7/15/21 7/15/21

She Knows

How to grow:

Take the seed and give it plenty of attention, water, and sunshine. It also deserves the best possible soil, the kind that comes from a lifetime of knowing how seeds don’t grow.

The attention, water, and sunshine also need to be the very best. Filtered and measured, too much or not enough and the wrong kind will kill what is promising. Like the soil, the filters and tools for measuring, digging, and weeding are hard-earned knowledge.

The first days will warrant close attention to ensure all the best things are in order and in the right amounts. Then, the seed must grow to live and breathe on its own volition from those, determined at the time, to be the best things.

Seeds cannot be planned. Only prepared for and without expectation. The absence of a seed is the patient sharpening of the tools, reflection of the wrong soil, sunshine, and filtering and measuring, not to mention the waiting……the waiting cannot be rushed. That is very important, as is the documentation of each seed's planting and growing process.

Most important is trusting that the seed will grow from all that prior applied knowledge, sharpened tools, sun, and soil. When the seed doesn’t appear or is weak and dies, the documentation yields the why. One cannot shy away from the truth, no matter how much it hurts. We live and learn, and learn to live with the necessity of continued learning.

There isn’t one correct method. We are all too unique.

The growth process necessitates tweaking as we age, while never losing sense of who we are, especially not losing what's gained from where we’ve been that shows us who we are and want to be.

Our time together saw us happily apply the best tools we have accumulated, produced, and sharpened over three and a half decades of life lived fully and uniquely. Real time became Einstein time.

We came to each other very unexpected but so, so welcomed. Our initial attention, sun, and water did not drown the seed, it just invigorated what was always between us. Our gestation was ongoing prior to meeting--we were consistently sharpening or upgrading our tools and bettering our soil.

We never had not had a more fulfilling or more satisfying time with anyone else. Sleep was by necessity, not choice. We saturated the seed and provided all the sunshine we could with our effortless conversations and impeccable communication. We easily flowed through the levels of goofy and serious and intimate, learning and enjoying our uniqueness along the way.

We're great together as a result of our collectively healthy soil. We have a palpable and easy chemistry. What's usually considered work was a pleasure, and we didn't balk at the concessions we needed to grant each other for us to be our best in all aspects.

Where we were, are, and want to be had no flinches or varnish. It provided the future sunlight and how well it all fits under that beam without complacency, full of mutual respect and open-mindedness. Our attraction to each other goes deeper than what our eyes see.

This is what we'd been waiting and working for.

We will always have and be responsible for our weeds. We discussed all our weeds and their roots, and how we’ve learned to care for our soil to prevent weeds and deal with them when they sprout up.

Unfortunately, you found your soil to have some old weeds returning, and existing ones grew more visible. I saw them too, and was happy to help you with them. They did not seep into my soil or affect my tending of it, but you also didn’t want to get re-accustomed to more support than what’s healthy and reasonable.

Though not a surprise, it was still a very sad day when you recognized the need for a greener thumb and to be a solo gardener. Your standards are very high. You want your soil even healthier with fewer weeds, using better and/or sharper tools to notice and uproot pesky weeds earlier, before again combining soil.

An entire afternoon spilled into the evening. Reminiscing, laughing, crying. You wanted to convey how you want to be healthier for you before we can become us again; that it was nothing negative on me; that we know this isn’t the end. Rather, an intermission.

Only God knows what’s coming. All we know is what we have and how awesome it will be when fully grown. This seed can survive on all we put into us.

Though I’m making sure to live as well as possible since we said bye for now, but not forever...this void is unmistakable. My brain tricks me into seeing you everywhere I go. Though the memories are strong and are sustaining me, I won’t miss how much I miss you once we permanently combine our soil.

If we aren’t meant to combine soil ever again, you've blessed me with an experience that will help prevent me from projecting and hoping and ultimately settling, effectively ending my lifelong pattern. You have sealed a special place deep in my soul, and there won't be a day where I don't profusely thank God for giving us each other at the exact right time.

3/20/21 3/20/21

What's That About?

Some of my earliest memories saw me curious as to why a song was written, or why similar artistic expressions were created; but something Jason Wade said made a lasting impression on me.

In 2001, Wade's band Lifehouse released their first album, No Name Face. Thanks to its leadoff hit single, "Hanging By a Moment", the album was climbing the charts. Wade's soulful and unique voice were on full display, singing some of his most heartfelt and personal lyrics behind the band's tasteful and catchy blend of bass, drums, and electric guitar.

The song peaked at number 2 and wound up as the Billboard 100 top single of 2001. It's important to note that more basic rock music was in a popularity lull, and for a rock song to be a huge success in 2001, it was hugely connecting with the masses.

In the midst of that whirlwind and life-changing year for them, Lifehouse was a featured guest on a show that played music videos. Throughout that show, the host asked the band questions between cueing to videos.

In one segment, Wade was asked why he wrote "Hanging By a Moment's" painfully personal lyrics—his sentiment that followed will always be with me.

Debuting in the summer of 1997 was VH1’s Behind the Music. It was a documentary series that profiled a band or artist, aired in one-hour episodes and became one of the network's most popular shows. Whether or not I enjoyed the music of the artists being profiled, I watched every episode.

Part of each Behind the Music was these musicians' journeys from young and emerging to their current state, mixed with reflection and at least some regret. There were many friends, family, and peers interviewed for each episode.

Previously untold or not widely told stories from each episode were huge for Behind the Music’s success. I became fascinated by the close view of artistic integrity and its fluctuations throughout the careers that each show profiled.

The episodes featuring artists lamenting a lack of artistic integrity at some point in their career resonated with me the most, even before I had any creative or artistic aspirations shy of notebook jotting for me and me only.

When Jason Wade was asked what "Hanging By a Moment" was about while on that television show, he copped to a shred of annoyance, and that he'd been deluged with the question. Wade said he respects the question and those curious of stories behind his lyrics, but cited his reasons as private. For any songs he has or will write, Wade wants the listener to make the lyrics their own for whatever they may need them for.

Wade's real time insistence and artistic integrity as an emerging 20-year-old singer/songwriter instead of a reflective, Behind the Music-like view resonated deeply with me.

Opposite of Wade's approach are those who pursue the fame and fortune that this world froths over. Once privacy is exchanged for fame and fortune, regret washes through, eventually desiring to be a "normal" person again instead of an interchangeable product for exploitation and profits, among other seedy aspects of celebrity culture; unless terms are set and held, early and often.

Twenty years later, I have pieces of me in the world via my words, with many more to come. Some things I’ve published have garnered "what's that about" questions from readers.

There is definitely value in vulnerability, yet Jason Wade’s sentiments in 2001 have helped steer how to handle my writing divulgences.

Success has been found by those who are relatable. In turn, like any proven approach, vulnerability has become a marketing tactic. Predictably, it can and does go too far. Charades or sincere, vulnerability has become part of branding, a term I find oxymoronic with vulnerability since being vulnerable requires utmost integrity, not forced and inorganic as branding can be.

Anything I have and will pour into this world will bear big or small pieces of me. In the process, I promise to always maintain utmost integrity by never delivering vulnerability by exaggerating reality or to market myself. I'm not afraid of showing you who I am, but I also won't take away what you may need from what I write about.

Desiring to be a widely published writer is to accept that my life will be open for others to see all of the depths of my emotions. My experiences and resulting words are for our mutual information, entertainment, and catharsis. I wouldn't be in a place to do so if others did not bravely set their paths for me to blaze my own.

1/11/21 1/11/21

Grandma, Year Two

Absolutes are rare, but here is one: your demise’s timing was great. For about fifteen months, we could gather and celebrate you. Then, the world changed.

You thrived on in-person visits, and talking on the phone was always mutually enjoyable. Sadly, toward the end, your weakened arm and voice could barely hold.

Unfortunately, you also thrived on whatever the TV said. Its toxicity has only increased since your death.

Your mind’s default was always set to immense worry. I’m certain you would have spun yourself crazy everyday, wondering how we were staying safe, healthy, and sane; and more Flo-crazy than a fly in your room could ever conjure.

The 2020 Presidential Election circus was a historic milestone for many of the wrong reasons. I’m glad you didn’t have to endure it, and everything that went down at the Capitol last week—it has further divided too much of this country.

I have no idea how you’d be surviving this pandemic. I am grateful you don't have to, and were spared suffering in the myriad ways you would.

We all are filled with joy and solace from the last two years of quality time you've gotten with those whose death preceded yours.

I’m continuing to talk about you in the various ways your stories and teachings can help and entertain. My tears are of gratitude for being blessed with you, and for what is now giving you peace and happiness.

Once again, thank you for enriching my life by loving me and being just yourself. I'll make sure your spirit endures well past the time you spent in this world.

Just like your birthday last year, I will now post the eulogy I wrote and spoke at your funeral. I decided it's a more appropriate tradition to maintain on your death's anniversary instead. It will offer full context of when you did pass to each current year I celebrate your life in this manner.

As I always will, I miss you and love you.

For Grandma

My name is Craig Elbe, Florence’s first grandchild. Oftentimes I’ve called myself her fifth child as that’s how she made me feel. She simply was another mother. Her sixth and youngest grandchild, Connor, can say the same thing. Even if there were twenty of us grandchildren, I’m confident her motherly love wouldn’t be diluted.

My first memories with my grandma, I’m told, involved me being very spoiled. I was simply too young to recall the bumming around I did with my grandma and whoever else was with us. There were many trips to many stores and restaurants, with a lot of time and love and money spent on me. Though those memories are not vivid for me, the genuine love she had for me was instilled and never left me.

Being filled with so much love before my conscious memory took hold removed any impetus to do anything crazy when I struggled with my confidence as I got older. My grandma set the tone for how to love your friends and family. She loved and cared for us all so much to the point of us all having an agreement to not tell her of any bad news until the situation improved enough to tell her. The toll bad news would take on her was too much to fathom putting her through it by seeking the solace her love and support provided without fail.

Very early in her life, my grandma found herself to be the peacemaker. Seeing both sides to situations informed her deep sense of empathy. She felt everything so much more than most people. For example, any time she’d read a card or note from one of us, she would tear up on the second or third sentence that expressed love and gratitude to her.

Whether it was just her and me or a room of people, I always found it entertaining how she’d run through the progression of her kids and grandkids before she’d land on the person whose attention she sought.

My grandma was the epitome of a people person. She seemed to find a way to the hearts of many people she interacted with. Her spunky personality and sense of humor was adored by all, from social gatherings to anyone who cared for her at any type of medical facility she was admitted to. Her smile and laugh could brighten any small or vast space, and I could always count on her warmth when life was cold to me.

She had many clichés as punchlines for jokes or to blow off some steam, and it was quite entertaining how she’d say them all like it was the very first time.

My grandma strived to see the good in everyone she met and saw. It wasn’t always easy for her but the effort was there despite evidence some people didn’t deserve her good heart.

Telephone conversations with grandma were always a joy. Most of the time, just saying goodbye was another conversation itself!

Walking into her home was a guessing game of what she was cooking or baking or canning. To this day I’ve not been able to find anything that was as good as her tomato juice or pickles. Anything else lacked the simple but essential ingredient of grandma’s love. What the perfect placebo!

Her refrigerator and walls were covered in pictures of the family, and she always had film in her camera for more moments to capture. What couldn’t fit on the fridge or walls found homes in the various photo albums she accumulated over the years.

While my sister and I were in school, grandma would bring us home when our parents weren’t able to. I’m sure she feared the worst for us walking home, especially once I got to high school and my sister was still in middle school. But, she didn’t want us to be home alone either. She was always my reliable ride to work and home when needed, and was always curious who I saw that day that she knew!

I started playing drums when I was a junior in high school, January of 2000 to be precise. Most days after school I had lots of pent up ambition or anger, so I went downstairs to play my drums. After a few months of practice, I was able to play along to some songs. When I’d begin a playing session, I consistently used the song “Home Sweet Home” by Motley Crue to warm up.

One day, after playing for a while, I came upstairs for a break. My grandma asked me about that song with the piano part in the beginning. I had no idea she was even paying attention! After some thought I remembered it was the first song, “Home Sweet Home” by Motley Crue. Right then and there, she told me she wanted me to play that song on my drums at her funeral! I couldn’t believe she made such a request, but I agreed to it then. It was the first time I felt like I was performing for someone. From that day forward, I always had a special bit of nerves while playing that song, even when she wasn’t there. Grandma being my first audience member seemed very appropriate. She was our family’s biggest cheerleader.

During the summer of 2000, I put myself in a situation where I had nowhere to go. Grandma was nearing the end of her 60s but without hesitation took me. Well, she may have hesitated a little because of my behavior at the time, but it wasn’t apparent. Grandpa had passed away just over four years ago at the time, so it was just her and me. Our only argument was about the length of my hair. She was upset I wanted to grow my hair really long, when all I wanted to do was look cool playing drums with long hair. It took me some years to realize this, but my grandma was just trying to protect me from the judgmental world.

The two months I lived with her finally started to break my rebellious nature. I learned what respect was, and that how I was treating my parents was very wrong. We were close before then, but her taking me in forged a special bond. Today, I’m proud to be the man I am. Those two months with grandma were the beginning stages of me realizing what it was to be a man of principle and character, and she was the only one able to truly reach me during my rebellious teen years.

At that time, she was receiving supplements and other household items from a mail order company called Melaleuca. Also at the time, I became a huge fan of the band Metallica. I had some tapes of some of their concerts and would play them while living with grandma. I never expected her to like the music so I only played the tapes with her permission. Out of the blue, one day she asked me if I was going to watch any Melaleuca. I was so confused for a couple seconds till I realized she wanted to watch Metallica with me! I had no idea she was even remotely interested in such music, and I doubt she really was. She was just being supportive of what I enjoyed and didn’t want to hinder my enjoyment.

The grace and class of how she carried herself was something to behold. Sure, she’d have her sad or weak moments that she’d confide in her close confidants, but she did the best she could with what she had and knew at the time.

Her frugality and tenacity was on display during one time I was visiting with her. It was in her last months of living alone. She noticed her telephone bill went up by about 8 dollars, so she called them up to have them reinstate the previous sale she had before the price hike. By the time I arrived to spend time with her that day, she proudly told me she succeeded in getting the sale price back. She said, and I loosely quote, “It took me till the third person till I got what I wanted, but it’s going to save me about $100 a year!”

While grandpa was living, he and my grandma did the “casino tour” of Wisconsin the short time he was retired before he got sick and passed away. We always knew when they hit the Royal Flush when they would show up at our house with some extra money for my parents, and we knew they were on their way to our other aunts and uncles to give them their share.

Their generosity was apparent, and she continued the trend after grandpa died. I became her casino partner some years later, and she always shared with me what she won but wouldn’t let me share what I won. All she’d let me do was pay for our lunch or dinner.

When I’d be out and about with grandma to bring her to some appointments or at the casino, people would often remark about how nice of a grandson I was to be with grandma. That annoyed me a lot. I genuinely enjoyed spending time with grandma and it wasn’t obligatory. I just wish I spent more time with her.

My grandma was very selfless and never made anything about herself. All she wanted in return was to be grateful and not take her for granted.

Recently, before she passed away, I went to her old house, then her old apartment. I parked for just a minute in each place. I wanted to soak up, one last time while she was still alive, all the recollections of days gone by of all the fun we had. While the memories were very present for me, sadly, those places just lacked the magic once present when my grandma called those places home.

This day is a combination of sadness and happiness for me. We all knew this day was coming, and I’m very grateful we were given a lot of notice, so to speak. The last time I saw her was while she was still pretty good and remembered the good times we shared together. I offered my last love and gratitude. The last time I looked at her face she had the loving smile and grace we’ve all been privy to.

For today’s service, I wanted to do something special for my grandma. Besides the anecdotes I’ve shared, I chose this outfit instead of the customary black colors for a funeral. These are the colors of the house she called home for over 50 years, and was the place she took me in during that summer of 2000. This is my tribute to that time in our lives where we became closer and for what she taught me with love and by example. This jacket is also the last, or one of the last, suit jackets she purchased for my grandpa before he passed away. She gave it to me many years ago and I’ve never worn it till today, and won’t ever again.

As the years have gone on, I’ve not felt right about bringing my drums and playing “Home Sweet Home.” Instead, I’d like recite the lyrics of the song most applicable to her:

“I’m on my way, I’m on my way, home sweet home. Tonight, tonight I’m on my way. Just set me free, home sweet home.”

Grandma, now that you’re home with your parents, sisters, grandpa and the rest of your deceased friends and family, I want to tell you it was an honor being your grandson. The way you introduced me to people with pride, even in your last days while you struggled for air, meant the world to me then and always will. Thank you for everything, and until next time, I love you.

12/10/20 12/10/20

Value I Did Not Expect

The salon I chose for my most recent haircut came from a grocery store receipt's coupon. Not one to turn down a good deal within my budget, I made an appointment.

Since he’d never cut my hair, I told the barber what I wanted. The non-heroic cape followed, then the spray and comb and scissors. Later, the clippers.

Small talk commenced. I asked about his youth. He grew up in southern United States, in a town "you’d miss if you got off the highway and went to pick up something you dropped by your feet."

His upbringing was a relic, part of how life "still ought to be: the entire village raised the kids." The first parent who saw a kid misbehave was the initial hand of discipline, then later the child’s parents once they got home —who, of course, knew about their child’s misdeed before the kid "was seen from the kitchen window, sulking to the door."

I told him the short version of my winding story of my working life that became my writing life, and how I, for now, combine the two. I mentioned writing for PW Torch, my website, and my various other projects and writing goals.

Only then did he feel comfortable enough to tell me about the book he is writing. Well, not the book per se, but the story. The story he lived.

While living in an eastern state many years ago, he was incarcerated for over twenty-four months. The catch—he wasn't guilty of the crime, "even with clear as day evidence I didn't do it, even before I gave my plea." Without hesitation, he contested the charges and eventually won, all while having his rights to a speedy trial not met.

After his victory, he was made aware of being the first black man to win such a (pre-DNA) case in that historically racist state, presided over by a judge who was as racist as they come. The jury? Eleven white women and one Hispanic woman, and four white woman alternates.

This story he’s told many times was delivered with quiet, yet strong conviction. It's still fresh for him, but he'd let the anger go. He didn’t offer any foul language or negativity, besides the distressing facts of his situation. Simply put: “I knew I wasn’t going to lose. I didn’t do it. Even with the deck stacked against me, I had the truth and God on my side.”

While telling me his story, his attention was less on my hair and more on his memories. At the outset, I said wanted much shorter hair. I ended up settling for non-crooked, barely shorter hair. And I don’t even care. Without a coupon, I still would have given him a generous tip.

The tip wasn’t for the haircut.

It was for the courage to share his story with a stranger. For over two years, he was a man against huge odds, knowing the truth, and fighting till he won in the end. He refused every plea deal and employed more than one lawyer with that knowledge and the strength God provided him.

I was very moved, especially in these pandemic times where we don't get much in-person interaction. Despite the required mask, his eyes said it all through the mirror when he paused, especially when I thanked him for his story and how it made me feel before departing.

I paid less than twenty dollars for a story of redemption from the person who lived it. Coupon or not, my trimmed hair is the bonus of an experience within a value I did not expect.

11/12/20 11/12/20

Thank You For The Courage I Lack

Thanking a Veteran for their service doesn’t seem to be enough. However, those I’ve seen placed on a pedestal of any kind reveal a certain discomfort, perhaps feeling praise of that variety wasn’t what they served this country for.

My twenty two years in retail have provided a litany of windows into the human psyche. I have witnessed some rude Veterans ask for special discounts the company didn’t offer anyone, only to later pull their service cards after they were first informed such discounts didn’t exist.

My younger, immature self allowed that to color how all Veterans were—just showing off and seeking attention and validation through those selfish actions, and the attire that detailed their service. I am not a fan of my younger self, with this old judgmental mindset being at the top of my youthful abhorrence list.

In recent years, I’ve found the boldness to thank these special people. During moments of a pridefully stated, “you’re welcome” from every Veteran, my youthful immaturity is always freshly revealed to me, and I deserve it. The vast majority of these people are showing their pride, not seeking attention. I also recognize my immaturity was steeped in shame of not being as courageous as them.

When I thank Veterans for their service, some ask if I also served. I don’t hesitate to admit I never had the valor for it. I tell them their choice to serve ensured that I had a choice not to, and is a big part of my gratitude. From older Veterans, they've told stories of being drafted, yet their pride is the same as those who chose to serve.

This year’s Veteran’s Day was perhaps the most important in my lifetime. I am hopeful it began to unite us as a country, a country that’s been divided by politics, with the division magnified by a pandemic.

We are mere days after the presidential election where its results are still being disputed. There are all varieties of hopes and projections and confirmation biases hinged on who won and if it was a fair election. I wish we all realized none of this matters near as much as it’s being portrayed.

These polarizing times have damaged relationships, and tarnished opinions of those formerly held in high regard. When we use our differences to divide each other, instead of having boundaries and civil discourse, then the sacrifices of Veterans can seem impotent and meaningless. We know better, and need to do better than permeate that toxicity.

I am intentionally publishing this one day after Veteran’s Day. These brave individuals deserve more than a single day per year of widespread acknowledgement, just as those who have died while serving deserve more than just one Memorial Day.

The Veterans who are still alive carry lonely, invisible scars that will live on in them forever, with traumas that will repeat in them abruptly, and place them right back into their versions of war mode. Creating a sense of goodwill through expressions of gratitude every day can prevent a far too common Veteran’s suicide, or at least remind them their service will never be taken for granted, and scars not lonely and invisible.

May these words be part of the continuation of us offering our daily gratitude for everything Veterans protected us from that has kept this country great. To all of you Veterans, thank you for the courage I lacked, stepping up so I could instead freely unite us with these words, and for us all to pursue our unique passions and the opportunities this country affords us.

5/8/20 5/8/20

Ride Wisely

Not often enough, we are unexpectedly tested in a manner of huge magnitude. These aren’t tests you study for by memorizing curriculum-decided drivel enroute to their desired end goal for you: an obedient and unquestioning tax-paying shell.

Though not aware, you are always studying and preparing; by the choices you make, the stories you tell yourself, and the thoughts you hold until they’re ready to be released; all with intention, then critical reflection to sharpen.

When one of these tests occurs, you’re rattled and scared into questioning everything you knew, thought, want, need, what everything prior has meant, and what it all means with an upside down world. It is cruel, but meant to be the ultimate jarring interruption toward positive change.

This wave, you can choose to ride. You can even influence its size and direction for the greater good of all by making scarce of former comforts and conveniences-to remind, reflect, recalibrate, refocus, and/or change direction and affiliations based on how others interpret, inquire, and ride the wave.

Callous your feet on this wave toward inclining your mind to make wise, informed choices. Be not selfish. Don't buy into needing more distractions, we've been over-stimulated prior to all this.

Now it's time to look very close at yourself and what always mattered, perhaps all that's been much neglected.....Ride wisely.

2/7/20 2/7/20

Grandpa

After enough life lived, one may ponder their biggest successes, failures, and regrets. Of all my regrets, the one I place above all others was out of my control.

My grandpa and I loved watching Michael Jordan play and appreciated his abilities on the court from very different perspectives. Now, the number Jordan famously wore represents the number of years my grandpa passed away.

I was in eight grade and knew this day was coming. His health was rapidly declining due to the cancer he had since the summer before, combined with the effects of chemotherapy and radiation. When our like-another-mother neighbor told my sister and me of grandpa’s passing that Thursday morning, we were given the option to stay home or go to school.

Our parents were with our grandma and aunts and uncle, consoling each other and grieving loss the one of, if not the, most important man in their lives. I remember it being a Thursday because Thursdays were Art Class and I got to see my crush, my Art teacher. The timing was fortuitous with my needed distraction already in play. I chose to attend a full day of classes.

I was a little numb, trying to be strong. However, a few days later at his wake, I cried harder and more than any other wake, before or since. The sadness that surrounded my family and me was compounded by the sheer number of people that came to pay their last respects to this great man. My grandpa touched so many lives in his 68 years that the funeral home had to open all the other rooms to accommodate the large crowd. Thankfully, his was the only wake that day.

My mom worked at the school we went to, so the faculty that was like another family came by to offer their sympathies to everyone. Despite my bashful demeanor at that time in my life, I wasn’t afraid to shed as many tears as I needed to regardless of who was in front of me. I felt so much love from everyone that came by. Many of them took turns holding me each time I broke down.

My small pond of tears were hard for me to explain at the time. I just let them flow without question. As I’ve aged over time, I’ve realized it was partly from all of us losing him, but also me losing him when I was only 13 years old.

Since then, I’ve heard tons of stories of him and how wonderful he was, especially from the love of his life, our grandma. It wasn’t until years later through those stories that I realized the full scope of who he was and what he stood for. His sense of humor and work ethic were second to none, some of which I was lucky enough to see up close.

He was the first person to take me fishing and saw me catch my first fish, a perch, which I proudly displayed in the small kid's pool in the backyard. It somehow lived for about a week until we saw it was floating. Being a reminder of hanging out with grandpa, I couldn’t bring myself to properly dispose of it.

You see, fishing with him was the first meaningful time we spent together. He was retired at this point and I was in third or fourth grade. Until then, I was intimidated by him. He was quick to yell if he’d get real upset, especially when picky eater me would scoff at what I was served at his house.

He grew up poor and never forgot the sense of appreciating every morsel he was given no matter how it tasted. During that fishing trip, I saw a softer side to my grandpa and stopped being scared of him. I realized his sporadic yelling was always short lived and came from a place of caring.

Have you ever witnessed two stubborn people argue? It is pure entertainment, or at least it was when my grandma and grandpa would argue. It wasn’t till I was much older that I realized how much they loved each other and the example they set for me. When they’d get upset and holler a little, they’d quickly go to other parts of the house to cool off before coming together more calmly to resolve the issue. No cross words were spoken or cheap shots taken, loud disagreements was all they were. Though each were quite, quite stubborn, they always came to a compromise. If that’s not love I don’t know what is.

The last time I saw him was at the house he and grandma had since the 50s, while he was under hospice care. It was prior to a basketball game of mine for my school, and he was in a bed in the middle of the always immaculate living room. My family was visiting him and grandma, and we had as nice of a visit as we could considering his impending death.

He was very tired and too weak to speak more than barely above a whisper. When we went to say goodbye, I went to his bedside to give him as full a hug as I could with all the limitations he had. We said our farewells and told each other we loved each other, and then he said, “Go and score some points.”

As a bench warmer, I wasn’t sure I’d get the chance. After the game, I beamed of scoring a few points in relief of the much better players. Remembering the point total wasn’t important; feeling great that I scored some points when my grandpa wished me to was important. That farewell and game became hugely meaningful once he died shortly after, making it the last time we exchanged glances, words, and love.

Citing my grandpa’s death as my life’s biggest regret was and always will be for not having him around as an adult. I missed out on all of his life wisdom and the jokes he dared not recite around children. I could have also benefitted from more insight into how it was to grow up meagerly.

He died well before I played drums and became the writer I am today, and I would have loved to share those slices of my soul with him. I know he’d have been proud, even when I wasn't very good. He always admired those that tried their best instead of those that sat on their ass and did nothing. Hell, during an old-timers baseball game in his early 60s, he slid into second base to be safe. To me, that's the epitome of his spirit.

Losing loved ones sucks at any age, and I feel robbed of a huge and great opportunity. That may seem a little selfish but I don't really care. That’s life; I’ve accepted it and am grateful for the time I had with him.

The love and admiration for the man known as Belgie has only grown as I have matured, and it will never stop.

1/11/20 1/11/20

Grandma's First Year

Ever since I had the slightest grasp of language, your words have lived in my mind in your inimitable voice. Your consistently wise musings and humorous cliches won’t be forgotten by me or any of us blessed by your love. We count those as some of the many gifts you gave us while you were alive.

On this day, we celebrate one year of the end of your life on this earth. Celebrate, because of how long we had you; celebrate, because you were reunited with those on the other side who had been waiting patiently; and celebrate because your suffering is no more. The end of your suffering made this difficult transition a bit easier for us.

This first year we have gotten together to celebrate your life in a few iterations. Whether I was able to attend or not, I know your presence was strongly felt every time. The clearest example was likely you flickering and dimming the light above our table to let us know you were there with us to wish your youngest daughter happy birthday, her first without you. As a group or any two of us in conversation, or just alone in our thoughts, we’ve grieved and mourned your loss in too many ways to count and measure.

Your presence has graced my dreams at least twice a week since you passed. Not once did you dispense after-life adventures or your well-being or advice. They instead mimicked how life was when you were alive—holding court wherever you went, tending to whoever was visiting, all with your body independent the way it used to be.

With rare exception, the settings of these dreams were true to life representations of what your house, my house, and your apartment was like. In those dreams I was aware of your death but happy to be with you and your spunky personality again. When I’d wake up, my smile of interaction with you via dream was paired with melancholy in the pit of my stomach for it merely being in a dream. Still, I don't want to stop having them.

Missing you won't ever be easy, but is getting better due to the gratitude I practice of having you in my life till my mid-30s.The love you demonstrated and satiated me with will sustain my soul many lifetimes. The way you continued life without grandpa for nearly 22 years was admirable. You missed him immensely but forged ahead and lived a fulfilling life, which has largely informed my template for living without you and to bask in the memories instead. And we sure had alot!

The last gift you gave me was a huge insight to my writing process when I wrote your eulogy. I couldn’t have gotten that priceless education any other way. Paying tribute to you the best way I knew how, then going totally out of my comfort zone when I read it aloud it at your funeral completed my catharsis. That experience and resulting feedback boosted my confidence and resolve to make this my career, and has continued to be a galvanizing force as I endure the drudgery that writing can often be.

Your support of what I enjoyed and wanted to do with my life never ceased, nor did your belief in me. I know the rest of the family and those you chose as family can say the same. Stating extreme gratitude is not enough to express what your boundless love meant to me and the rest of us.

Happy first year in heaven, Flo Baby. The legacy you left behind is alive and well thanks to your words and examples. We love and miss you.

11/30/19 11/30/19

My Friend

From where you’re from, a friend is a non-blood sibling. Someone worth taking a bullet for without a thought, shy of where to jump so it gets only you. That means you chose them wisely. When you were abruptly uprooted to Wisconsin without enough notice to say goodbye to your well vetted friends, the contempt you carried was a visual taste of bile.

When we first met through our mutual friend, our worlds were quite far apart. I knew some of your family, but your last name wasn’t theirs so I didn’t know there was any relation. It went unknown until we visited your cousins after school about a month after we become friends. They lived close to us and I’d been acquainted with them for a long time. They were your family, but I related to you much more than them. It’s too bad some of your family was nicer to me than you, their own flesh and blood.

We were both outsiders without much confidence, yet oddly comfortable enough in our skin to stick to our convictions without compromising for more friends in school. You were an easier target despite how intimidating you were. We were deeply wounded emotionally but for different reasons.

The kinship and trust was there from the outset and carried us through high school from the freshman we met as. There were times we were at odds. Honestly, I forgot most of why we were, except for having a crush on your sister, then cousin a year or so later. But there were many sleepovers and wonderful times had that I still fondly look back on.

We always knew the friendship would survive post high school, and it did for a long time. When we had our ups and downs, our truce was always wrestling. Whether it was watching it or in your back yard for your own “promotion,” we all got a kick out of performing in for your little camcorder with our multiple characters.

We’d run to and from different iterations and heights of ropes, limited by the trees and clotheslines and the slight hill, performing all our favorite wrestlers' moves and some of our own. We strutted to the crooked square through hung up bedsheets to music we picked out for our characters.

Tempers rarely flared and we only hurt each other when it was planned, which was you the majority of the time. You allowed a steel chair to your head, and one time went through a flaming table with thumbtacks. I still feel bad I missed dousing your back with water, prolonging your selfless pain much longer than you deserved it to be.

When we got old enough, we’d go out drinking. You were one of my favorite drinking partners. We'd play our favorite songs on the jukebox and sing out loud to the chagrin of the other patrons who were there to have a drink, perhaps with other intentions. All we needed was each other and some beers, food, and music, and some dice if we felt adventurous enough.

There was the time I was going on a trip across the country. For the fear of the something going awry, I wanted to do something brave I’d never done before to somehow salvage my short life. The night before I left, we watched a show from one of my friend’s bands. I ran into so many people I’d not seen in years, leaving you ignored; you offered your loving patience while feeling much different in your heart: your familiar emotional wounds.

Afterwards, we went to a different establishment that had karaoke. I can’t remember whose idea it was. For years by that point we would always harmonize and sing songs while joyriding, so we were comfortable with singing in front of each other, me being the worse singer.

At the karaoke place, I got over some stage fright to perform “Enter Sandman” on the grand stage of that small place. I knew I wasn’t very good, that I was a much better drummer than a singer. I never had played drums to anyone in public, shy of some friends coming over to where I lived to watch me play.

Karaoke was the next best thing to be able to say I played to a public audience of some sort. Your non-judging presence gave me the courage I was lacking. And when I came back from that trip, you were the only one I wanted to see first, so we hung out-happy I made it back safe.

The adult years gave us troubles too. When I was single, I saw more of my friends and life was good. When I was in a relationship, I saw less of my friends and life was still good, but it upset you because a romantic relationship shouldn’t always come before a friendship, especially one like ours. I let the pangs of not having enough of the love I needed early in my life haunt me, to the detriment of nearly every aspect of my life. Though those ladies filled a large void in me, you were right, and I am sorry for that.

I’m ashamed to say I had crushes on a couple of your ex-girlfriends. Your praise of them during the relationship had an effect on me in that way, just like your fandom of the Spice Girls years earlier. There was no malice on my part, and I still can’t explain more than just your sales pitches you didn’t know you were giving me. You were not happy about it and let me know about it.

The last two times we interacted was first at your grandpa’s wake. Luckily your cousin alerted me of it that day, knowing I don’t get the newspaper and that’s why I missed your grandma’s wake and funeral a year or so previous. I walked into the funeral home, nodded at the many people I knew but made a beeline for you so I could hug you as tight as I could.

I knew what your grandpa meant to you, and I wanted to give you my love and make sure you were okay. We went to your car for some shots of grandpa’s favorite liquor before the service started. I left from there because you were all I wanted to see, and your well being was all that mattered to me. You said you’ve changed a lot and wanted to reconnect.

The next week saw us as the sole muscle to help a mutual friend move into their new apartment. We had fun, but the person I saw that day was one that didn’t change as much as he said, so I decided not to contact you further. And I never have heard from you again either, directly or through our many people in common, besides returning some borrowed items back to you.

A little over a year ago I was in a town nearby where you live. I don’t live there anymore but live close enough to frequently make the drive to see friends and family. I had to get something at Wal-Mart on the way to an appointment and was on a tight schedule. After I got the item, I was walking back to my car and saw a familiar figure. It was you. You didn’t park close enough to me to know it was me, but maybe you saw my car and went further away. To this day I don’t know if you knew it was me or not. I look different these days than the last time you saw me, so maybe not.

It wasn’t till later that day when I realized it was your birthday. I recalled the look on your face. It wasn’t a happy look, so perhaps life wasn’t going so well. It was also early in the day and maybe that contributed. Your apparel was some sweat pants, so perhaps you just had something to quickly get as well. I don’t know, but hope to know.

Since then, you’ve had another birthday. And it’s been on my heart for a long time now to reach back out to you. We did grow apart over the years in many ways, but I’ve never stopped loving you like a brother or caring about you. Now in our late 30s, I want to reconnect just to know you're okay.

Though I miss you, I'm not sure if a friendship can work with how we grew apart years ago. If you don’t respond, I want to honor you and our friendship with this public post so the memories we made can live forever. I chose to highlight only a few of the ones that stand out to me for the sake of brevity and for us to further reminisce if you choose to reconnect.

As I illustrated, I wasn’t always the best friend, but I know I was pretty damn good most of the time. Nobody knew you better than me in those years. Hell, maybe I still do. The times when we had deep and painful talks, of holding each other as we cried through the pain, or making sure we didn’t choke on our vomit when we’d had too much to drink; those will never leave my memories. You are a great but flawed man, just like any other person. I miss you.

10/30/19 10/30/19

Wild Life

Seeing a dead animal or those close to their demise sends chills all over me. On a recent walk on a bridge over a lake, I saw a deceased otter floating in the water. This unexpected event was much creepier up close. It is not easy for me to see death that close with a wild animal, and it’s more heartbreaking to see domestic animals splayed out in the road.

A wild animal is part of a food chain, yet even watching one safely cross the street will give rise to the hair on my skin. I've always wondered why, especially recently, so I decided to write about it to figure this out.

Fearing what could happen to any wild animal is only part of why. How intimidating some can be isn't quite it either.

One aspect is their unflinching courage, regardless of where they are on the food chain. Not being equipped with human intelligence is a jealousy I have with all animals, especially wild; my mind involuntarily spins many webs that freeze me in place more than moving forward.

Putting myself and my thoughts out to the world is akin to a wild animal living and surviving in the same world. There is a certain degree of courage necessary to keep going out in the world, subjective to those who may pounce and injure from any direction.

Courage is something I've always admired from afar while shrunk into thinking that I could never be that brave. Recent times have provided the insight and value of courage being an asset past what fear prevents it from being, even when it doesn't work out.

Any career I will have in this field will have criticism. Fair or unfair, everyone gets it, regardless of popularity or success. An important aspect for this wild life of expression is knowing myself and my journey, regardless of what others may say or feel.

Artistic and personal integrity must always be maintained. Anything shy of that will be transparent and thus remove me from any chance of survival. My skin is already thick from years of living the life I have, and will only get thicker as time goes on.

Writing is the most difficult, yet most satisfying endeavor of my life and all I want to do for a living. Playing drums is the only thing that comes close, but writing is more agreeable to my soul. Though drumming is great for its physical and creative nature, using words and craft and perspective is a more enjoyably maddening creative adventure for me.

My mental approaches to drumming and writing have many parallels. It has been fun for me to fully realize and flesh out in the years I’ve become more serious about writing. Both of them have been the greatest outlets for my life's ills and ups, aligning myself to how to best serve the story I'm telling/song I'm playing, or to just unburden myself without concerns of artistic merit.

Reflection has helped me see that everything required for my writing has been in place for my entire life, including but not limited to informing the way I think and learn. My vast curiosity has led me to knowledge beyond what any formal education may provide, with an unquenchable thirst for more of that fulfillment. This is what I'm meant for.

There are numerous topics I’m interested in diving into, but lack the time. The bills still need to get paid, so I have a job. With my strong desire to write and research, and my current job requiring much of my time and energy, it's resulted in anxious and depressing days. On days off, anxiety has stripped away time being spent wisely, but those days are becoming more distant.

Recent and mutually beneficial changes at the job have made my life better, and I just have to keep plugging along and believing in myself. My small circle of loved ones are very supportive, but I am the one who must perspire.

Until I am earning a living only from writing, I’m left to work that regular job while feeling a different kind of wild. From living that life for over 21 years, it is more familiar. With my writing aspirations, I’ve become much more of who I’ve always wanted to be. That process created a wide divide from the old sector to a different kind of wild I'm still figuring out.

My fingers and focus being on this keyboard, at or away from my desk, and the words and thoughts that result, make the rest of my life go ‘round. More fulfillment has happened despite no money, though I hope it becomes a full time living.

Lately, I've had to make some big decisions I never thought I'd make at this point in my life. Much, but not all, of those decisions are based on writing and all what I need my life to be in order for it to be at its ultimate potential, now and in the future for an ideal wild life.

As I continue with this site and keep writing, I hope you find value in what I have to say and come back often.

If I’ve earned as much, that will result in positive chills while being seen out in the wild world of the written word; the same ones I get when I see a wild animal courageously doing what I envision my wild life to be.

6/22/19 6/22/19

Our Dad

Expectations for fathers have evolved over the decades. In some cultures, it’s still common for children to only know their dad as the guy who is married to mom and goes to work so they can afford everything they have and will have. One of my good fortunes in life is having a father that worked very hard but was also present. Till our late teen years he worked multiple jobs, even running his own lawn care service for ten years. And yes, that meant he was my very first boss.

Although we didn’t see him much due to those jobs, his love for my sister and me wasn’t ever in question. Perhaps it was instilled in each of us when he gave each of us our first bath after we were born and home from the hospital. During our youth, my sister and I would usually bargain with him if mom said no, because we knew he was a softy and hated to dash our little dreams. When discipline was needed instead of the fun we wanted to have, and knew deep down that mom was right, we still went to dad anyway to at least have a yes in some fashion, even when mom stuck to her convictions.

When he wasn't working or sleeping, he was the one of the goofiest people I've ever known, hamming it up with anyone who would participate. When in public, he'd never shy to talk to anyone. It was often an annoyance to me when I'd want to get home as quick as possible to play video games, but it left a mark on me that connecting with people matters more than anything in life.

Our dad was born and raised in a household that was sustained by his parents’ farm and gardens. Working hard from dawn till dusk was the only option for the family to survive and thrive, instilling a strong work ethic in him and his siblings that continues to this day for them all. His dad was his first boss too and set the example I was privileged to be a recipient of.

Soon after I was born, he settled into what became his primary job that had him working third shift till I was fifteen years old. He was, and still is, someone who sleeps until he absolutely has to get up and ready to go anywhere. When my sister and I were growing up, we’d hear his alarm go off and he’d hit the snooze button. Back then we didn’t know much about the consequences of being late to work, except it would upset our mother. So, we took it upon ourselves when we heard the alarm to push dad out of bed so he wouldn’t be late! There were days where he wanted to sleep in and wasn’t thrilled about being pushed out of bed, but those were few and far between. Shoving dad out of bed became a fun ritual where he’d pretend to be sleeping and make it harder for us to get him out. He couldn’t stifle his laughter very well and his distinct chuckle always gave away his possum-playing intentions.

When I started working for him, I couldn’t wait to have my own money to buy my own things. I was 12 years old and craved independence and autonomy above my youth, and money was one way of achieving that goal. I didn’t really have much discipline at the time, but I learned the difference between doing something when it needed to be done versus doing it when I felt like it. During the school year I couldn’t wait to get out so I could cut grass. I was already spending the money I didn’t have yet, and I wanted to work more to get more things. What I didn’t know at the time, but realized later in my future jobs, was I was being given a real lesson in life. It was tough at first, but I learned how to endure adversity and enjoy suffering for the greater good.

For the first time in my life, I was able to spend quality time with my dad. It wasn’t something I realized I missed, even while observing other kids having much more time with their fathers. Still, it was nice to hang out with him more often, chatting about whatever he wanted while we drove to the next lawn to cut. All these years later, I’ll still drive to the areas where he had some customers to help me relive those memories. They are very fondly looked back upon by both of us, and never fail to entertain us while we reminisce about the three years I worked for him.

For my sister, she wasn’t shorted quality time either. She and dad would reorganize the garage when the time came. Our mom would show up on the job sites at times with my sister with some food and drinks if we'd run out of what we had or wanted something special. He would make sure to give my sister some attention while mom took over the lawn mower for a few minutes.

With the slivers of time he had, he'd make time for father and daughter outings. To her embarrassment, he'd call her his baby daughter to those he'd see when they were out and about. Nowadays, she embraces the title and signs everything she writes to him as his baby daughter.

When I worked for my dad from 1994-1996, the Packers were doing really well for the first time in decades. Not in the fluky Infante and Majkowski ways, they were a solid team worth cheering in a way that only compared to the Lombardi days. I will always cherish the times we’d do a lot of work on Saturday to be done early enough on Sunday to catch the end of the Packer games. The team of Jim Irwin and Max McGee was the soundtrack to those Sundays, hustling to be done early enough, yelling at the windshield to the picture they painted with their commentary.

Then there were the days we’d hit up the local go-kart track to reward ourselves for a hard day’s work. Sometimes our close friend Greg would join us, along with some of his friends and family when the timing worked out. When that group got together, some of us were sure to get yelled at by the track employees. We could also count on at least one of us getting booted from the track for the day while trying to one-up each other. It's a fond memory we talk about to this day.

Just because I worked for my dad doesn't mean I had it easy. He made me work a lot harder than I wanted to, yelled at me when I was slacking off, docked my pay when I didn’t do what he expected, and I barely had days off. He and I are both stubborn, and that made for some interesting days, but he always won. The only times he let me stay home was when my allergies were more than I could bear after trying different masks and/or over the counter medicines. When he was hard on me, he never made it about himself and never disrespected me. He simply expected more from me because I was his kid; he didn’t want nepotism to be why he hired me. He was consistent with it all and we learned more about each other as time went on.

Unfortunately, every boss I have had since then has had to work against the high bar my dad set as my first boss. Those bosses may have seen me as problematic or insubordinate. In reality, I have consistently been disappointed I've had to settle for less than what I was shown by my dad and his stern and respectful ways.

The business eventually grew so much he couldn’t keep up with it. He was trying to hold onto it until I was 18 and could take over, but it got to be too much and he had to sell the business when I was 14. It was successful but not enough to replace his full time income and benefits. It was a bummer for him, but also a relief of the burden it became. He was working a full-time third shift job as well as cutting grass, resulting in very little sleep. Thank God our mom was a competent secretary!

A harder worker than my dad is someone I’ve yet to meet. In some ways, it hasn’t been so good for me; I’ve burned myself out more times than I care to remember trying to live up to the example I was shown. Only in very recent years have I learned how to take better care of myself instead of working myself to the bone. But I’ll never forget the sacrifices my dad made just to make our lives comfortable while his was anything but.

After selling the lawn care business in 1996, we saw dad much more. He remained a hard and dedicated worker with just one job, and for the short time he worked a second part time job. In the twenty plus years since, our dad has become more and more comfortable with himself and his life.

There was a time a few years ago when I had nowhere to go. He took me in, but a couple months later kicked me out because I wasn't living up to what he expected of me under his roof. Even then, in my late 20s, he was still my boss looking out for me and making a hard decision for my benefit when it hurt him more than it hurt me at the time.

He’s made other hard decisions over time to get where he is now, and has done the best he could to make up for what he regrets. My sister and I are proud of how he has been able to overcome the adversity of being teased and treated much less than he deserved by his family and peers, especially in his younger days, to being a confident public speaker despite his still present stutter. Whether prepared or off the top of his head, his genuine good hearted nature always comes through.

That confidence has manifested itself with the courage to be more confident in other areas of his life. Despite what life has handed him, the fact he's remained a simple and humble man while learning and becoming better from his mistakes speaks highly of his character. When the times have called for him to stick up for us and go above and beyond, he was always there.

Last year, his parents passed away 63 days apart from each other. With class and strength, our dad mourned the loss of his parents, even with their deaths so close to each other. My original intention was to have this ready for Father’s Day, but coincidence made this more special; today marks his father’s 93rd birthday. So, on this day, my sister and I celebrate the man that our father is, the man who helped shape him, and we thank them and love them both. We don't even have to ask, because he's shown and told us that being our father will always be his favorite job.

5/14/19 5/14/19

Our Mom

Who doesn’t love their mom? In some regard, I’d bet everyone has love for their mother. At minimum, there should be an appreciation for at least having carried and given birth. Now, that doesn’t mean a lifetime of love and respect is earned, but making sure a healthy baby is born is a very difficult responsibility. My heart will always go out to those whose mothers couldn’t lay off anything unhealthy while pregnant. I’m forever grateful my mom realized that responsibility and made sure I was brought into the world healthy.

I’m not going to pretend my mom and I didn’t have issues. Our ancestors gifted us the lovely trait of stubbornness, which made my teen and early adult years very difficult for both of us. At times I couldn’t decipher between her love and anger, but I’m lucky enough for her to still be around in order to gain a full circle perspective. The years of tumult we put each other through have resulted in a great relationship with each other. She still embarrasses me and drives me crazy at times, but it’s still just part of her charm. Despite the rocky road it was, she’s come a long way from thinking I needed a “mommy” and has made efforts to understand me as a man with boundaries, instead of the boy she was raising and protecting. I am grateful God gave me a mother who made sure I was well fed and clothed and showed me examples of what to do and what not to do.

Some of my favorite foods are sour or fermented, and it's no wonder why. During my mother's pregnancy, she often would crave these same things, specifically fresh squeezed lemonade and pickled beets. How do I know this? My curiosity compelled me to text her while she was at work. Her eagerness to share with me showed through in the verbosity of her message and quick response. She described how her pregnancy with me involved patronizing a place that sold fresh squeezed lemonade every day on her lunch hour while working at a mall. She also remembered many restless nights that were soothed by a visit to the fridge that always had a jar of pickled beets. She even told me what she craved three years later while carrying my sister.

When we were old enough to read, she regularly brought my sister and me to the library for us to borrow books for education and entertainment. We’d fill a huge tote bag with books as long as we promised to read them by the time we had to return them. She made us laugh with her commentary while watching television and what she thought our cats were thinking when they’d do, well, anything. She brought us to a variety of restaurants on Friday nights before we’d go grocery shopping, and it was quality time we looked forward to.

Our mom has followed her mother’s example of selflessness and generosity, despite her not always having much herself. Her ears and heart have not been shut for my sister and me, even when it wasn’t easy for her. There were many times her maternal instinct overrode logic, like remembering things I totally forgot and not being mad at me for not having this post done for Mother’s Day.

Whatever life presented to her, she always did the best she could with what she knew at the time. A surprise gift here and there for no occasion other than she loves her kids is still something she does, and also gives us things she no longer needs or uses. My sister loves it when she gets a call or text from mom for a random shopping trip. They never tire of those adventures, especially their yearly trip to one of their favorite destinations.

What made this year’s Mother’s Day different for our mom is that it’s the first one she had to spend without her mom; our grandma. She was a sweet and special woman who showed us all what love and family are about, giving us a high bar to match.

No matter the company name on the top of any of her paychecks, or a signature at the bottom, the job she loved the most was also the most selfless; being our mother. Through everything all our lives, and there has been a lot, we’ve never had to doubt who we came from or if we were loved. And that’s why we love our mom.

2/24/19 2/24/19

To Grandma

You always spoke of milestones. You always said there’s a first time for everything. Well, like usual, you are right. This time, on this day, you aren’t here for us to share the laughter or sadness for such occasions.

88. Would have been, but not.

With all honesty, I can’t say you were gone too soon. This family was blessed to have you for so many years. And we all would selfishly love to still have you here. As you would also often say, it’s not meant to be. For as many years as you reminisced about your mom, dad, and other friends and family through the years, we know you’ve been ready for quite some time.

For us, though we miss you; all those reunions help ease the pain of not being able to hear your sweet voice, to see your beautiful smile, or to get the pleasure of sharing good news with you. You were our biggest fan.

Today is your first birthday we will have to celebrate without you here on Earth. Gone are the days of reciprocal renditions of singing happy birthday to each other on our special days. Gone are the days of receiving the love you gave us the other 364 days of the year. Despite all that, we were so lucky to get many lifetimes of love to last us well beyond when our time on Earth is up.

I am so fortunate that technology will allow me to forever save the voicemail you left me on my birthday last year. Anytime I play it I can’t help but cry. It elicits so many years of everything you meant to me and the rest of our family. Fortune truly shined on me to have you as my Grandma.

I’m not sure how other funerals go, but my grandma got two eulogies for hers. My uncle and I wrote and recited our own eulogies for this special lady. It was the biggest honor of my life, and we both did a great job.

Since I can no longer call her on the phone or visit her anymore, I will publish the eulogy I wrote for her on her birthday today.

Happy birthday, Grandma. At the seat of the card table your friends and family have been saving for you, I hope you have gotten many Royal Flushes. I also hope you and Grandpa have been dancing enough to catch up on over two decades of separation. I love and miss you more than I can find the words to describe it.