I often find myself singing that line when I feel I am nearing the end of something. A good vacation, a good bottle of wine maybe, or as it was this week, the end of another summer.
A post popped up on my Facebook feed on Labor Day that was the top thirty songs of the week of September 4, 1970. The week of September 4, 1970, was significant to me because it was the week that I started high school. My first days at Shore Regional High School in West Long Branch, New Jersey.
Labor Day in 1970 was September 7. My first day of high school would have been September 8 since schools at that time always remained closed until after Labor Day.
Hard to believe that was fifty-three years ago.
Back then we only got new clothes twice a year, at the start of school and at Christmas. And it didn’t matter how silly those bell bottoms looked as you went through your growth spurt, you had to wait it out.
I was fortunate (I guess) to have finished most of my growing early. I weighed 110 pounds when I started high school and 120 pounds when I graduated.
I also got a haircut to go along with those new school clothes and a new beaded necklace.
And that would be another end for me, the end of haircuts, well at least for the next four years. I didn’t get another haircut until sometime after I graduated high school.
The number one song that week of my first day of high school was “Spill the Wine” by Eric Burdon & War.
The photo above was taken by a neighbor on the last Sunday evening of the last unofficial weekend of summer, Labor Day weekend.
The end.
The unofficial end of summer.
I was fighting it a bit, trying to squeeze in some last-minute fishing as the sun went down. Kim and I were leaving early the next day to beat the holiday traffic so this was it for me. And just before the bait ran out, in the darkness, I snagged a keeper.
It was a good weekend, we ate crabs with friends, did some kayaking, rode our bikes to Taylor’s Island, and found a new place called Palm Beach Willies to take a break from cycling.
And I got to fish a little.
So, with the end of some things, there are often new beginnings. In September of 1970 the anticipation of high school, meeting new friends, learning new things, and experiencing growing up outside of my familiar boundaries was high. And I guess, since it was the early 1970’s, so was I at times.
Now fifty-three years later, the unofficial end of summer doesn’t have that same level of anticipation of something new and never experienced. Those familiar boundaries are back, but this time they don’t feel so confining, more comforting really. And who knows what new and unanticipated life change might be waiting in the next season.
I haven’t written anything to share since the end of June when my dad died.
This is the first time I have felt motivated to write.
So hopefully maybe that is the end of that.
The week of September 4, 1970, the number three song on the list was kind of a silly song in my opinion, a song by Mungo Jerry called “In the Summertime:”
When the weather’s fine we go fishing or go swimming in the sea
We’re always happy, life’s for living
Yeah that’s our philosophy
Life’s for living, we go fishing, we’re always happy?
Maybe it wasn’t so silly after all.
And, this, is the end.
Postscript:
After all those years of singing that line from The End, I decided to visit the lyrics for the entire song and Lord have mercy, I wouldn’t recommend doing that.
I kissed him on his forehead to say goodbye as I typically do, but this time, in his wheelchair, he raised his left arm and tried to reach around my back like he was attempting to hug me. I was surprised. I got closer to allow his arm to rest on my back and I put my face against his as he pulled me in. We stayed in that position for a while. It was comforting, it had been a long time.
Thanks, Dad, I really needed that.
Needs.
We all have them.
We all need them fulfilled.
Jesus once said, “It is written: ‘Man shall not live on bread alone…”
My mother would probably finish that statement by saying, “yeah how about I make a pork roll, egg, and cheese to put on that bread.”
That’s one way I suppose.
We might think our needs are all different, but they are probably surprisingly similar, never the less, they are ours.
And they change from year to year, month to month, and even day to day.
The truth is we are born into this world needy.
As infants and children, unable to take care of ourselves, we rely on others for even our most basic needs.
Feeding, housing, safety, learning, emotional support, and development, are provided to us by our mother, our father, or sometimes another family member or other loving person. They are our lifelines.
Let’s face it, even Jesus needed his Eema and his earthly Abba.
Then the day comes when we have children of our own and we become their lifeline.
And we begin to better understand what our parents did for us.
How much effort it took, how much time, and how much money.
How much joy it provided.
And as our kids grew and got more independent, we saw their needs change, but our needs changed too.
We still had those basic requirements needed in order to live, but as we aged life got more complicated.
And sometimes, as it might be with an aging parent, unable to care for him or herself, the parent becomes like the child again.
As a result of my father’s inability to care for himself, as his age advanced and his disease progressed, the decision had to be made to place him in a facility where he could be taken care of safely. My mom, not able to physically manage him at home, now spends each day with him at the nursing home providing those things the staff may not be able to. Things like conversation, memories, games for stimulation and thought, and of course, love. The rest of us, challenged by geography and the continued need to provide for ourselves, do the best we can.
The last few visits I had had with my father, I left feeling greatly depressed. My visits were met with silence, eyes that wouldn’t open, the inability to make any connection. On one visit in fact he was even trying to hit me with his fists, which I attributed to him acting out a dream, something not uncommon with my dad’s condition. Though I didn’t take it personally, it was another missed opportunity, and yeah, I guess I did take it a little personally.
Last weekend, however, he was different. His eyes were wide open though his sight is still limited. He was participating in conversation, smiling and laughing at things I said, and laughing at himself at times for things he said.
And he initiated that hug.
It was awesome.
I needed a weekend like that with him and, I am guessing, he felt like he had a similar need.
However fleeting the event or the moment may have been, or prove to be in the future, I was grateful.
We all have the need to feel loved, no matter how old we get.
Jesus said, “It is written: ‘Man shall not live on bread alone…”
But there is more, the scripture goes on to say “… but on every word that comes from the mouth of God.”
You see Ma? Not everything can be fixed by pork roll, even when you are from New Jersey.
It’s the word of God that fulfills our needs.
That’s what keeps us living and loving.
But sometimes a little hug doesn’t hurt either.
On Saturday I was trying to get him to look at old photos on my laptop. The next thing I knew he had his face planted in the side of my face. I asked him what he was doing and he said, ” I looking at your face.” Fair enough.
Postscript:
On the six Tuesdays during the period of Lent, I am participating in a daily writing that we are doing at my church, Sterling United Methodist Church. The daily themes are based on one word each day and some associated scripture. Today’s word is Needs . If you would like to keep up with the posts from others click on this link in the postscript.
I remember the first time I met Pastor Jim Snow. Kim and I were just starting to go out together and she brought me to a Sterling United Methodist Church picnic at Claude Moore Park in Sterling. As a kid, in my experience attending Sunday School at the Lutheran Church of the Reformation in West Long Branch New Jersey, pastors always wore long black robes, collars, and were a bit intimidating. Jim on the other hand had a mustache, was wearing jeans, a flannel shirt and a driver’s hat and he was cracking jokes. And best of all, I was able to call him “Jim”!
Kim had two requirements of me if I wanted to get to know her better, she wanted to be courted and I had to go to church.
I was prepared to do whatever it took.
The first time I attended church at Sterling UMC, I remember we sat about four rows back from the front on the center aisle on the left side. I think I wanted to sit on the end in case I had a panic attack. I don’t think that at the time I had attended church as a worshipper in thirty years. Hayley and Alexa were raised in the synagogue so I had spent some time in temple. But church, only for weddings and funerals.
I remember looking up at the ceiling and hoping the roof didn’t cave in. But when it was over, also I remember feeling good, like I had been lost, but now I was found.
I was supposed to be in this place.
We would continue to go to church as our relationship developed and I would continue to push my comfort levels as I got reintroduced.
I had never in my life taken communion and my hand would shake as I took the cup and raised it to my lips.
In April of 2000 Kim and I stood at the rail with our hands on Donny and Savannah as they were confirmed.
And thankfully, I met the requirements imposed on me as a suitor and our courtship worked out, because we had it all arranged for Jim Snow to marry Kim and I on the first day of July that year. But Jim’s cancer had other plans and he passed away that spring. Instead, we were married by Lee Crosby on his first official day as a pastor. And with Alexa, Hayley, Donny, and Savannah beside us, we stood in front of the cross and were married.
We continued to go to church and I continued to get reacquainted with being a Christian.
For a brief period, because we wanted Donny and Savannah to be active in Youth Group, we started attending Herndon UMC because the kids had school friends in that group. But whenever I could, if for some reason I found myself alone on a Sunday morning, I would dip back into Sterling UMC and sit in the back row. It felt more like home.
I had never been baptized so in January of 2002 I requested of our pastor at the time, Alan Reifsnyder to join the church and be baptized on the next available date. On January 27, 2002 in front of my family, except for Donny who was away that weekend, but including my parents and my new church family, I was baptized at the age of forty five.
In June of that year we met the new pastor Ralph Goodman and his family, who would be starting on the first day of July. Donny was really excited because Ralph had two very pretty daughters.
Not too long after that, on July 23, 2002 Kim and I would stand at the rail again and place our hands on Donny, this time for the last time. A tragic accident had taken Donny’s life on Friday, July 19th. On that Tuesday we celebrated Donny’s life and gave his spirit up to God. The church overflowed with people that day. Even the Sterling Volunteer Fire Department came because mysteriously the fire alarm went off in the middle of the service.
Ralph Goodman, in his first month on the job, walked that walk with Kim and I, and with the Herndon community that surrounded Donny. He joined the impromptu gatherings of grieving kids, walked the neighborhood, spent time at “the rock” at Herndon High School. For that we will be forever grateful. I cried on his last day preaching at Sterling UMC.
A life event like that couldn’t be survived without friends, family, church family, and most important, God and faith. To this day however I struggle to attend funerals at the church and generally find myself staying as busy in the background as I can, and fighting back tears whenever I hear “Amazing Grace.”
But with Jesus and Kim’s faith as our rock we kept moving, becoming more active in church.
My level of comfort was greatly tested when Kim and Savannah signed up to participate in a week long mission trip to Jamaica and Savannah dropped out at the last minute.
“Curt will go” Kim said.
“But Kim, I don’t want to go on a mission trip” I pleaded.
But all she would say is “Then you need to pray about.”
So, I did.
But my prayers weren’t answered. I found myself in Jamaica that summer.
And in the end, it was a life changing experience.
And we even went back the following year.
Our church life continued. We would share our Jamaica experiences with Pastor Randy Duncan and his wife Robin and get to know them better. Randy came to Sterling after Ralph left and remained for eleven years, the years Kim and I were most active in the church.
I would have another “first” at the rail when we took Cameron up for Communion for the first time. He took the bread, but when offered the cup he said politely “no thank you, I don’t like grape juice.” The server told him “that’s okay, you don’t have to drink it.” But after some hesitation he did anyway, and when we returned to our pew in the back, he asked Kim and I if he could say another prayer. Then he had us bow our heads and fold our hands and Cameron prayed “Dear God, thank you for bringing me back to church, Amen.”
I cried that day too.
On Easter Sunday April 16, 2017, I was a proud dad whose family practically filled the whole pew. Savannah and Cameron were there. Hayley and her new family with her husband and two stepchildren were with us too. Pastor Steve Vineyard delivered the sermon called “Who Will Roll Away the Stone,” the stone representing the heavy weight keeping us from facing all those tough things we had going on in our lives. A month or so later I would get a phone call from Hayley asking for my assistance to help her get out of the physically and emotionally abusive marriage she was in. Hayley attributed the courage she needed to make that decision to Pastor Steve’s sermon that Easter Sunday. “Who Will Roll Away the Stone” may have saved Hayley’s life.
In October of 2021 our entire family would return to the rail once again and witness the wedding of Savannah and Leon performed by Pastor Linda Monroe.
Kim and I have been less active the last few years. The Pandemic, trying to care for aging parents in different states, the challenges sometimes of working and worshipping in the same place.
But I was blessed to have been given a second chance in life to find love in this church.
The love of a new marriage.
The love of a new blended family.
The love realized in the experiences of my kids, the joyful ones and the sad ones, and learning love overcomes the sad ones.
The love of a church family I had never experienced.
And most importantly, the Love of God.
For me, Love was lost, but then I found it again.
I was lost, and somehow, I was found.
Because God’s Love and God’s Grace,
Are Amazing.
Postscript:
On the six Tuesdays during the period of Lent, I am participating in a daily writing that we are doing at my church, Sterling United Methodist Church. The daily themes are based on one word each day and some associated scripture. Today’s word is Love. If you would like to keep up with the posts from others click on this link in the postscript.
As he went along, he saw a man blind from birth. His disciples asked him, “Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?”
“Neither this man nor his parents sinned,” said Jesus, “but this happened so that the works of God might be displayed in him. As long as it is day, we must do the works of him who sent me. Night is coming, when no one can work. While I am in the world, I am the light of the world.” (John 9:1-5)
If you know me, you know I am big fan of horse racing. In the world of horse racing when you talk about works, it is referring to the training runs, the workouts the horse performs typically in the mornings. For instance, the trainer may have the horse “work” four furlongs (a half mile) to keep the horse in good condition in between races. These works are typically timed and published for handicappers. A bullet work occurs when a horse runs the fastest work of all the horses training that particular morning.
Bullet works are good works.
Afleet Alex like all other thoroughbreds born in 2002, as far as the racing world is concerned, turned three years old on January 1, 2005. After winning a couple of Grade One stakes races as a two year old, he went on to win the Arkansas Derby and qualify to be eligible for the Kentucky Derby.
In the traffic of the Kentucky Derby Afleet Alex finished third. Two weeks later in the Preakness Stakes, Afleet Alex, stumbled at the top of the stretch and nearly dropped to his knees with his nose almost going into the dirt, but miraculously he recovered. Jeremy Rose, the jockey, had no idea how he was able to remain on the horse. He did, and not only did they manage to recover, but they also went on to win the Preakness Stakes by almost 5 lengths.
Three weeks later Afleet Alex would win the Belmont Stakes, the third leg of the Triple Crown by exploding in the final turn and winning by seven lengths.
Three of the children of the ownership syndicate of Afleet Alex were named Alex or Alexandria which is how the son of Northern Afleet and grandson of Afleet earned the Alex portion of his name.
Alexandra “Alex” Scott was born in January of 1996. Shortly before her first birthday Alex was diagnosed with neuroblastoma, a type of childhood cancer. In the year 2000 after her fourth birthday, she received a stem cell transplant and told her mother if she if she got out of the hospital, she wanted to have a lemonade stand. She wanted to give the money she earned to the doctors to “help other kids, like they helped me.”
Later that year she held her first lemonade stand and raised $2000.
Despite her battle with cancer Alex and her family would continue to hold lemonade stands to raise money to fight childhood cancer. As news spread about the little girl with neuroblastoma who was dedicating her frail life to raising money to help other sick children like her, more lemonade stands popped up with the proceeds going to Alex’s cause.
The owners of Afleet Alex had become aware of the efforts of young Alex and her lemonade stand by reading an article in a local newspaper one day. They felt some connection between their Alex and the little girl working to help fight cancer and they began to donate a portion of Afleet Alex’s winnings to Alex’s Lemonade Stand. At first the donations were anonymous but as Afleet Alex became more successful a partnership was established and little Alex’s cause was shared with the world.
In August of 2004 Alex passed away at the age of eight years old. Up to the time of her death, her charity had raised more than one million dollars.
But even after her death, Alex’s parents continued the Alex’s Lemonade Stand Foundation Through their association with the owner’s of Afleet Alex they were invited to set up Alex’s Lemonade Stand at the 2005 Kentucky Derby, the Preakness, and the Belmont thus exposing the foundation to world.
After winning the Belmont it was determined that Afleet Alex had a leg injury that would end his racing career and he was retired to Gainseway Farm in Lexington, Kentucky.
When Afleet Alex stumbled and jockey Jeremy Rose surely should have been thrown from that horse, he would say “An angel kept me safe.” That angel in his mind was little Alex.
Alexandra Scott was very special, and to many so was Afleet Alex.
One of the owners tells a story of a visit to Gainseway Farm where she found two women openly weeping while standing in front of Afleet Alex. They were sisters and one of the sisters had recently been diagnosed with cancer. They had driven all the way from Maine to see this horse. The owner explained that the sister with cancer truly believed that if she could just touch the horse, she would be cured.
We don’t know why Alex Scott developed the cancer that took her life after just eight short years. But as the scripture above explains it wasn’t because she sinned, or her parents sinned. With her cancer Alex recognized the need to help other sick kids and the doctors working to find a cure. She answered her call to perform good works. As a team, the two Alex’s raised a lot of money to help to find cures for pediatric cancers. You might say the works of God were displayed in the efforts and generosity of the pairing of Alexandra Scott and her family with the owners of this horse and Afleet Alex himself though surely, he didn’t understand how much his work mattered in the cause. But others, like the sister who thought touching him might cure her cancer, understood how special he was.
I have read that Methodists believe “Faith is necessary to salvation unconditionally. Good works are necessary only conditionally, that is if there is time and opportunity.” We might find some comfort in that since we don’t always have the time or the opportunity to serve at certain stages of our lives, yet our faith remains strong.
For Alexandra night came sooner than expected, but she made the best of her opportunity.
“As long as it is day, we must do the works of Him…”
And they did.
You might even call them bullet works.
To find out more about Alex’s Lemonade Stand Foundation or to donate here is a link.
Afleet AlexPhoto of me and my son in law Namaan in the Paddock at Gulfstream Park with other owners of Iron Works this past Sunday.
Postscript:
On the six Tuesdays during the period of Lent, I am participating in a daily writing that we are doing at my church, Sterling United Methodist Church. The daily themes are based on one word each day and some associated scripture. Today’s word is Works. If you would like to keep up with the posts from others click on this link in the postscript.
I can only imagine
What my eyes would see
When Your face is before me
I can only imagine
(from the song “I Can Only Imagine” by Mercy Me)
Exodus 34 verse 29 tells us that “When Moses came down from Mount Sinai with the two tablets of the covenant law in his hands, he was not aware that his face was radiant because he had spoken with the Lord.”
Moses went up the mountain, and when he came down, his face was radiant.
Dazzling, you might say.
Moses had spoken to God.
Many years later Jesus took Peter, James, and John up a high mountain. This story is told in Matthew 17:
“There he was transfigured before them. His face shone like the sun, and his clothes became as white as the light. 3 Just then there appeared before them Moses and Elijah, talking with Jesus.
4 Peter said to Jesus, “Lord, it is good for us to be here. If you wish, I will put up three shelters—one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah.”
5 While he was still speaking, a bright cloud covered them, and a voice from the cloud said, “This is my Son, whom I love; with him I am well pleased. Listen to him!”
6 When the disciples heard this, they fell facedown to the ground, terrified. 7 But Jesus came and touched them. “Get up,” he said. “Don’t be afraid.” 8 When they looked up, they saw no one except Jesus.
Jesus’ face “shone like the sun.”
His clothes became “as white as the light.”
“A bright cloud covered them” and then God spoke.
Once again dazzling.
Me?
I can’t even imagine, witnessing all this.
And Peter didn’t show fear until he heard God speak.
I think I would have been halfway down the mountain seeing Moses and Elijah appear.
But Peter was ready to set up tents!
Hearing God speak.
Seeing Jesus transfigured before them.
Seeing Moses and Elijah appearing with Jesus.
We can only imagine.
Our image of God is through Jesus.
Our images of Jesus are shaped and formed by the imaginations of others long before us.
However the way we picture or imagine Jesus to look, we can speak to him daily through prayer.
So talk to God.
Pray.
And when you speak to God in this way, let your face shine like the sun.
Be radiant, lit up, dazzling.
As you give up to God those burdens that may be dimming the brightness in your life.
And give thanks for the blessings.
And imagine yourself “Standing in the Son.”
So get up.
And don’t be afraid.
I can only imagine
When that day comes
And I find myself
Standing in the Son
On this Tuesday and the next five Tuesdays during the period of Lent, I am participating in a daily writing that we are doing at my church, Sterling United Methodist Church. My assigned day is Tuesday. The daily themes are based on one word each day and some associated scripture. Today’s word is dazzle. If you would like to keep up with the posts from others click on this link in the postscript.
Five years ago today, my good friend Joe passed away. I wrote a couple of essays about Joe at the time. One was called “Hey Butch…Get Me a Beer.” Joe’s grandfather used to say that. Joe’s family-given nickname was “Butch.”
My daughter Alexa called me one evening recently.
Christian had just come in and pointed out to her, “you don’t have a nickname for me like Ethan,” (Ethan is often called Ethie).
And so, Alexa explained to Christian how my brother Carl was called “Chrissie” because there were two Carls in the family.
My father’s name is Carl, so when my parents wanted to call my brother Carl, in order to avoid confusion, they began calling him “Chris” right out of the gate. My brother Carl was called Chris or Chrissie by our family members and most others who knew him as a kid, all his life.
And when Alexa finished explaining how her Uncle Carl got the nickname Chrissie to Christian, he pondered that and as he left the room he declared that he too would also like to be called “Chrissie.”
A good choice of a nickname in my opinion, but some big shoes to fill.
I always wanted to have a nickname growing up.
I thought having a nickname would be cool.
There were a couple of older girls who lived on the end of my street who, when I was young, called me “Curtie.”
But that really wasn’t what I was going for.
I wanted something way cooler like Dusty, or Kid, or Tex, or Chick maybe.
No, “Curtie” wasn’t going to cut it. But that is pretty common, right? You add the “ie” sound to a name and you get Joey, Matty, Patty, or even Chrissie.
Or maybe it’s a modification of your last name. Like if your last name is Knepper, they might call you “Knep”. Or maybe it’s Natale and they call you “Nat.” I think all of us in my family got called “Chris” at some time or other as an abbreviation for Christiansen. But since my brother’s family-given nickname was Chris that had the potential to cause some confusion. We couldn’t all be called “Chris.”
My dad has a cool nickname. His nickname is Mo. I asked him once how it is he got the nickname Mo but at the time he couldn’t remember. He once told me in the Boy Scouts they called him “One Chop Mo” because he could cut through a branch with an axe with one swing. Maybe the fact that my grandfather’s name was Carl as well had something to do with him being called Mo.
There were motorcycle gang nicknames like “Nails” and “Dirt.”
And organized crime has some cool ones too like “Joe Bananas,” “Scareface,” “Bugsy,” or “Ice Pick Willie.”
How about the Top Gun nicknames? “Maverick,” “Ice Man,” “Goose,” and “Hangman.”
And we can’t forget the Jersey Shore music scene nicknames like “Mad Dog,” “The Boss,” “The Big Man,” or “Miami Steve.”
Nope, no “Curties” in that bunch.
Then of course there are those nicknames that were bestowed on kids by other kids. As kids, we thought them to be harmless. Looking back maybe they weren’t always so.
Maybe they were in fact, mean.
Those would be nicknames like “Babbles” for a friend who stuttered, “Oafy Tom” for a friend who was larger and clumsier, or “Rabbit” for a friend who might have had some distinct facial characteristics.
I guess it’s true that not all nicknames are cool.
I never did get my cool nickname, though for a time back when I was still in Jersey I was being called “Little Mo” by some. And my good friend Joe or “Butch” modified that a bit, he called me “Moses.” He would always draw out the Mo part.
Maybe if I had stayed in Jersey something might have stuck.
Some years ago Savannah started calling me Spunky. That kind of stuck with the kids anyway.
And I suppose Curt is a nickname for Curtis, so I guess I had one all along.
I am still just happy it wasn’t “Curtie.”
I am sure Christian will live up to his new nickname should he choose to keep it.
Maybe we will have a couple of Chrissies in the family.
And it was nice to remember my friend Butch on this day and my brother too.
It’s hard to believe it has been this many years already.
When we were kids, thankfully the hot summers seemed to go on forever, but of course, they didn’t.
Now whole years fly by like they are just passing seasons.
And though the prayer below reminds us “it is in dying that we are born to eternal life,”
still, I miss them both.
Postscript:
I was Googling a little while writing this and I found the website of The Mob Museum in Las Vegas. On the Mob Museum website you can answer a number of questions and based on your responses they will generate a mob nickname for you. I did it a couple of times.
One time it came back Curtis “Trigger” Christiansen.
That one sounded too much like a horse.
But then another time it generated Curtis “The Gun” Christiansen.
I have written before about my “word of the day” that comes in my email every day. One day last week the word was Funambulism.
Okay so I admit I had no idea what this word meant, but it looked like a really fun word.
Right?
Fun…ambulism.
So, I knew what “fun” was…I mean I do, I can be fun sometimes.
And then I looked up “ambulism,” and learned that meant “a disorder involving walking.”
Ah okay, I thought, having trouble walking after having too much fun, that makes sense to me.
Fun-ambulism.
Even I may have funambulated once or twice before in my life.
But then, to my disappointment, I got deeper into my email and learned the word wasn’t funambulism at all, it was funambulism pronounced fyoo-NAM-byə-lizm.
And this funambulism meant “the art of walking on a tightrope.”
Back in November, I was repairing a picnic table the kids used on the playground at the church by replacing the top and benches with pressure-treated wood after the original plastic parts had broken.
During the process of attaching one of the boards, I hit my left thumb with my hammer just below the thumbnail.
Even though I was at church, I reacted pretty much as you might expect anyone who has hit their left thumb with a hammer to react.
Only I asked for forgiveness after.
Anyway, I finished the table and after the pain went away, I forgot about the incident with my thumb and the hammer.
Until one day, as my thumbnail began to grow, the blood blistery kind of thing that shows up under your nail after you hit it with a hammer began to take shape.
Sitting at the bar of the Hard Rock Café at Baltimore’s Inner Harbor on New Year’s Day as we ate dinner while preparing to go watch the Steelers versus the Ravens game at M & T Bank Stadium, I realized I had something very unusual looking on my thumb.
“Kim,” I said, “look at my thumb…who does that look like to you?
“Oh my gosh,” she said, “Donald Trump! You have Donald Trump on your thumb!”
I did.
I had a caricature of Donald Trump, blood blistered tattooed on my thumbnail!
Not that there is anything wrong with that.
But I realized that to share this remarkable occurrence, was kind of like funambulism!
Because let’s face it, there are a lot of people out there I am sure, and some might even be reading this, that would probably like to tell me where to stick that thumb with the Donald Trump image on it!
But I would have to decline because that’s not nice and I need that thumb, and in fact, that might cause some of that ambulism I was discussing earlier since it would be hard to walk like that.
And the sad thing is, trying to write something that mentions Donald Trump, or anything political, or anything that might mention the differences we might have with one another really is kind of like funambulism.
Though the holidays were officially over, with the weekend coming and a couple more loved ones still to visit, she dipped into a Harris Teeter to pick up a few things. She took her place in line at the self-checkout behind an older woman who was already scanning her groceries. With the help of a young clerk the old woman carefully took her items out of her handbasket and slid them over the scanner and into her bag.
She watched as the old lady, barely skin and bones and looking disheveled in a tassel cap, an old sweater, and baggy sweatpants continued slowly processing her groceries.
Three tomatoes, not even in a bag and all on one stem, half a loaf of bread, lunch meat, and a half gallon of ice cream. When the total approached twenty-five dollars, the old woman told the young clerk “tell me when I get to thirty dollars.”
Soon after, the clerk put the lunch meat aside because it was going to put her over her thirty-dollar limit.
The woman in line observing all this thought back to a time when she was younger and a struggling single mom of a couple of young kids. She would take her calculator with her when she would go grocery shopping to stay within her budget.
“Ma’am, can I just pay for your groceries?” she asked the old woman.
Hearing the offer and turning towards the voice, a bit surprised she replied “Would you? I am 90 years old, and things are getting harder.”
“Ma’am I am blessed, and I would like to help you,” and with all the old women’s groceries now scanned and in the bags, she swiped her card and paid the bill.
After checking out her own items and leaving the store, she looked for the old woman, but she was gone.
Yesterday was January 10th.
I have come to realize January 10th is the real New Year’s Day in my house.
It’s not always obvious, you can’t always feel it, and sometimes for short periods maybe even you forget it exists. It seems to surface when you least expect it and sadly and sometimes inexcusably, it might even go unnoticed.
And it’s particularly ugly and insidious starting sometime before Thanksgiving and ending in early January where it lives deep in your expectations of joy and happiness, and the inner peace we search for in the story of the birth of a child, then in the anticipation of the new beginnings and opportunities of a new year.
And as hard as you try to deny its effects, no amount of wine or eggnog, happy or sentimental seasonal movie binging, or decorations and holiday celebrations are going to keep that thing under wraps.
It’s called grief.
And it doesn’t matter how many awesome sons-in-law, grandchildren, or kids you are blessed with, there is still always going to be one missing.
And sometimes even a bonehead husband and father like me who should know better doesn’t always read the signs at the right times or know when it’s time to take a step back; because sometimes it takes me until January 10th to realize that was the reason that the joy schedules didn’t always match up, that the attempt at the special moment fell flat, and mentioning that Santa Claus had come didn’t quite have the impact expected.
On Monday, January 9, on what would have been Donny’s 36th birthday, Kim put up a nice post on her Facebook page remembering Donny. She received many nice comments, many of those coming from others who had also lost children.
I have read them all, several times really.
Comments like “Thinking of you Kim. Donny was one of a kind. Much love to you and your family.”
Donny was one of a kind.
And like the good person who helped the old lady in the Harris Teeter that day by paying for her groceries, Donny was a good person too.
And though situations like this always bring to mind the old adage “why do bad things happen to good people,” the truth is, bad things can happen to anyone.
But there really are good people we know or have known, in our lives.
And that brings to mind another old adage and just goes to show you, sometimes…
The apple doesn’t always fall far from the tree.
Postscript:
I have referenced this before and Kim mentioned it in her Facebook post, these words were sent to us twenty years ago and remain displayed in our kitchen:
