to Elgin to spend the night with Grandma or one of her girlfriends.  I told her Caitlin had called me from Route 72 wondering if she was going in the right direction.  

Diane called her oldest daughter, Cassi.  She was in her second year of college at Southern Illinois University (SIU).  She and Caitlin were very close and spoke on the phone often.  Diane asked if Cassi had heard from her sister.  Cassi said they had spoken around 9:15 when Caitlin called to tell her all about the outfit she’d bought at Woodfield.  Diane told her Caitlin hadn’t made it home from the mall yet and we were worried. 

Diane decided she was going to get in the car and go looking for her.  She was going to head down to Route 72 and start there.  I stopped her. “Wait honey, wait.  Don’t go running out of the house just yet.  Let me make some phone calls first.” 

I called the non-emergency number for the Schaumburg Police Department, the town Woodfield Mall is in.  When I spoke with the dispatcher, I couldn’t remember the license plate number so I gave the vehicle identification number (VIN) from a copy of her insurance card and a description of Caitlin’s car.   I asked if they’d had any incidents with the vehicle.  

“No sir.  Nothing with that vehicle.”

And I tried to retrace what I’d expected Caitlin’s route home to be.  I tried the Hoffman Estates Police Department.  I gave them the VIN and a description.  Same thing.  

“No sir.  Nothing with that vehicle.”

East and West Dundee Police Departments had the same response and so did the Kane County Sheriff’s Office.  And then I tried the McHenry County Sheriff’s Office.

“My step-daughter should have been home from the mall several hours ago.  She was on her way, I spoke with her, but she hasn’t made it yet.  Have you had any incidents involving this vehicle?”  And I gave them her VIN and the vehicle description.  

And they put me on hold.

Forever.

At least it felt like forever.  In all honesty, it was probably only a minute or two at most.  When the dispatcher came back on the line, she asked me a couple of questions and I really don’t remember what they were.  But I was put back on hold.

Again, forever.

When they came back on the line, I was told Caitlin had been involved in a crash.  She was being flown to Lutheran General Hospital’s Level 1 Trauma Center and we needed to get in there as soon as possible.  We got in the car and started driving to Lutheran General, a little over an hour away.  

It’s funny how some of this night is just gone and some of it is burned into my memory so vividly it can never fade away.  I’m sure Diane and I spoke on the way to the hospital but I have no clue what we talked about.  Probably trying to encourage each other that Caitlin was fine, that this was all just a precaution and she’d be home in a couple days.  Maybe just a broken bone.  Nothing serious.  But the reality of the situation is; you don’t get flown to a Level 1 Trauma Center for a broken bone.  Or two.  You get flown to a Level 1 Trauma Center when you have serious, life-threatening injuries.  And I think we both knew that.

As we walked in to Lutheran General’s Emergency Department, we were met by a Chaplain and a Trauma Surgeon.  They told us they were prepping Caitlin to transfer her up to the Neurological Intensive Care Unit (NICU) and they couldn’t take us in to see her just yet. 

They tried to prepare us for what we would eventually see.

They couldn’t do it.

I tried to find a couple different things to say here, but couldn’t come up with something that didn’t come across as disjointed at best and smarmy at worse.  So instead, I’ll leave you with this.

Again, love the ones you’re with, and let those that aren’t with know how important they are to you.

Happy Easter/Passover/Whatever you celebrate.

Peace

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Retired Guy Post Number 1

As promised a couple days ago, here is my first ever published piece.  As I’ve said, and will continue to say, being asked to submit something for the official Illinois retired fire-guy biannual (that’s right btw.  I can never remember, so I looked it up) newsletter/magazine *not it’s official name* is one of the thrills of my writing life.   I figure once a new article gets published there, it should be ok to put my stuff up here for the rest of the world to see, right?  As long as I don’t get a “cease and desist” order from someone, I’ll continue to cycle these through here every six months.

This one, as you can see, was a brief introduction to the members of the Illinois Association of Retired Firefighters.  So, without further adieu-

Let me start by briefly telling you a little about me…  

I just retired from Downers Grove Professional Fire Fighters Local 3234 after twenty five years on the job.  Well, that’s not exactly true.  As I write this, I’m still on-the-job.  Literally.  I’m sitting at the kitchen table at Station #3, watching a couple of new guys prep dinner (chicken enchiladas) and trying to figure out what I’m going to say here.  My last shift will be September 15th and my last day on the books will be September 29th.  I need to have this to the printer by September 1st and, deadlines being, well, deadlines, I’m working on it now.  

And let me just say, when President Schrepfer asked me if I would like to write something to be published in the quarterly retired guy newsletter (not the official name, but you know what I mean) I jumped at the chance.  

But back to where I was originally headed.  

I’m retired.  

That sounds weird.

Where in the heck did twenty five years go?  It feels like I just walked in the door about six months ago.  Don’t get me wrong, I know it’s time.  Everything aches but nothing hurts, so it seems like the time is right.  I have days where I feel really good, like maybe I’m 40 years old again (I’m 58 by the way) and I have days where I feel like I’m 75 years old.  I just said that the other day, to a cousin I hadn’t seen in a very long time.  She just looked at me and said “I’m 75”.  She wasn’t impressed with my choice of ages, apparently.  In my defense, she was using a cane, so…

But I digress.  

So, what does a retired guy do anyway?  And I’m not even trying to be a smart aleck when I ask that.  I mean, I’ve got a little bit of an idea since I don’t currently work a side job, but I’m pretty sure once the newness wears off, I’m going to be needing a little more to do besides walking the dog twelve times a day.  I do, in all honesty, plan to devote a good portion of my newly found leisure time to writing more, I’ve had a blog that I’ve been writing on (at?) for the last seven or eight years and I’d like to flesh that out into something more, perhaps a book, but I’m not yet convinced I can make that work, sooooo. 

Sorry, we just got back from three calls back-to-back-to-back and I lost my train of thought.  I’m going to miss that.  Not the losing my train of thought part, the running calls part.  I take great pride in the fact that I’ve been at the busiest house in town for 15 of my 25 years, mostly here at the end of my career.  I don’t understand why most of these kids today don’t want to work at the busy house.  

That’s another reason I know I’m ready to retire; I say “I don’t know why these kids” a lot lately.

Ok, I think I’m running out of room so, even though I haven’t really accomplished anything here, I’d better wrap it up.  I’m looking forward to this new phase in my life, the friends of mine that are retired all seem pretty happy, and I can’t wait to jump in and see what comes next.

One last thing…

Who shows me the secret handshake?  We have one, don’t we? 

There you have it.  I must say I was pleased with it, and the Pres. was too, so I’ve got that going for me.  Which is nice.  And if anyone didn’t care for it, well, take comfort in the knowledge that I got paid exactly as much as you did for reading it, lol.

Peace

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Snowmageddon 2018

It started snowing about 7:00 this morning here, as I write this we’ve gotten about 2″ and I think we might get a couple more before it’s done.  Everything is shut down, or at the very least, delayed in opening.  The crawler on the news last night was chock full of closures, based on the likelihood of snowfall today.  I got an email from the YMCA last night advising they wouldn’t open until 1:00 this afternoon instead of at 5:00 AM as usual.  The street I live on isn’t terribly busy, but I’ve heard almost no one driving by, certainly less than a normal day.  I was just thinking, if I was in Illinois I’d probably grab the shovel and at least make the first run at removal before it piles up too deep.  Here, on the other hand, our forecast is for temperatures in the 40’s tomorrow and the 60’s by the weekend.  And I’m perfectly content to let Mother Nature take care of her own mess.  I’ll probably throw some salt on the front steps/porch so the mailman doesn’t slip, but that’s going to be the extent of my snow removal.

**UPDATE**  A follow-up email from the Y came in moments ago with the notice that they will be closed all day today and reopen at 8:00 tomorrow morning.  Insert wide-eyed emoji >here<

Now, this storm tracked across parts of the U.S. of A. that typically don’t get snow.  Including southern Arkansas which btw is home to my friend and internationally renowned podcaster, Seth.  I bring that up because I got a phone call from Seth Monday, the day before Snowmageddon 2018 was due to hit his little corner of the world.  He said that, while he wasn’t on shift, he had been in town and had gotten a phone call from his daughter to let him know they were out of milk and asking him to pick some up on his way home.

Pretty mundane request, right?

Not in the context of Snowmageddon 2018 (brief editorial note- I highly recommend reading “Snowmageddon 2018” in the deepest, most authoritarian voice you can conjure up in your head.  Try it, it’s awesome and if you can add in some “Breaking News” music as a backdrop in your head it’s even more amazing) which, apparently by default, includes undercurrents of chaos.  Seth told me when he got to the grocery store, not only was the parking lot so packed he had to park across the street and walk over, but the only milk left in the store was those little single-serve size bottles.

**UPDATE #2**  While not actively paying attention to it, I haven’t heard any traffic on my street whatsoever for roughly the entire time I’ve been working on this post.

I’m not sure how much snow is typical for this part of the country, obviously, I mean this is my first winter here, right?  But from watching the local weather on TV, I know the average high temperature for today is 49º so I’m thinking this may well be our first, and last, significant snowfall of the year.  I am absolutely ok with that fwiw.

You know, it suddenly occurred to me I may have buried the lede.  I joined the Y. Now, if you know me IRL, you know that “Fitness” is my middle name (not really).  The truth of the matter is, I haven’t done any walking to speak of since I’ve been down here.  That’s a result of being a dog-less household (pour one out to a great dog) but it also has brought me, in and of itself, no closer to adding a dog.  Just yet.  That time is coming, but, like me saying “y’all” it isn’t here now.  You people (yes, I said “you people”) will be among the first to know when I get serious about adding a dog.  But in the interim, I joined the Y last week and have done a decent job of getting over there and actually doing something.  Baby steps, no pun intended, but in the right direction nonetheless.

**UPDATE #3** I just went out to the front porch to throw the aforementioned salt for the mailman.  Our snowfall is 3″ or so.  I saw what I’m fairly certain was his footprints across the front yard.  Not close to my mailbox up on the porch.  I’m hoping it was because I had no mail today, otherwise that throws the whole “rain nor sleet nor gloom of night” thing right out the window.   I gave the man homemade brookies for Christmas for Chrissakes, certainly he could trudge ten feet to the right and up four stairs for me, right?  Hmmmm.

Ok, I think I’m good here for now.  I may go out and seek some snow mischief, I haven’t decided.  But one thing I won’t be doing is shoveling snow.

To quote Ren and Stimpy “Happy, Happy, Joy, Joy!”

Peace