May 23, 2013

Simple Things

I certainly have a lot of things that could make me insanely proud.  Seriously.

Still, it’s the smallest of things that often make life worth living.  For me…it was just the other night.

Making S'Mores

Making S’Mores

I will use the cheap, well-worn fire pit in the back yard as a bit of a sanctuary.  I’ll often go out there with the kids and we’ll make s’mores.  More often I’ll put on some Miles Davis or Brubeck on my turntable and go out there, after the sun has gone down, and have a glass of wine just to relax.  It’s not horribly often, but when I do it, the evening goes very well.  More often than not it is very late, much after the chores of the night, the dishes and the lunches are all taken care of for tomorrow.

But the other night, while out by the fire and reading a book, Hannah came out, excited, happy, and near stammering she couldn’t get the words out fast enough.  She had, you see, figured out the chords to the song “Rainbow Connection”.  (Admit it – you’re all sitting there trying to do your Kermit voice and sing it now…I know it!)  Bear in mind, Hannah’s been singing this song for weeks, so I must have given her a bit of an eye-roll at the time because I was near sick of the tome.

But then she broke out her Stratocaster and decided to sing it with the guitar…and her brother sat next to her and broke in as well.

They were horribly off-key; the guitar was hideously out of tune; the timing was a bit off . . . and it was the most wonderful thing I’d ever heard.

Noah and Hannah, you see, are more often than not at each others’ throats.  When they are it’s usually me who has to intervene and even at that I’m usually at full-volume with my blood pressure rivaling Old Faithful’s ability to blow a gasket.

But tonight, my shy son, who hates singing in front of people and who usually acts really silly and imaginative simply sat by his sister, on the arm of the outdoor chair, and sang.  Sure, he was off-key, but he did it anyway with a huge smile on his face.

Most of you might think nothing of that.  You might even poke a little fun at your kids for being silly.  Maybe not.

I certainly didn’t.

IMG_0084Noah and Hannah coordinated, sang, tried to stay on-beat, and just serenaded me there during the cool night by the fire.  I hadn’t seen them perform anything together…ever…unless I put it together myself.

It’s a tribute and testament to the two of them and their tenacity that we’ve gotten to the point in our lives where these little things – the Rainbow Connection - would be an event to remember.  For them it’s probably a simple, silly moment.

For me, it’s a simple thing that makes life worth living.

Posted by on May 23, 2013 in Daily Diatribe, Daily Soundtrack, Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , .

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May 20, 2013

Ob La Di, Ob La Da…

I hate that I used that title, it’s my least-favorite Beatles song, but it’s apt.  So be it.

But the reality is it’s true, Life Goes on, folks.

I bring this up mainly because of a conversation I’ve had on more than one occasion with more than one person about the next couple weeks in my life.  The big event?  Graduation(s).  Yes…the parenthetical “s” is a plural.  On the same day, in stellar pre-planning by my daughter’s middle school, both my 13-year-old and my 18-year-old graduate their respective schools in the coming couple weeks.  As a matter of fact, our church had a baccalaureate mass for the high school graduates today.

Abbi at her baccalaureate mass

Abbi at her baccalaureate mass

But the question that comes very often is whether I’m taking it really hard that Abbi, my oldest, is leaving by August to go to school in another state.  It’s not an uncommon question nor is it an inappropriate one.  If you’d asked me three years ago about my oldest leaving I’d probably have taken it very hard.

But today, two years after a major loss in our family, I don’t see it as a loss.  I know that seems strange, like I don’t see myself becoming a parent with the nest starting to empty.  The reality is, though, I breathe a sigh of relief.  It’s not a loss, it just isn’t.  I see this – on both fronts, from Hannah and Abbi – as a success story.  It’s a success of the highest nature, as a matter of fact.

Let’s start with Hannah.  Last year she barely passed the 7th grade.  This year . . . she was failing one of her classes.  She was still dealing with changing responsibilities and surging hormones then the fact that she was being treated by a number of people as an adult because she’s so tall.  I remind myself, quite often, that she’s still a kid, just 13.  Even though she is 5 feet 8 inches tall.  But now she’s reaching the point of graduation and she’s passing – with room to spare!  That’s a success.  Yes, she could easily have been re-taking the 8th grade the way the year started.  Sure, she’s uncertain and moving to a new school, but that’s life.  We move, change, all that happens during our lifetime.

2013-05-19 12.26.53Abbi . . . a totally different kind of change.  Two years ago, Abbi was on a path set by her mother.  She was going to go into a medical field.  She was going to make money, consequences and emotions be damned, because that’s the measure of success her mother instilled in her.  Not to criticize her mother completely, but that was the mentality her mother had.  Happiness can come from other fronts, you need to work at something that has high return, no wait.  Abbi, however, has always been my most dramatic, most vocal, most fun and quirky of the kids.  We all have our own little thoughts and quirks.  She’s young, elastic, and can bounce back if things don’t work out.  Moving her out of her private school (mostly because we couldn’t afford it) was a big cause of pushing her to make her own decisions.  She’s doing something artistic and creative, which her mother loved, but wouldn’t have wanted because it didn’t pay well.

But we always think things through, and much like my parents with me, there’s a philosophy that you should do what makes you happy.  Success is measured in your own terms, not monetary, not societal, none of that.  Without happiness, the money is a drain, not a draw.

So no . . . I don’t feel saddened or depressed.  I’m happy and feel that the coming date is a measure of our success over the last couple years. The intervening years to come will see love, success, possibly marriage and maybe children for my kids.  Through all of those they’ll have me there for whatever they need.

Life, you see . . . goes on.

Posted by on May 20, 2013 in Daily Diatribe, Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , .

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May 16, 2013

“Wouldn’t It Be Great?!”

One of our changes...different vacations

One of our changes…different vacations

The question comes up every once in awhile, not as often as it used to, but it does come up.  Usually with people who knew us as a family, two parents, four kids, the typical family.  They see us going along, happy, even though Andrea, my wife, passed away two years ago, and they pose an interrogative that they think is heartfelt.

It usually starts with “you guys are doing so well,” or “it must be so hard,” or “I can’t handle my kids with my wife/husband, I can only imagine!”  While I appreciate the sympathy or pity or whatever they intend with that statement, there usually is a small part of me that wants with all my might to ask “what the hell was I supposed to do, shut down and let the kids fend for themselves?”

But the question that once in awhile involves asking what I’d do if I had Andrea back.  Often it’s more a statement than a question, like “you’d give it all up to have Andrea come back, wouldn’t you?!”  Sometimes it’s the “she’s waiting for you,” others it’s “do you ever think about what would happen if she came back?”

I used to think this was a phenomenon left just to the widowed.  I guess I was wrong when I had a discussion with my daughter the other night and she’s had the same thing come to pass.

The funniest thing is usually the reaction when we both give the answer: “no.”

No, I wouldn’t want her to come back.  No, I wouldn’t welcome her with open arms.  No, I wouldn’t be ecstatic and jumping up and down amazed.

That’s not an angry statement, by the way.  I’m not drowning in the tears of my own despair.  I have let go the anger and the guilt and the resentment.  This isn’t because she left and I feel bad that I survived nor is it a feeling of rage over taking care of the kids myself.  I knew I had to do that.  I knew this wouldn’t be easy, too, but there are a few things that need to come out, I guess.

Here’s the thing: if she came back tomorrow, acting like nothing happened, ghost, zombie, whatever, we’d look at her and ask “where the hell have you been?!”

2013-03-25 17.34.36The other, biggest thing, is that we all – all five of us in this house – have changed.  We changed a lot.  Pieces of my life that were missing, the abilities I needed to bolster my wife used to fill.  After she left, almost immediately, I had to fill those myself.  I did it, and my life had been better.  She gave me those tools, I know it.  She gave me confidence and I still have it.

The corollary to the “wouldn’t it be great” question is usually “you’ll probably look for somebody just like her when you’re ready!”

The answer shouldn’t surprise you.

No…I won’t.  It’s funny, but even though people talk about how hard it is to change, I’ve done it.  Sure, by necessity, but I did it.  My life is different, my personality too, to a degree, while keeping the best parts of myself in there.  Sure, I still watch bad Sci-Fi with the kids.  I’m still a musician even though I could probably never hit the road and tour now.

But Andrea was a dominating personality.  Not that I’d lean toward someone who is a pushover, never would do that.  But Andrea was an almost domineering, strong personality even if she was wrong.  When we met, I needed that.  Today…today I took on some of those dominant characteristics in order to show the kids I can do this.  It isn’t an act, it’s change.  I took the best parts that the dual roles of a marriage required and did what I could to use them myself.  It’s not easy.  Many times they still wish they just had Mom here to work with them on any particular thing.

But we always get through.  We’ve become a cohesive, strong family.  It was hard for my daughter and I to come to terms with the fact that we are in a better place and it happened, in part, because she’s not here.  That’s not to say we would have wished this, not at all.

But now that we have come through so much together . . . now, it wouldn’t be great.

Because we’re finding greatness as it is.

Posted by on May 16, 2013 in Daily Diatribe, Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , .

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May 14, 2013

The Ultimate Question

No, it’s not the question that leads to “life, the universe and everything.”  (That was for all the Douglas Adams fans)

The question I’ve struggled with, and until just last night didn’t have the courage to ask, was one that’s haunted me for two years.  Just a little more than two years, I guess you could say.

The day Andrea died wasn’t just a wash of grief and loss.  For me, that day was filled with a great deal of panic and fear.  That fear hadn’t really every left me until a very long discussion I had with my oldest daughter, Abbi.

Andrea

Andrea

Let me give you some perspective.  Andrea, my now late wife, was ill.  Not lingering, cancerous, genetic or otherwise ill . . . she caught a cold.  That’s it.  The cold went into her chest on a Friday/Saturday night at the end of March, 2011.  By that Tuesday she was in the hospital having a hard time breathing.  She had an infection on her leg that turned into cellulitis because her circulation was poor and her immune system was fighting infections on several fronts.  By the time Thursday morning had come she was on a respirator.

I had a lot of things to contend with that week.  My kids were still in school and as far as I knew Andrea was going to come through.  I didn’t want to tell the kids their Mom was on a breathing tube because I’d seen what affect those have.  Due to the infection in her leg, that was spreading, the kids couldn’t come into the hospital room.  By Friday night, March 25th, she appeared to be coming out of the infection.  By this point I thought it was okay to tell the kids that their Mom seemed to be responding, particularly to the sound of my voice.  She squeezed my hand.  She moved her eyes.

Here’s where my ultimate question comes in.  I told the kids their Mom was doing better.  I admitted to them she was on a respirator but she was starting to breathe more on her own and the machine was doing less work.  If it continued to improve they’d be able to take her off the respirator.

But Saturday morning they called and asked me to come to the hospital.  No mention of whether it was bad, just that Andrea was “in some distress.”  When I got there . . . let’s just say what it was.  She was dying.  No ceremony, no Doctor House moment of miraculous salvation.  Her kidneys, lungs, possibly other organs had failed.  The pneumonia had turned to sepsis, poisoning her blood and taking down her body.  She’d been without oxygen to her brain for so long even if they managed to revive her they weren’t sure how much of Andrea was actually in there.

When they asked if they should continue…and I told them to stop…I broke down.  Not just because she was gone, though that was immediately what I thought.  Believe it or not, though, the most immediate, panic-inducing thought was this: “the kids will think I lied to them.”

Abbi and me

Abbi and me

That’s right.  In our home, particularly to Andrea, lying was the 8th deadly sin.  You could probably murder someone and she’d have been forgiving but lie to her . . . you were in trouble.  In the swimming, swirling white fog of immediate grief I was getting dizzy from loss and then from the horrible realization that I had to go home and tell the kids that their Mom wasn’t coming home.  Worse, they didn’t get to see her before she left.  But most terrible to me was the worry that they would be angry with me because I told them she was getting better.

Then last night Abbi and I had a very long, very emotional conversation about a myriad of things.  99% of those I will never tell another person, and it’s up to her if she does.

But I told her I always worried that the kids thought I had lied to them, that I deceived them into thinking it would be okay and it got out of control.  I hadn’t, I truly thought Andrea would get better, but I was so scared for two years they were mad at me for that.
“No, Dad,” Abbi said, tears streaming down her face.  ”We never thought that, Dad, not ever.”
It was both liberating and confusing for me, mainly because I’d worried about it for so long.
“But I told you she was getting better. . . “
“But Dad, we knew you were trying to help her.  And…” Abbi was having a hard time with the conversation, and it was hard to get it out…”I had thought about this before, Dad.  If you had died first, I don’t know if we’d have been able to cope.”

Abbi broke down there because she felt guilty for even thinking that.  I don’t know what would have happened if the roles had been reversed, but it’s not worth speculating.  They weren’t.  We both felt the relief that things truly weren’t as bad as we’d thought.

The guilt we feel, you see, is not a survivors guilt.  It’s that we didn’t just survive, we’re actually doing really well.  Maybe better than we would have been in other circumstances.  Things aren’t perfect, not by any stretch of the imagination.  I still live check to check.  I still worry about the kids and whether they’re coping.

But knowing the answer to the ultimate question, the one that weighed so heavily on me, was liberating.  The moving on and living we’ve done hadn’t been for nothing.

We’re thriving, and now we’re even more together than before.

Posted by on May 14, 2013 in Daily Diatribe, Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , .

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May 13, 2013

Another Park, Another Sunday
At the park with the kids

At the park with the kids

I have the hardest time with this particular day.  For the most part, I like to treat Mother’s Day like it’s Sunday.  That’s it.  Sunday.  I know that seems silly, maybe a bit naive.  Reality is, though, my main goal is to try and head off as many reminders that they’re missing their mother as I can.  It may have been two years already but that doesn’t change that my kids all have been dealing with losing their mother in far different ways.

Some handle it better than others, too.

But that’s not the way the world is set up.  It’s funny how that is, too.  The boys’ class, in particular, has been making Mother’s Day presents for awhile.  I don’t say this claiming the class should avoid it because my two boys don’t have a Mom . . . but my sons, being only 10, did have to ask the teacher what they were supposed to do . . . “we don’t have a Mom any more,” they told them.  In the end they decided to split their duties and one made a book for his Aunt, Andrea’s sister, and the other for Andrea’s Mom.

Hannah, my middle child, decided she was going to take a totally different tactic, which I loved: she mad her Dad a Mother’s Day card.

“This is totally weird, I know, but HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY, DAD!” it said.

It was so quirky, funny, and just so . . . us . . . that I had to smile.
“I love it, Hannah,” I told her.  Her older sister even laughed out loud and told her it was perfect.

It’s not that I want to say that I deserve anything on Mother’s Day, I don’t, I didn’t carry them.  I didn’t suffer the pain of childbirth.  I didn’t go through all that.

But I see the dichotomy of it being more than a bit unfair, particularly in my situation.

The kids and their cousins

The kids and their cousins

The “Mother’s Day Tea” that the school has every year has a policy: the kids whose Moms don’t come don’t get to attend.  That seemed a bit unfair to me.  I get it . . . some Moms work, or can’t or hell…maybe they’re just nasty.  I don’t know.  But even then . . . should that be the kid’s fault?  Should they have to sit in the Extended Day Program room and watch Cinderella while the other kids eat biscotti or brownies and hobnob around?  I was saved, yet again this year, by the Mom of one of Hannah’s best friends when she asked if she could play surrogate Mom to the kids.  That way they all got to have the experience.

But then . . . what about Dad?  You know what I get?  ”Donuts with Dad.”  Not that I don’t like a good fattening treat now and then, but Mom gets a “high tea” with a full plate and all that and Dad gets donuts that have been out all morning during the school book fair.  That’s right, we get to eat donuts, burnt coffee, and get lobbied by our children to buy tons of more books and school items during the morning that lasts 20-30 minutes in a chaotic rush of screaming children hopped up on sugar.

That’s fair.

I may sound bitter, but I’m not.  I understand that most houses are set up this way, even if there’s a divorce or what have you.

But we’re not a typical family.  We’ve never been anything typical, as a matter of fact.  I’ve always cooked.  I changed diapers.  I took the kids to the hospital.  I’ve tried my best to be sturdy and strong when the kids needed it.  I’ve learned more about the female menstrual cycle than I ever knew.  I know what brands of tampons to buy.  I know what foods to cook.  I know chocolate helps mood swings.  I know that I have to measure my kid’s boobs for a fancy dress, even though that’s not too comfortable a subject to broach, or the dress won’t zip up.  I cook.  I clean.

But in the end, it’s not a complaint.  I love them all – every – single – one – and differently.

So it was another Sunday. I took the kids to see their Grandma, who is not well now, and they swam in the pool with their cousins.  They ate watermelon and had a piece of cake and it was like any other visit to their cousin’s house.

But for me . . . it was a great mother’s day, because I actually got a card.  I’m not perfect, but I’m doing some of the mothering right.  To me, Hannah’s card proves it.

Posted by on May 13, 2013 in Daily Diatribe, Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , .

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May 10, 2013

Picturing Life Today

I came to a conclusion yesterday, in the crazy, mixed up week it’s been (so crazy I didn’t write here at all).  If I hadn’t shown for certain that things had changed and we’d started to live our lives as a different kind of family than we were . . . I can certainly do it now.  But for every step forward, there’s a few steps back, at least for the five of us.  Individually, we are facing life at different paces in different ways.

But there’s also a strange thing about how life moves for us, and it shows in the pictures we’ve taken.

Andrea, just after Hannah was born

Andrea, just after Hannah was born

2013-05-09 06.05.08For Hannah, my middle, she adjusted to life as best she could.  She was joined to Andrea at the hip, and from the beginning it hit her like a ton of bricks that her Mom had passed away.  But she was open, honest, and beautifully true to her feelings in how she grieved along with me and her family.  It was sad, terrible, and beautiful to see her express both her loss and her love at once.  I can’t say I’d ever want to go through it again, but it was a testament to the kind of girl she is.

Another testament, the fact that she decided to do an art project with her mother’s photo – where she’s holding Hannah as a baby.  It’s also an interesting insight into how the kids all see their mother.  Hannah will forever have this image as her mother: the mischievous look in the eyes, the twinkle, the happiness of a new Mom.  The drawing she made shows how she sees her Mom, too, in that same way.

But the photos and the eras of our kids’ growth, show a difference in how all four of them see their Mom differently, and their memories will change, too.

Andrea and Abbi . . . at a friend's wedding

Andrea and Abbi . . . at a friend’s wedding

Abbi has this view, with the Pharmacy sweatshirt and riding in the stroller.  She remembers walks in the park and Fall in Omaha.  Abbi and I have always been buddies, very close.  Not closer than I am with the other kids, just close, in our own way, much like I have different relationships with people I have different relationships with all four kids.  This is the memory of her Mom she’ll always carry with her.

The boys . . . that’s really difficult.  When they were first born we had a lot of photos.  We took a great photo session with Photographer in the Family where we had these amazing family photos.

The kids and their Mom . . . not long before she passed away

The kids and their Mom . . . not long before she passed away

But then Andrea got Bells Palsy.  One side of her face was permanently paralyzed and she thought – her words, not mine – it made her ugly.  The wide, toothy smile that had, I’ll admit, attracted me to her initially was diminished in her eyes.  What she never realized was I noticed that her smile filled the room.  It wasn’t her mouth, it was all of her.  When she smiled, her whole face lit up.  Palsy or not, that was there.

But as the boys grew and we moved to California, Andrea suffered from clinical depression.  She gained weight due to a problem with her liver.  After that amazing session in Texas, there were not photos of Andrea, at least hardly any.  She covered her face.  She hid around corners.  The visual stimulation that would spark the girls’ memories was always there.  For the boys, the pictures of their Mom aren’t there.

Andrea just after we were engaged

Andrea just after we were engaged

Noah needed pictures last night of his Mom for his therapist.  Abbi made the comment that “we just didn’t take as many pictures as when I was little” but I corrected her.  We’ve taken just as many.  The problem is . . . none of them had their mother in them.  Tons of all four kids…tons of just a couple of the kids.  Some with me in them, even.  None with their mother.  I pulled the photos I could, including ones that show Andrea as I remember her, the version I will always remember, but she’s not the same person the boys have.

I worry . . . worry that the only version of that amazing woman they have in their minds, hearts, synapses, souls is the one that was sad, depressed, and down.  Their lives were – are – just beginning when they lost their Mom.  There weren’t as many memories there in the first place, so every lost one flies like an ember from a fire, floating away for them.

I pulled some photos from the Texas photo session for Noah and had to explain to him how his Mom wouldn’t let us shoot pictures and it’s a shame.  Those events, those moments, however awkward for their Mom, aren’t visual memories for them now.

I came to realize that they lost their Mom in more than one way.  Sure, physically, she’s gone, but the visual memories, the photo albums, those were gone before their Mom died.  The photos have their siblings, me, but not their Mom.  I couldn’t help but think it was strangely prophetic, though we would never have thought that at the time.

At the Movies

At the Movies

My message, the Friday before Mother’s day, to all of you is this: it’s not worth it.  Never let the camera ignore you.  The way you see yourself…never the same way others see you.  In the days after Andrea passed, overweight, bloated, sad, I let photos be taken.  When we go to the movies, what have you, I take photos.  Me included.

You never think of how you picture your life during the moment.  But when you open that box and sift through . . . that’s when you see the impact it has.

Posted by on May 10, 2013 in Daily Diatribe, Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , .

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May 8, 2013

Life in a Snapshot

I’ve said before, though I don’t know if I’ve said it enough, that what I write here is but a snapshot of our lives.  It’s always been my way of processing grief or facing change or what have you.

But it’s not our whole lives.

At the Movies

At the Movies

I think I got that across with the video we shot for March 26th, my wedding anniversary and the day my wife, Andrea – the kids’ mom – died.  We lost a person who was dear to us, an integral part of our lives.  We’ll always have that label of motherless child, widower, what have you.

But that’s never been what we are.  Not even on the day after she died.

The example I think you should see is that I have also taken just random photos for ourselves, for Facebook (family and friends, not the writer’s page you all have access to) and that I’ve texted to people closest to me.

What you need to understand is that our lives are encompassed in what you likely see as the minutiae of daily activity.

2013-05-05 16.15.332013-05-05 16.15.40Things that you might take for granted or you do because it’s simply a way to ease tension or pass the time we take as a great moments in our lives.  Going to see Iron Man 3 with the kids or just a trip to the park are moments that cause joy.  Embrace the moments and have fun are the theme of our day.  We have the monotony, sure.  We do dishes, vacuum, clean, laundry, cook, all that.  But when I cook, Noah is there with me, rolling chocolate 2013-05-04 17.27.08cookie dough in the powdered sugar with me.  We try to split up the cleaning, and though I tend to get grumpy when it’s not done I still get them involved.  We wash the car together, we do all of this.

We are a family.  It’s hard for a lot of people to imagine.  But then there are those who tell me how amazing it is to see the smiling, amazing shots of the kids with me out and about.

For those who are surprised sometimes it’s because all they’ve seen is that snapshot of our lives.  They see the memory of us at our lowest at a cemetery and are doing double-takes when we are out and bouncing around.

The real thing is that life is always moving forward.  The world turns and we walk across its crust . . . moving even if we are straining to keep every muscle still.  The earth turns…the world orbits…and time continually marches onward whether we think we’re fighting it or not.  So if that’s the case, why not enjoy the journey?

And take snapshots along the way.

Posted by on May 8, 2013 in Uncategorized.

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May 2, 2013

A Chorus of Feelings

Most days in my household are a juggle as it is.

Today was like juggling and eating the apples you’re juggling and painting a mural on the wall at the same time.

It’s ratings in TV Land, which means work is usually a juggle of things.  I’m not swamped, I have to admit, like I was years ago and managing an entire unit.  Unfortunately for my bosses that falls on their shoulders now and I’m happy to say I’m glad to let them handle it.

But my juggle involved the morning routine, getting everything ready and reminding my oldest that Sam, my youngest, needed to be at St. Francis High School by 5:30pm for a choir festival his choir was singing at.  That, in turn, required her to juggle her schedule, as she’d forgotten his festival.  That also required Hannah, my middle, to watch Sam’s twin brother, Noah, at home since he’s not in the choir and the festival was sold out except for two seats.

Sam's Choir

Sam’s Choir

Neither my oldest, Abbi, nor I must have thought much about what going to St. Francis High School would do.  For me, it was about Sam.  Noah tends to dominate the attention a lot of the time and this – singing – was something Sam desperately wanted to do again.  After Andrea, my wife, passed away in 2011, none of the kids wanted to do much of anything and we were so swamped with emotions and trying to get into a routine that it wasn’t really possible anyway.  But this school year he wanted back in the choir, so I let him.

When I got to the school, Sam had already joined the congregation of kids backstage.  Abbi had been waiting awhile, and the show wouldn’t start for an hour and a half.  We decided to go get a cup of coffee while we waited.  Along the way, I got a description of how everyone at the school recognized or did double-takes upon seeing her.  She talked about how sad she was to leave St. Francis and how difficult it was to be back there.

I told her she could go home, but she wanted to see Sam sing.

I’d be lying if I told you I didn’t feel awful for putting her through all this.  Understand, though, that after Andrea passed away, our income drained.  Andrea was a pharmacist, made a really good living.  That enabled us to put Abbi in that private school.  We barely got her through the year and it was only through the help of others and some unclaimed scholarship money at St. Francis that we got her tuition paid up to finish her sophomore year.  By junior year it was abundantly clear there was no way to keep her there.  I just couldn’t pull it off.

Abbi wasn’t trying to make me feel bad and I like that she talks with me about it.  Reality is I couldn’t change how things went anyway and she knows that, just has to say it.

But then came Sam’s time.

The kids got up, after the St. Francis orchestra played, and sang a song that nearly brought both Abbi and I to tears.  The kids were rehearsed, well-behaved, and they sang beautifully, on-key, and literally touching.

Just before Phantom

Just before Phantom

The high school also did a medley of Phantom of the Opera songs, which Sam’s choir helped sing on two numbers, and the kids got a standing ovation.  It was at that moment that the past dissolved and both Abbi and I had no bad feelings about what was going on there.  Sam, in his perfect-pitch little voice I heard ringing in the chorus, had pulled us into the present.

It’s amazing what a chorus of kids, touching your soul with music, will do to you.

Sam was smiling, happy, and got a little gift from the school’s Art Director at intermission.  On the way out he chose to go home with Abbi, which I noticed made her smile . . . the little boy more perceptive than either of us, realizing he’d made his sister’s night.

Andrea would have loved it, and part of my sadness was knowing that she’d have grabbed my arm and gushed about how cute the whole thing was.  But I didn’t need it.  I knew it already, and it was amazing.

Amazing, because as much as you worry about dropping something when you juggle…Sure, Sam’s shirt was wrinkled, his shoes scuffed and his hair a bit messy, but nobody noticed that.  He was a voice in a chorus.  We juggled, and sometimes . . . .sometimes you pull it off, and the results are amazing.

Posted by on May 2, 2013 in Daily Diatribe, Daily Soundtrack, Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , .

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May 1, 2013

Small Miracles

I don’t post the title up there like it’s supposed to be “thank goodness for small miracles.”  I actually do believe there are small, miraculous things around us all every day.  My own little version of “stop and smell the roses,” I suppose, though a bit more spiritual in its virtue.  I am not trying to tell you to believe in God, Yahweh, Vishnu, Odin, or the giant turtle your flat discworld floats on, either.  The reality is that miraculous things, either by grace or other people, are happening.

I take solace in those little things.

Noah

Noah

Just a year ago my son, Noah, was suspended for his behavior at school.  Most of it was his fault, but I can say with a decent amount of certainty that much of it wasn’t, too.  Sure, he’s a kid who doesn’t fit the norm.  He looks at the world through his own skewed view.  He doesn’t necessarily want to be the center of attention, just the center of your attention.  He’d rather work at something than play something much of the time.

But he still, as of the beginning of this school year, had not come to terms with losing his Mom.  In March of 2011 my wife, Andrea, passed away and it made things very hard for all four of my kids and myself.

But I’m proud of his progress.  Where a year ago he’d jump out of the car and jet off like he’s being dragged to the yard in Shawshank, he now stops, turns around and waves good-bye.  Every morning.

Sam, who was always Andrea’s shadow, used to cling.  He always wanted to make sure where we were and if anyone lagged behind on a walk or what have you he would freak out.  He hated being alone, didn’t want to lose anyone.  Now, however, he does the school play by himself, does video games, and doesn’t look to make sure I’m there any more.  He still checks, but the days where he would come to the corner every 10 minutes saying “hey Dad?  Love you!”  (Although I do kind of miss that!)

2013-04-06 20.23.19Abbi is stabilizing.  Prom, high-school, social interaction aside, she’s slowly coming to terms with going to college soon.  She even came out this evening in her cap and gown that just arrived singing the whole graduation song.

Hannah just loves her guitar and, like her Dad, I think it’s her sanctuary.

These may seem little things to you, but to me they’re small miracles.  Every step forward is positive yardage on the road we travel.  Yes, each step takes us a bit farther away from Andrea, at least to a degree, but for the most part her legacy rides with us.

My point is that when I say we take our own small adventures, looking forward, trying to get to the end of the day by enjoying the great things and sloughing off the bad…those are miraculous times.  When so much was so hard for so long . . .

There can be miracles.

Posted by on May 1, 2013 in Daily Diatribe, Uncategorized.

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April 30, 2013

Beautiful Music Together

I’ve made no secrets about the so-called “musicality” of my family.  We live in a musical household, my kids grew up with it and for years saw their father leave on many weekend nights to go play whatever gig paid a small amount of cash for his services.

Some would question whether all that effort was worth it.

The thing is . . . the last two years have shown me it’s completely worth it.

The musician and his daughter

The musician and his daughter

There aren’t a lot of things that you bring into a relationship that remain specifically and only yours.  That’s a good thing, for the most part, but my late wife’s inability to create or even understand the creative process for music was a hindrance at times.  A basis for knock-down drag-out arguments at others.  Why?  It wasn’t, for the two of us, a communal thing.  When we were dating it was neat, quirky and fun.  When we were raising a family she saw it as a nuisance.  That was her and I don’t say it as a criticism.  She had a million amazing things about her . . . that just wasn’t one of them.

But then she left.  Simple as that.  Not on-purpose, it wasn’t her fault, it wasn’t really anybody’s fault.  Just one day she wasn’t there.  Suddenly everything that had become such common-ground for us was now a hindrance.  It was a reminder of her and the loss and the end of marriage and all of it.

Music wasn’t.

My beloved Dot

My beloved Dot

Music helped me heal.  Hell…it helped all of us to heal.  In the week after Andrea died I picked up my guitar and just played it.  Christ, I even beat on it.  It’s a wonderful testament to the Fender company that my green Eric Clapton model Stratocaster (affectionately dubbed “dot” from the green 7-up can color) survived those weeks.  I was soft, hard, angry, sad, and just miserable at times.  It got wet with tears.  It suffered indignity of broken strings from massive power chords beaten too hard on the pickguard.  Scratches still mar the 7-up green surface of the guitar with waxy residue from the picks I destroyed scraping the surface.

I have only begun to piece together the songs from the massive amount of writing and playing I did in those weeks.  Some have no lyrics.  Some were re-written.  Others had pieces of inspiration that can lead to better things.  It took me two years to come to terms with the fact that it’s okay to be where I am.  Sadly, only one song of mine was completed so far, but it will make the newest recording session for my brother and I to release in the Fall.

But music wasn’t just written.  It was listened to, near constantly.  I decided if we didn’t have it playing and swirling around us before it should now.  When we eat dinner it plays – on the stereo, on the cardboard radio with an ipod.  Hell, we sing, we jam, I teach Hannah songs.  It’s one thing that ended up being communal.  Abbi sings.  Sam is in the school musical.  Christ, I even jammed with a singer-songwriter who I now consider a friend. (a term I never use lightly)

Music helped us heal.  We do make beautiful music together, even when we’re off key or off beat or what have you.  The world may never hear it, nor long remember what we play.  But play we do.

Nothing about what we’re facing is perfect.  But it wasn’t two years ago, either, so why try and apply life in the past to the future?  At the end of the day we have to do what works for us.

And for us . . . it’s making beautiful music together.

Posted by on April 30, 2013 in Daily Diatribe, Daily Soundtrack, Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , .

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