My Brother, and Two Sisters

Grief is a mysterious condition. I am in the process of reading two books on the subject, neither of which are particularly helpful, since neither author knew my mother, the loss of whom can't possibly be plugged in to a ready formula for recovery. For me it has been part sadness, part regret, but mostly bouts of paralyzing melancholy. Generally speaking, sitting around for hours pondering deep questions about life and death leads to no good, turning you into an inert mass of bone and tissue incapable of summoning enough energy to make a ham sandwich, let alone go to work. So, you try to fight through the reflection impulse, and get on with life. Some days have been easier than others.

But not all bouts of reflection are created equal. For example, if you're laying around in your pajamas for days contemplating why the sun rises in the east and sets in the west instead of the other way around, well, therein lies madness. However, if you find yourself reexamining just how wonderful your brother and two sisters are, it can be time well spent. The four of us are different in so many ways. But the similarities are remarkable and flow mostly from the fact that we all had the same mother. Now that she has gone I have found myself paying closer attention to my siblings, hoping to catch a glimpse of Mom in the process.

My brother, Donnie and I are roughly ten years apart, he the oldest and I the youngest. He is taller, heavier, and slightly louder than me. He taught me how to play baseball, introduced me to the Beatles, and gave me one 30 minute guitar lesson when I was 11 and then left me to my own devices with a piece of junk 5 string acoustic that he had outgrown. He has two masters degrees, and an amazing ability to store and recall the lyrics to practically every song recorded since 1950. He has been a prolific song-writer, and the most natural musician I've ever heard. At mom's funeral, he calmly sat down at the piano and performed a medley of two of her favorite songs that he had put together in his head, and with no music in front of him, sang them in as clear and beautiful a voice as I had ever heard from him. Under the circumstances, a virtuoso performance, graceful and dignified. I marveled at his composure.

My sister Paula is closest to me in age, two years older. I followed behind her at school. My teachers would always stare at me for an awkward moment and then ask," Wait, you're not Paula's brother, are you?" Upon answering in the affirmative, their faces would always stiffen, then they would smile, as if to say.."Then, why are you making C's and throwing paper airplanes in my class??" Years later, working with the youth group at our church, whenever I would tell the kids that Mrs. Roop was my sister, instantly, their behavior would improve, and I would earn instant credibility as a teacher. Paula is the sort of person who brings solutions with her when she walks into a room. She is a clear, decisive thinker, with no patience for incompetence. She has strong and well stated opinions about everything. I see so much of what was great about my mother in her.

Whenever I told the kids in the youth group that I was "Mz. Linda's" brother, my awesomeness score on their Cool-O-Meter went off the charts. When I told adults this, they would laugh and say something like.."Of course you are!!!" I never really knew what that meant, but I was sure it was good. Linda is the leader, the alpha male of our family. It has always been so. The cruise director makes the plan and sees to it that it is executed. If you added up all of the self-sacrificing things that the rest of us have ever done for Mom and Dad, it would probably be less than what Linda does in an average month. As a nurse, much of the burden of their care has fallen on her. Linda loved Mom with not only her heart but her hands and feet as well. She has taken her loss perhaps the hardest of any of us. But there's no self pity with Linda, just a renewed devotion to Dad's care, and a determination to keep the family focused and together. Amazing.

How Cool Would My Life Be With A Beethoven Soundtrack?

When I was 15 years old and terribly naive, I joined the Columbia House Record Club. The add in Sports Illustrated told me that merely by joining I could pick out 15 albums FREE. After that I would have the "opportunity" to receive an album every month thereafter for only $7.99 plus shipping and handling. If I didn't want any more albums I could just say so and that would be that. What an awesome deal!! Of course, over the next three years I spent a fortune in postage, shipping back unordered and unwanted albums..it was a nightmare, actually. However, the experience did have one side benefit. It introduced me to Ludwig Von Beethoven. Lest you think that I was a 15 year old geek, let me explain.

Ordering my 15 free albums was a blast, but harder than one might think. In 1973, I was in the tank for the Beatles, Crosby Stills & Nash, The Eagles, Linda Ronstadt etc.. But when I had picked 14 albums, I saw that I could get a giant collection of the complete works of Beethoven on vinyl and although it filled 9 LP's, it would only count as one. Well, I was no classical music devotee, but I had heard of him and thought he looked like a world class bad-ass. On a lark I ordered the collection.

I was instantly mesmerized. What was the deal with this guy? All of the paintings I could find showed this brooding maniac with wild hair and dark, raging eyes. Everything I read spoke of his chaotic mood swings, most accounts hinting at mental illness, and after listening to his music for a couple of weeks, I believed it. The same guy who could write something as stirringly beautiful as the second movement of Pathetique "http://www.youtube.com/embed/klZYv-f9kCE" could turn around and write the profoundly disturbing second movement to his 7th Symphony. I'm telling you, if a movie is ever made that features a wedding between Darth Vadar and Cruella DeVille, this is the music that will be playing when she walks down the aisle! At the 1:57 mark I can practically hear whining Dalmatian puppies "http://www.youtube.com/embed/mgHxmAsINDk"!! The fact that he was deaf by the time he wrote this piece only adds to the beguiling cocktail that is Beethoven..an exotic mixture of madness and genius.

I have been reintroduced to Beethoven recently with my discovery of Spotify, Pandora and the like. When I heard the 7th for the first time in probably 10 years the other day it occurred to me how much more interesting and dramatic my life would be if I had Beethoven blasting away as my soundtrack. I drive to DMV to renew my drivers license, pull into the parking lot, get out of the car and see the line of dreary, resigned citizens curling around the building, and instantly the second movement of Symphony number 7 pounds into my ears! Driving down interstate 64, I crest a hill at 80 and realize that I have just raced through a speed trap?.."http://www.youtube.com/embed/_4IRMYuE1hI"! Or, its Christmas Eve and suddenly I realize I have forgotten to buy anything for Pam. In a panic, I race over to the mall, darting from one store to the next trying desperately to find what I need before all the stores close. What's blaring through every speaker at the mall? Why, THIS,http://www.youtube.com/embed/yWaouJ6ufLE of course.

Don't get me wrong, I'm no classical music authority. Much of it I like, but some of it I find tedious and repetitive. But for me Beethoven transcends classical music. He's just a tortured guy who gifted the world for all eternity with some of the most incredible music ever written. Somebody asked me once if I could have dinner with any three people in all of human history, who would they be? My answer then, as now...The Apostle Paul, Thomas Jefferson, and Ludwig Von Beethoven.

Natural Born Squirrel Killer

I hate squirrels. They are a menace to life, and the scourge of my back yard. They have spent the better part of 15 years trying to discover new and more contemptible ways to gain entry into my attic. I have been on a personal mission to wipe them off the face of the earth, or at least my little corner of it, ever since. I hired a company called "Bee Bat & Bird" who assured me that they were equally adept at eliminating squirrels from my property, that I should not be concerned that the word "squirrel" was not on their business card. The fact that squirrels didn't fit with the alliterative "B" theme in no way suggested that they did not view them with equal disdain. Well, 12 months, and $300 dollars later, the Bee Bat & Bird bunch had managed to kill exactly one FLB ( furry little bastard ). That's when I took matters into my own hands. I drove over to Target and bought myself a Daisy Powerline 35 and a box of ammo.

I'll never forget my first "kill". Pam and I heard diabolical scratching noises from the attic one night. I knew it it was at least one, possibly two FLB's up there, so I grabbed the Powerline 35 and slowly cracked open the door to the stairs that led to attic. I flipped on the light and there he was hanging stupidly from the side of a 2x6 rafter not 15 feet directly above my head. With a momentary rush of adrenaline and maniacal glee I squeezed off a shot, hit the FLB in the side of the head, and he fell dead as a doornail directly at my feet. For an instant, I felt like a hardy pioneer man protecting his family from marauding Indians. Then, with a glove-protected hand I placed the beast in a gallon-sized zip lock bag, threw it in a Ukrops bag and placed it in the trash can for curb-side pickup. Just like the pioneers used to do.

After that there have been two or three other victories, the best one coming when I nailed a FLB in a mid-air jump between branches of a pine tree out back...not me, the squirrel. But lately I have been in a slow burn over the latest FLB outrage. Back in early May I sat out my little garden of a couple of squash plants, a cucumber plant and my prized Early Girl tomatoes. All summer I have lovingly tended to them, watching them grow, waiting patiently to enjoy fresh sliced tomatoes in July. This one particular grouping of tomatoes had been a thing of beauty...a cluster of eight, all getting ripe together. It was going to be a feast. Then, one morning I went out on the deck to check on them, they were only 2 or 3 days away from harvest time. Then I saw it, the sickening evidence, the three ripest, most beautiful tomatoes on the vine had a hole the size of a quarter taken out of them by FLB teeth. Deviously, under cover of darkness to hide their foul deeds, they had crept up on my deck and ravaged my prized tomatoes. Tiny black ants now were cleaning up behind them, and my rage was rekindled anew. I have spent the past few days firing off shot after shot. My backyard is what is commonly referred to in squirrel-killing circles as a "target-rich environment". Despite this fact I have as of this writing been unable to send even one FLB to his eternal reward. I have winged several, only to see them scurry off to the safety of the neighbor's yards. I am undeterred. I will not rest until every FLB in Wythe Trace learns to associate 3308 Aprilbud Place as a place of pain and death, their killing field.
With my Daisy Powerline 35 at my side, I know I will prevail!!

The Home Run Derby....Sucks

As you all know, I love baseball. I'm fully aware of the fact that most people don't share my enthusiasm. We are a football country now...I get it. We are presently at the halfway point in the season and I have just endured two things about baseball that even I loathe...the All-Star game, and the Home Run Derby.

I've never been a huge fan of the All-Star game, essentially for the same reason that I detest pre-season football...because it's an exhibition. But ever since Bud Selig came up with the stupid idea of awarding home field advantage in the World Series to whichever league wins, I have grown to despise the thing. But nothing could possibly be worse than the Home Run Derby. Good Lord, would somebody take Chris Berman out behind the production truck and just put him and us out of our misery?? What could possibly be worse than watching a bunch of guys hitting home runs off of old farts throwing 45 mph fastballs? I'll tell you what...hearing Chris Berman yell.."back,back,back,back" for the millionth time. Here are my suggestions for ways to make this dreadful spectacle more interesting:

# Put the best pitchers in the batters box and let THEM try to hit home runs...off of the best home run hitters. That's right..let the hitters pitch and the pitchers hit!!

# Instead of letting little leaguers shag balls in the outfield, lets put the 15 or so drunkest, most obnoxious loud-mouth fans out there and see how they do.

# To add more suspense, how about we fine each participant $100,000 for every ground ball he hits during the competition.

Here's a trivia contest for all of you stats geeks out there..(Ryan Roop, I'm talking to you!). No Google searched answers please... What pitcher had a lifetime ERA of 2.28, led the American League in ERA one year at 1.75, still holds the American League record for most shutouts in a season by a left handed pitcher ( a hint),  and holds the record for the longest shutout in World Series history at 14 innings?

"How's Your Dad Doing?"

Seems like I've been asked this question a hundred times since Mom passed away. It's a perfectly natural question. Dad is 87, in declining health, and alone for the first time in his life. We are very concerned about him and how he will adjust to life without a wife who did practically everything for him. However, so far, the short answer to the question is.."He's doing amazingly well!"

Last night Pam, Kaitlin and I took dinner over to him. We walked in the door around 5 o'clock. Dad was on the phone with someone, sitting in his favorite chair, a stack of yellow pads containing the hand-written life story he's been writing for fifteen years piled high all around. Dad smiled at us, eyes alive and bright. Tonight he was in the mood to talk. While Pam was preparing dinner Dad began to hold forth on a variety of subjects, telling stories I have heard at least 15 times. The early stages of Parkinson's has caused him to lose his words at times, and tonight he lost them more than usual, but it failed to stop him from talking. He would just stop mid-sentence, apologize for losing his train of thought, then quickly go on to the next topic.

When dinner was ready, Dad displayed his usual robust appetite. He joyfully devoured everything put before him. At one point Pam asked him that since she will be preparing quite a few meals for him in the future, was there anything he didn't like. Dad thought for a long time then said..."Not very fond of pasta salad..especially when it's cold" That's it...cold pasta salad is the only food on the planet that my 87 year old Dad doesn't care for!

I mentioned earlier how Dad tells stories over and over again and I have heard them all a million times. It's true. But since Mom passed, it doesn't seem to matter. I just like hearing him tell a story, any story. Parents aren't here forever, I've learned. Now, suddenly, I'm much more eager to listen.
And, sometimes just listening pays off. I learned some new details concerning an epic story from my Father's high school days. We had all heard the incredible tail about the day that Dad was asked to come out of the stands at a Buckingham baseball game and take the field to prevent a forfeit since Buckingham only had 8 players. Dad had been on the team before the war but had been in the Pacific for three years, and now was finishing up his high school studies as a veteran. This particular day he had decided to go see his old team play. So, there he sat in a suit and tie and wing-tipped dress shoes when the manager spotted him in the stands. Since Dad was, in fact, an active student of Buckingham High School, and since he had played for the team a few years ago, the manager for Appomattox agreed to let Dad play...a decision that would go down in Buckingham Central High School sports history. The part of the story I knew and that I had heard a million times was how in Dad's first at bat, with the bases loaded and on a 3-2 count, Dad had swung his left handed bat at a low inside fast ball and hit it over the right field wall, over the Agriculture building and into the parking lot where it had hit a school bus! What I didn't know until last night was that on his third at bat, he had hit another blast, this one over the center field fence with two men on base! Dad had gone 2 for 3 with two home runs and seven RBI's in a game that Buckingham won by 8 runs...all the while in wing-tipped dress shoes!

It's only been a little over a week, and Dad has many issues that need to be dealt with, but so far he has shown an amazing amount of poise, grace and dignity. He has surprised us with his ability to manage things on his own, we have marvelled at his toughness, and the sharpness of his mind. Above all, we have noticed the never failing sweetness and gentleness that Dad has demonstrated throughout it all. My Father has put on a clinic for all of us in how to handle loss like a Christian should, with bright hope and steadfast courage. Today is Sunday..and he wants to go to church. I will pick him up and drive him, then Pam and I will sit with him on his favorite pew. Mom will have an even better seat.

The Washington Nationals ?????

It's July the 6th. We have reached the half way point of the season and the Washington Nationals are in first place, 16 games over .500. Meanwhile, over in the NL Central, the Pittsburg Pirates are in first place. To quote Slim Pickens' Taggart.."What in the wide wide world of sports is a'goin' on here?"

As far as the Pirates are concerned...I have no earthly idea. I haven't watched a single one of their games all year. All I know is they have a ton of young players nobody has ever heard of and some decent pitchers. But they are the Pirates for goodness sake. They are a franchise that has compiled 19 straight losing seasons, an all-time record for a professional team of any sport in North America. I can name one player on their roster ( Andrew McCutchen ), which is saying something since I can name practically every position player on the Kansas City Royals. I know, I know..that's actually pretty pathetic. There is life outside of baseball, I'm told!

But the Washington Nationals are another story all together. Ever since the team moved to Washington, all of their games have been pumped into my living room via MASN. I confess to having watched their ineptitude  for quite awhile now. About halfway through last season, the front office fired the manager Jim Riggleman, and replaced him with 110 year old Davey Johnson. That's right, a very old man with a child's name..Davey. LOVE IT!! Since then, the team has responded to the old man in ways difficult to imagine. After all, The Washington Nationals franchise is the only one in the entire league that has never even competed in a world series. It's tag-line used to be..Washington..first in our hearts, last in the National League. Well, that was before they called up a 19 year old kid named Bryce Harper, and signed the flame-thrower Stephen Strasburg. Now, they are fun to watch. Harper runs the bases like his hair is on fire, the middle infielders, Ian Desmond and Danny Espinosa vacuum up everything hit their way, and their bullpen is lights out...even though their closer is the goofiest, skinniest freak you've ever seen, made freakier by the fact that he wears glasses. Just last night, the boys racked up their 19th walk-off victory over the past two seasons, leading all of baseball. They have done all of this as their best player, Ryan Zimmerman, has been in a season long hitting slump, and their 126 million dollar free agent has-been, Jayson Werth languishes on the 60 day DL.

At this point, I feel obliged to point out that in my prediction's blog of March 17, 2012, I boldly predicted that the Nationals would indeed make the playoffs.

Lessons From Death

I promise that I will not turn this space into an "all-bereavement, all the time" blog. First of all, you would tire of it quickly, second, if I don't snap out of it soon, my mother will visit me Jacob Marley-like and "tan my hide" as she used to warn me that she would. But a person doesn't go through this sort of death without learning a few things about life. The lessons have come fast and furiously.


1. The day after the funeral, I had to run by Mom and Dad's bank to deposit some money. I used the drive thru, since I don't bank at Suntrust myself. When the teller, a black girl in her twenties saw the checks she cheerfully inquired about how my parents were doing. When I told her that Mom had passed away, she instantly burst into tears. She then gathered two other tellers around and they all told me how sorry they all were for my loss and what a wonderful woman she was. As far as I know, Mom's only connection with these women was her once or twice a month trip to the bank. That they would be so moved at her passing floored me. Who WAS my mother?

2. The funeral home and cemetery business are about the creepiest industries imaginable. Although, they were both very helpful and performed with the highest degree of professionalism, I was floored by the cost, but even more by the level of soft salesmanship involved. The funeral home guy appealed to every vulnerable emotion raging in me with practised skill. I found myself questioning just how much I truly loved my mother if I was not willing to place her in their top of the line sealed 20 gauge steel casket, and titanium-lined crypt. At the cemetery I discovered that even in death we humans still hold on to our pride of place and status. There were different neighborhoods in the cemetery, the estate section featured lovely walking trails, and a fine gazebo. Other sections were essentially the bad parts of town...too close to the road, no lovely statues of middle eastern men or over sized open bibles to be seen. Of course, just like in life, to obtain an upscale address required a significant "investment". This bombardment, all in one bizarre, surreal day turned me into a puddle of weakness and guilt. What kind of son was I if I wasn't willing, regardless of cost, to provide my mother the very best? An ugly, brutal business, a monument to human pride and vanity.

3. As I watched the over 300 people stream through Bliley's the afternoon of the viewing, I realized that I have a lot to learn about being a friend. I like to think that I'm a good friend, but I saw people in that line who made me ask a difficult question of myself..."If their mother had passed, would you have gone to her viewing?". One thing that I noticed throughout the weekend was that the people who came through the most for us were invariably the ones who had themselves lost someone dear recently. They had spent lots of time on the road that we had just begun to walk, and it showed in their amazing sensitivity, and acts of kindness. Before, I always hesitated to go to viewings because I had no idea what to say. I now know that it doesn't matter what you say or if you say anything at all. Just seeing the face of a friend means so much, and warms your heart when all around seems so cold.

4. I have often made flippant and unflattering comments in this space about my church. I take NONE of them back. As a member for 25 years, and as a Dunnevant, I have earned the right to criticize. However, with criticism comes the responsibility of praise when  it is due. My church family was truly amazing. They showed up with hot meals, cards, phone calls. Mark Becton and Chuck Ward were everything that Godly men should be but often aren't...wise, tender-hearted, and professional. The reception put on for us after the service was a feast of mostly made from scratch dishes, by caring, hard-working people who went above and beyond the call of mere duty. The reason people shouldn't church-hop has never been made clearer than it was this past weekend...after 25 years, your church transforms itself into something more than a place of worship...it becomes a beautiful extension of your family.