As we crack the second set of hundreds it occurs to me that I'm not going to love each of these installments. This is one of those. Don't get me wrong: I love every one of them on an individual level; I just don't dig the chunk as a collective. Either that or this project has begun to loom overhead with intimidation.
I've realized the difficulty in laying all of this out and that's to sound (and be) genuine about each and every entry and carry some of the feeling behind each one into daily life.
Anyway, thanks for reading, and here's to the things in your life for which you might be grateful.
Nine Hundred: John
D. Fitzgerald’s The Great Brain
series
If any
collection struck me in the profound way that the adventures of John, Tom, and
Sweyn did, then it must not have been that profound after all because I do not
remember it. I don’t recall how I came across my first Fitzgerald read. Perhaps
a stroke of coincidence led to me having one of those books in my hands. Maybe
the cover struck me at the library. It’s possible that a recommendation steered
me. Whatever the case, these installments whetted my appetite for series
reading, priming my future novel interests. I’ve managed to get my hands on six
of the eight titles, and the next time I come across a copy of the other two,
my collection will be complete. The fond memories of devouring these unique
treasures leave me thankful Fitzgerald wrote them, grateful that my mom was a
library mom.
Eight Hundred
Ninety-Nine: ZZ Top
I make no
apologies for this affinity. Zero, nada, and none. I remember (the brief spell
when we had cable/MTV played music videos) when Eliminator came out, making “Legs” a regular feature on both radio
and TV. I would’ve been about nine, so the music-video rendition of the number
piqued my growing interest in females. In fact, that may’ve been my first
what-I-want-to-be-when-I-grow-up: the dude in the “Legs” video.
This
gratitude has nothing to do with hits, though. It has everything to do with
badassery, a feat the Texas trio achieved in the early 1970s. Staking Top to my
list of favorites subjects me to ridicule, but three-member outfits --
especially successful ones with the same lineup for over 40 years -- deserve
credit, and not just in the form of rattling off stats like 11 gold records
(seven platinum), a Rock and Roll Hall of Fame induction, and award-winning
videos.
They
deserve credit for being rooted in blues, morphing with the musical times, and
for a remarkable shelf life that, evidenced by an upcoming five-month tour, shows
no sign of expiration. So, here’s to you, tres
barbas. You guys rock.
Eight Hundred
Ninety-Eight: sibling #3
I don’t
think this sister of mine cannot find happiness. I believe she feels happy most of the time, but I wish
I had the power to give her the gifts of clarity and fulfillment. I think some
confusion hangs over her regarding her past, present, and future selves. I
imagine these things qualify as normal, as human, as typical. I wish, though,
that I could gift her the salience of recognition.
I’m unsure
if we all have a quote/unquote purpose in life, but I feel like sibling number
three does, and I feel like some weight and some anxiety stand in her way. Many
times I’ve considered taking from myself to give to her, but I myself lack the
vision for seeing if this would heal any wounds she might have. I’m also
hesitant because of what such a giving might deduct from the potential she has
in her own self to find fulfillment.
I don’t
think she wants to be told how to live her life. She doesn’t need to be told, really. She’s doing a
fine enough job on her own. For so long, now, though, I’ve felt as if she has
stood upon a precipice, scared and unsure of how to get to the other side.
It’s not
even my burden to bear, but I want for her; I love her and await the day that
she traverses the rift in her self. Whether she gets where I hope for her to be
or not, sibling number three possesses so many wonderful qualities. Each of
them isolated leaves me proud to be her brother. All of them combined finds me
blessed.
Eight Hundred
Ninety-Seven: Aunt Suzi
My mom’s
younger sister has a big heart. She has spent her adult life spreading her love
and care around to whoever needed it the most. Aunt Suzi has loved her parents,
her siblings, her nieces and nephews, and her spouses, sometimes putting her
own life on hold in order to do so. Her infectious laughter makes everyone
smile, and her knack for tackling projects never ceases to impress. Suzi has
faced life’s challenges with unflappable courage; the source of her strength
ever mysterious. I’m grateful for everything Aunt Suzi taught me in my youth
and if I could, I would pinpoint for her the path to supreme happiness. If
anybody deserves it, it’s her. It’d be a shame for Aunt Suzi to settle for
anything less.
Eight Hundred
Ninety-Six: unnamed friend #9
Just by
picturing his face, unnamed friend number nine blows me away. I’ve met some
smart cats in my day, but this dude either tops the list or comes close. Never
have I encountered such an immense vocabulary and a knack for the written word.
Never have I met such a steely-faced, agro-apparent teddy bear with the
randomest collection of miniature-encyclopedia entries saved inside his brain.
Never have I heard tales told of a lost, then found, lost-again/found-again guy
who milks humor out of the story’s every detail.
I think
unnamed friend number nine found happiness. Life’s basics have been checked off
of his list, and whether or not he one day chooses to work toward sharing his
gift with the world, I’m so lucky our paths crossed. I’m honored to call you a
friend, friend.
Eight Hundred
Ninety-Five: 6127 ½ Harrison Street
When I
moved back to Kansas City, I cohabitated, then moved in with a buddy when that
relationship began to dissolve. Once accepted into graduate school, I rented
the top half of a duplex from a quirky dude named Bald Matt. The four sets of
tenants I lived above were each challenging in their own ways, but as people I
dug them all. That little duplex half had so few setbacks, so few
disadvantages, so much to love about it, that I didn’t realize what I was
leaving when I married and moved in to my wife’s home. It might’ve been the
greatest home I’ve ever had. It’s impossible to say how much of it was the
residence and how much of it was living on my own (my lone experience).
As is the
case with all of my previous homes, I’m emotional when I drive past it, but
with this one it’s almost to the point of wishing it had remained unoccupied
since my departure.
Whatever
weirdness that’s about, I spent an amazing 28 months on Harrison. I’m thankful
for the time there, for Bald Matt (and all of his quirks), and even for all of
my co-tenants.
Eight Hundred
Ninety-Four: Jim Beck
I imagine
countless grandsons have similar stories, but seeing that man’s first name in writing
beckons the surreal. I heard his wife call him “Jimmy” a number of times, but
seldom did I hear anybody refer to him as anything but Grandpa.
Life didn’t introduce me to Jim
Beck any earlier than age eight or nine and I’m not sure I wanted it to; knowing
him how I did was perfect. I can’t help but wonder, though, what it might have
been like to know Jim Beck the man. He was Grandpa to me, Grandpa to my sisters
and cousins, and Grandpa (for most of what I heard) to his children. His
obituary listed him as James “Grandpa” Beck and mentioned that most folks knew
him as and referred to him by his nickname. He left the world and is remembered
as Grandpa, but for a huge chunk of years he was James and Jim, Jimmy, Dad, and
probably Honey, Dear, etc.
Life didn’t introduce me to Jim
Beck early enough to be held by him and by the time it did, I was all but too
big to sit on his lap (even though he let me a few times). Now that I’m old
enough, I see people at family gatherings. They’re people that have joined the
family late. They’re people that are trying to fit in, like I once tried to do.
They’re people with pasts, with history, with children from prior
relationships. Writing this entry it occurs to me that I don’t look upon those
children without judgment the way Jim Beck looked upon me and my sister. Of
greater importance: It occurs to me that I need to try.
Life didn’t introduce me to Jim
Beck in time to know him as Jim Beck, but I know that he was a good man, a man
with ambition, heart, and pride. I know that Jim Beck influenced the way his
children parented and how they now grandparent. I know that Jim Beck wasn’t
just a good man. He was a great man and he is responsible for a portion of the
love I have for my children. It would have been cool if life had introduced me
to Jim Beck the man. It would have been cool to trace the steps his life took
that led him to becoming Grandpa. It would have been cool to learn about the
world from the eyes of Jim Beck, but that wasn’t in life’s cards.
Life introduced me to Grandpa and
I’m thankful for that. I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
Eight Hundred
Ninety-Three: Grandpa Bill
I can only
remember seeing my dad’s dad in person once. I know they traveled to Kansas
City to see me when I was born, and I probably saw him a third time. Maybe it
was four -- possibly five -- but I can only remember one.
Truth be
told, I’m not even sure I remember that
one. My true memory of Grandpa Bill has blurred with my memory of seeing pictures of Grandpa Bill and to some
degree hearing stories about him. Truth be told, I don’t think I’ve ever even
seen more than a few pictures about him and the stories I can recall about him
either have to do with him as a father, a husband, and a World War II pilot.
They are -- by and large -- good stories. I think
Grandpa Bill was a solid dude. I’m not sure if it was his parents or his
generation, but I don’t think he was too in touch with his emotions.
I don’t
blame him for that, but I think it was a touch detrimental to my dad. Either
way, Grandpa Bill was a source of pride for my father. I know he loved his dad
and would have loved to have a few more years with him. I’m glad for what he
meant to his son. I’m glad for the handful of stories and pictures. I’m glad
for the blurred memories, and above all I’m glad I got to meet him.
Eight Hundred
Ninety-Two: Captain
Don Barnard
had five children and 12 grandkids. I should say 15 grandkids, but I’m not
certain what kind of relationship he had with his daughter Suzi’s three
stepchildren. My guess is that he treated them the same way Grandpa Beck
treated me and my sister, Tiffany, so we’ll go with 15. As for his nickname,
I’m even less certain what percentage of us grandkids called him Captain, but
that’s what he was to us.. As the story goes, Grandpa Bill was the youngest
pilot to achieve captaincy for Trans World Airlines until Don Barnard beat his
record. Suffice to say that my grandfathers knew one another before my parents
married.
Don Barnard
-- for the years I knew him -- was a religious man. Attending Mass might have
been the most important thing in the world to him, if only because it fueled
him with the love of life he could then share with his family. Captain was a
sweet man, a warm grandfather, and a loving dad. I wish I could have spent more
time with him, but I’m thankful for his sense of humor, his passion for sports,
and his hugs. I know his children miss him and hope they know that his
grandkids do, too.
Eight Hundred Ninety-One:
The Grateful Dead
I missed
the opportunity to see The Grateful Dead live. That is, I had the chance to see
them, but I didn’t act upon it, and I’m glad I didn’t, as I’ve always felt like
the last time to really see The Grateful Dead happened about eight to 10 years
before I got into them. I imagine those final shows in Chicago and St. Louis
were fun, but via hindsight, I didn’t want my sole live Dead experience to be
contain the alleged sloppy, forgetting-lyrics Jerry Garcia.
Before I
subscribed to the anti-compilation stance, my relationship with The Grateful
Dead started with Skeletons from the
Closet: The Best of The Grateful Dead, and to this day I cannot stand that
record. It didn’t do anything for me before I knew The Dead, and once I knew
their stuff well, I disliked it even more. I grew to know and love the true
Dead gems via studio albums and bootlegs, which shone a light on my misguided
opinion of the band.
The
longevity of The Grateful Dead contains beautiful music, breathtaking lyrics,
and a magical energy never before composed by any band in American music
history. Their stuff stands the test of time and will remain unmatched for as
long as scores continue to be created in the modern-world fashion. That the
true spirit of what they accomplished graced my ears left me a person forever
changed. It left me grateful for The Dead.
Eight Hundred Ninety:
The
Harbinger
I logged a
few semesters as a staff writer for the Shawnee Mission East High School
student newspaper. Few rules were employed by faculty advisor Robert Dillon.
Submit a story idea, a photo assignment, meet your deadline, submit
corrections. Writing stories for The
Harbinger taught me -- in a sense -- how to write stories. To write them
you had to take Dillon’s journalism classes (and pass, I suppose). You had to
follow the inverted-pyramid approach, and you had to have sources. That was
about it, though.
An
editorial staff oversaw submissions, layout, and what would make the paper, but
we put out a fair amount of pages in each edition, so if you followed the
rules, your stuff usually made the cut. The experience blended guidelines and
freedoms; I could write about topics of my choice, use my friends as sources (Note: Not recommended; never a good idea.),
and learn about composition and editing. I loved the experience. It was a
perfect setup for…
Eight Hundred
Eighty-Nine: The Independent
Early in my
first semester at Fort Lewis College, I visited with some classmates one
afternoon and the subject of student newspaper arose. One kind-hearted gal told
me about FLC’s rag, where it was, and how she knew someone on staff. After
class that day she walked me over to the building and introduced me to someone
who introduced me to Editor-in-Chief Clara Woodmansee. The rest, as they say,
is history.
Clara
welcomed me with open arms and gave me my first assignment, which was to write
about homecoming weekend.
“Get in
touch with Bill Bolden,” she said. “He’s the director of student housing.”
Nervous as
I was, I did just that, nabbed some other unlucky source, and by the following
Friday, my first story in The Independent
ran. I wrote a bunch of mediocre stories for the rest of the year, and Clara
signed my compilation of column inches with kind words, acknowledgment of
improvement, and encouragement to rejoin the following year, which I did. At
some point, the acting Arts & Entertainment Editor started mailing in his
page assignments, and I unofficially began to oversee them, which landed me the
successor role by both merit and default.
Being in
charge of entire pages for each week’s issue was a remarkable experience. I
learned so much from my peers, my superiors, our staff writers, designers,
photographers, ad-layout folks, etc. We were, as they say, like family.
My
experience with the Fort Lewis College Independent
remains invaluable to this day. It often distracted me (necessary or otherwise)
from my classwork, but it gave me a sense of responsibility and introduced me
to an amazing group of individuals that worked hard (Note: This team cared more about a quality paper --and showed it --
than many staffs prior, and perhaps all of them since.), worked together,
and had a ton of fun along the way. Amazing time.
Eight Hundred
Eighty-Eight: House of Georges
Some 10
years after I graduated from Fort Lewis College, some Independent friends and I started a sports blog. The rough focus of
that blog was the rivalry between the Kansas City Chiefs and the Denver Broncos
football teams. In the early going that focus didn’t vary much, but let’s face
it: There’s only so much you can write about two football teams that play each
other two times a year in a four-month span. Needless to say, the rough focus began to vary, and by the time the
project had run its course, we were writing about most anything but our two
favorite squads.
Like any
topic, opinions on what blogging is and what bloggers do are all over the
board. I gotta say, though: It’s a ton of work to do one and do it well. This
is not to say that we did ours well, but we worked hard to create fresh, new
material each week, and we did it for over four years. We were never cutting
edge. We were never going to quit our jobs and do this thing 40 hours a week,
but for most of those four years we gave a lot of our lives to making that
thing happen. And it was so much fun.
I say
“fresh, new material” with a caveat. We poached ideas from other bloggers, and
we almost never didn’t use a photo stolen from Google images, but the writing
was always ours and it was always good (Note:
Admitted bias.). I’ll never forget the excitement over cutting checks for
generated ad revenue, the obsession with monitoring traffic, the occasional
decent comment thread, the self-teaching of (among other things) HTML, and the
sense of shared accomplishment that such a project lends. My gratitude for
being a part of that run spans a far and wide distance, and I’m so happy we ran
with the idea and gave it our everything.
Eight Hundred
Eighty-Seven: the clouds
Of all of
the world’s natural wonders it seems silly to select a simple few, but those
pillows in the sky mesmerize. I probably don’t notice them as much during the
daytime, but every once in a while, when I step outside at night and the
moonlight looms ominous, I’m reminded of how small we are, how short our time.
I suppose the belief that Heaven lies above lends a lot to this, but the
movement of the clouds always makes me think of my dad. It makes me wonder if
he’s watching, sad for all of the life he’s missed, and most of all it reminds
me of the fragility of my own life.
So in a
way, the clouds encourage me to try and live a better life for my family and
for myself, and for that I am thankful.
Eight Hundred
Eighty-Six: pizza
Even when
it’s shitty, pizza’s pretty hard to beat. Got to give thanks for the great
Italian pie, how enjoyable it is to eat, how it can bring folks together, how
it can make you smile.
Eight Hundred
Eighty-Five: healthy babies
My
next-door neighbors underwent an emergency Caesarean-section delivery on
December 23rd. The baby’s mom had developed Preeclampsia and as a
result they welcomed their daughter into the world five weeks early. They came
home on the 26th and remained pinned to January 31st --
the original due date -- as when their daughter Ada Josephine would be
released. Unless being held by her mother, she remained in the Neo-Natal
Intensive Care Unit, under a light and hooked up to monitors and a feeding tube
for over a week.
I never wanted
anything more than a healthy baby both times we were pregnant. I didn’t root
for a gender and I don’t hope for my children to be anything other than their
happy selves. I can’t imagine the difficulty they experienced but I’m glad they
got to bring their daughter home.
I’ve always
been thankful that our babies were born healthy, especially given that my wife
was Preeclamptic late in both pregnancies. It’s tough to remain present with
that gratitude since they’ve been alive and well since their respective births,
but it doesn’t take much to rekindle those hopes and fears. For my healthy
babies, I will always be grateful.
Eight Hundred
Eighty-Four: Medeski
In October
of 2008 I took our dog and cat to the vet for checkups. Once my transaction was
complete, I saw a flyer for a puppy in need of a home.
I snapped a
picture of it and texted it to my wife.
She
responded: “Who is that?”
I replied
with something of a hint as to a possible future housemate.
We talked,
considered, inquired, scheduled a meeting, and before long, we adopted Bingo.
He’d been found on a Kansas City, Kansas road by a guy looking for land. He
sat, sad and unhealthy, on the side of the highway, and the guy couldn’t not
stop. He took the ferocious fella home and with the help of his wife’s friend
(a practicing doctor at our veterinary clinic) began the process of getting him
healthy.
We chose a
new name for him and welcomed him into our home, where he quickly acclimated to
the presence of our other animals. He reinvigorated our aging shepherd and
showed us endless love, even after everything he’d been through in his young
life. The folks that found him already had a large dog, though, and a baby on
the way; they couldn’t imagine making it work.
So they
advertised and we responded.
He has been
part of our family for almost six years, and he has seen our shepherd die. He
has witnessed as we added children to our family, and he -- like us --
experienced a move. He has been the new guy, the star of the show, and the
forgotten. If I were him, I would feel as though my owners view him as an
annoyance more than a family member, and sometimes it may very well seem like
that, but it isn’t true. He’s one of us. We love him for who he is and are
thankful he came into our lives.
Eight Hundred
Eighty-Three: air travel
Last month, before I boarded a
plane, I theorized that my fear and anxiety of flying would only worsen with
age.
Takeoff validated that theory.
I’m not ashamed to admit this. I
think there’s probably something queer about you if you don’t get a touch
uncomfortable during the ascent/descent of an aircraft. It’s akin to the
feel-a-slight-pinch warning the dentist and doctor gives you. It’s seldom just
a pinch, and it’s never slight. As we prepared to taxi, they told us there’d be
turbulence from the jet stream, that beverage service would be delayed because
they wanted to keep the flight attendants buckled in for a few extra minutes.
Didn’t matter. Still almost shit
myself.
All of that said, air travel is
nothing shy of amazing. I don’t fly often -- at this moment I think it’s been
over four years since I last boarded a plane -- but I’ve been doing it since
before I could walk and talk. An amazing invention. Grateful I’ve been privy to
it for my entire life.
Eight Hundred
Seventy-Nine: technology
Know what I
haven’t been doing my entire life? Typing into a Word document while listening to music courtesy of the airline’s
wireless signal. Half a dozen instruments of technology sat nestled in my carry-on
for that flight and I used every one of them before boarding a plane for our
return trip home. I give thanks for the absurd amounts of technology to which
we have access, and I hope that -- for as long as I need them -- they don’t one
day overwhelm me to the point of giving up.
Eight Hundred
Seventy-Eight: salty snacks
They gave
us peanuts and Chex Mix. Double score.
Enough
air-travel talk, though.
My favorite
food group: shit that’s bad for you.
I’ll stuff 12 bucks worth of Taco Bell into my hole
and contemplate how much more I could’ve eaten. Whole bag of Doritos in one
sitting? No problem.
Never
really had a sweet tooth. This is not to confused with not liking sweets
because I do. I’ll eat the shit out of some gummy candy. My favorite part of
Christmas stockings is the jellybeans and gum drops. And don’t think I’m biased
against chocolate. I’ll kill a pack of Rolo in a single mouthful and wash it
down with a half-pound of M&M’s.
Left to
choose, though, you can keep all of your sweets. I like the salty stuff.
This was
never a challenge or an issue when I did the grocery shopping. Now that my wife
does it, however, the “Daddy Snacks” inventory in the man cave has shifted from
the likes of Dorito’s, Chex Mix, and Pringle’s to the less desirable. I’d list
a few of them, but I don’t even know what they are. Baked kale crisps and
roasted acorns and dehydrated fruit and shit.
I know, I
know. “Salty snacks” is another way of saying junk food, but I don’t care.
Bring on the love handles and the cavities and the clogged arteries. I is, a junk-food junkie.
Eight Hundred
Seventy-Seven: sibling #1
It
surprises me how much I value my relationship with this sibling because for the
longest time our closeness has been associated with distance. That is, I didn’t
think we were as close to one another as I was with my other two siblings. Part
of me probably assumed that a lot of the fault in that rested on my shoulders,
too, which would explain how much I value her today.
Sibling
number one exudes a certain level of comfort in who she is, a self-confidence
that allows her to be happy with pursuing that which she wants to pursue. I
love how in tune she is with her skills and limitations. I love that her level
of intelligence never interferes with her ability to display a touch of
self-deprecation, even if only for humor.
In small
ways I think we’ve bonded a touch over the past couple years, and that makes me
happy. I’m grateful for whatever our relationship has been. I’m happy for what
I think it’s become, and I’m excited for all that it might be.
Eight Hundred Seventy-Six: Aunt Marcia
En route to
see my dad’s sister I reflected upon a couple of years ago when my sister Megan
got married, and when we all saw Aunt Marcia two years before that in San
Diego. Before that, though, it had been three years (my wedding), and five
years before that (my dad’s funeral). She has now lost two husbands, both
parents, and both brothers. She gained a couple of stepchildren and some
grandkids along the way, but Aunt Marcia has managed to bulldoze adversity
whenever it has seemed most likely that the opposite would be true.
Her
strength transparent, she has also always been sweet, caring, and understanding:
undervalued qualities in a person. I was excited to see her.
She and
Uncle Peter were gracious hosts. They were generous, flexible, and wonderful to
be around, even though we kind of, sort of forgot to remind them that we were
coming, and failed -- all together -- to mention that we’d be attending Phish
shows for four consecutive nights.
Aunt Marcia
has figured out how to live life. She would be hard pressed to find a more
benevolent, accommodating spouse than she has in Peter. Their life appears to
be free of stress and worry, as one would hope retirement might be. I’m
thankful to have had Aunt Marcia (Auntie Em) in my life for as long as I have.
While geography has always separated us, we always pick up where we left off,
and I give thanks that she has bucked the trend of early death on the Johnson
side.
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