I’m not exactly sure when Kody realized that I existed. For me, it’s like I have always known him. In small towns like Guymon, everybody knows everybody. We grew up together in the middle of the Oklahoma panhandle where fields of corn and wheat meet endless clear blue skies.
I remember the day in July of 1984 when our friendship started. Kody remembers an earlier episode during the winter of the same year involving a high school basketball game, my pink snow boots that looked like high-top tennis shoes, a detonated firecracker inside the gym, and our junior high principal Mr. Wolgamott throwing him out of the game, but that’s his story to tell. In my version of our beginning, I was fourteen, hanging out with a group of junior high friends at the Olympic-sized Guymon municipal pool. At the deep end stood the high dive, flanked by two low diving boards, with a deck off to the side where we slathered on baby oil and baked in the sun. Kody’s tan was sexy, and his muscles rippled as he flipped and cannon-balled off the high board that day. His laugh made me laugh, and I said to him, “Could you give me a ride home?”
Kody drove a 1977 white Chevy Silverado pick-up even though he was barely fifteen. Looking back I’m betting my mom would have been available to pick me up, and I’m pretty sure she would have disapproved of her fourteen-year-old daughter riding around with any boy, not to mention one without a license. I most likely asked Kody for a ride for the sheer summer thrill.
When Kody pulled into the circle drive at my house and slowed to a stop, I opened the passenger door to let myself out and said, “Thanks for the ride.” But Kody never parked, instead accelerating again, completing the circle while I held on to the open truck door and cracked up. A moment later and once more outside my front door, he stopped for another mock drop-off, and like a record, we rotated through the drive, the scene repeating, the Silverado pausing, and we rolled on, Kody’s arms flexing as he held onto the steering wheel, his laugh infectious. Finally, he let me go. We were kids, being kids, and I found myself giggling about that ride for days.
Flash forward a couple of years to our first date and a few more years to our first marriage and thirty more through our journey of ups and downs, human mistakes and equally human reactions, break ups and makeups, a divorce and a second marriage.
In the top of the hallway closet, there’s a faded hatbox, covered with Raphael’s Cherubs from the Sistine Madonna. If I remember correctly, I purchased it at Hobby Lobby about twenty-five years ago. Inside are cherubs of my own, photographs of Drew and Lauren before the era of digital cameras. They have matching brown eyes, chubby cheeks, and full-mouthed smiles, the ones that say, Every day is the best day ever!
Here they are ages four and two, inside their Playskool playhouse, on the covered back patio of our first north Texas home. Honeysuckle grows on the chain link fence in the background. Drew with a smug, closed-mouth grin, his arm wrapped around Lauren’s neck, her mouth open wide and tongue sticking out, sort of like she’s choking, but there’s a smile behind the joke, and their eyes sparkle with mischief.
Here is Drew’s five-year-old birthday. His Chuck E. Cheese hat covers his soft brown curls, and he holds up a Power Ranger sheet, the matching pillow case in Lauren’s hand, and more of everything Power Ranger litters the living room floor—posters and coloring books, placemats and dishes and cups.
In a Halloween photo from the same year, Drew wears an eye patch and a red paisley doo-rag, a bushy, black pirate mustache and beard. A butterfly mask covers Lauren’s eyes. She’s two and three-quarters, and she wears a headband with sparkly antennae atop her still-blonde hair and wings the colors of Halloween, black, yellow, and orange.
If only I had appreciated these moments more at the time. They slipped away too soon. Thank God for the hatbox and happy memories! And you know what? Honeysuckle covers a section of fence here in our backyard, too. And the fragrance is heavenly.
During April, I’m reflecting on life, feeling grateful, and taking on the A-Z blogging challenge. I appreciate you for reading today! If you liked this one, click the links to the others below.
Even though my dad lives a twelve-hour drive away, he is actually with me every day. So many years ago, let’s just go with 1984, my dad said, “Crystal, you can choose your attitude.” I was fourteen in 1984, and I’m not sure when my perspective shifted, but one day I chose to believe him. His philosophy forever shaped my life.
On the day my dad asked my mom to marry him, he bought a box of Cracker Jacks, opened it up, excavated the prize, and re-inserted a lovely solitaire diamond on a simple white gold band. Later on their date, my mom and dad shared their Cracker Jacks, and my mother found her prize.
“This looks real,” she said.
“It is real,” he said.
My parents celebrate their 59th anniversary in May. My dad will celebrate anyway. My mom has Alzheimer’s. They’re both 80. However, my dad still lawyers during the work week, and during the summers he still takes running dives into his swimming pool, and he still travels with my siblings and me.
Mid-March Dad texted me to say that my mom’s nursing home implemented a no-visitor policy. So now Dad calls the front desk and asks them to open the blinds of my mom’s window, and he visits from outside. I can only imagine him waving his arms like a mad man and making the craziest faces to capture her attention. Then he will send me and my sister and brother a group text with his success. I mean, what can I say? My dad is a cool dude. Obviously, my mom thinks so, too.
Thanks so much for spending time with me at my first ever A-Z blogging challenge. As I hover at home this April, I’ll be seeking the good in every day and reflecting on it here. I count you as part of the good.
Lauren called me yesterday morning. It was 7:23 AM. “Did I wake you up?” she said.
“No, I was awake,” I said, not sure if it was the truth.
“Do you have much going today?” she said.
“I have a few things to do,” I said vaguely, thinking about my morning walk, some reading homework, a trip to the grocery store, and my self-imposed A-Z blogging challenge. “Why?”
“I was wondering if you would come pick up Boozie.”
Boozie is a Shih Tzu-Cocker Spaniel mix and such a good boy. He loves to come to our house. We have a doggy door here and a yard, and he loves to fetch sticks. At our house he can run full speed, his entire little body stretched horizontal as he literally flies back and forth around the side of the house and across the back yard and up onto the deck where he crashes through our back door doggy door and down the hallway through the laundry room and around the corner back to the living room where he takes one last flying leap onto the floral ottoman and comes to an exhausted halt. We love to have Boozie over for the sheer entertainment. “Sure,” I said, “but not until later this afternoon.”
“No, Mom, I want you to come over right now,” she said dripping with sarcasm. I must have been asleep because I don’t remember anything else from our conversation.
By 2:00, I had accomplished all but the groceries, plus read a few other blogs. Julie Krupp at Enhanced Perspective wrote about how “dogs and dog owners were missing that magical moment when you greet each other after work, yoga, errands, etc.” and how “people and dogs are not getting the boost of positive endorphins that this ritual used to supply at least once a day.” In the post, Julie provides “Ways to Recreate the ‘Return Home Ritual’ While Sheltering in Place.” If you have a dog, check it out.
After my grocery pick-up, I drove a few more miles to Lauren’s apartment for the curbside Boozer pick-up. I called Lauren, and she brought him to my Mazda CX-5 on a leash. Boozie’s little tail wagged like mad, and he bucked like a bronco. My laugh was real. I felt the endorphin boost. And when we wound our way through Houston back to my neighborhood and turned on to my street, Boozie actually sang a song. I sang right along with him, and we shared a perfect moment.
Not too many years ago in an old shoebox of memorabilia, I found a Mother’s Day card I made for my mother. I’m betting I was in Mrs. Goff’s second grade class when I created a butterfly with tissue paper wings and glued it to the front cover of the folded construction paper. On the inside I scrawled a poem with a No. 2 pencil:
fly home to my mother.
Please tell her
how much I love her.
Although it’s entirely possible that I copied this poem for an elementary school assignment, I want to say that I wrote it myself. I’ve Googled the lines, and I’m not finding them on the World Wide Web.
In the spring of 2015 or 2016, I re-gifted the handmade card to my mother, and she was thrilled with what I had made as a child and saved as an adult. This was before the Alzheimer’s advanced.
Today as my mother turns 80, I’m thankful for the opportunity to spend her birthday with her. And when we can’t be together, I’ll forever send her butterflies with all my love.
To the left of the Winmau dart board hung a stenciled wooden sign that read, “Póg mo thóin.”
“I wonder what that means,” I said with a tilt of my head and my hitch-hiking thumb pointing toward the sign.
“Right?” Kody said as he aimed his dart. “It sounds nasty.”
We had dropped into a new Irish bar, new for us, where the green twinkle lights on the covered patio drew us in, green velvet bar stools invited us to sit, and a darling bartender with long red hair poured us drinks—a Wild Basin Black Raspberry seltzer in a chilled glass and a Jameson Caskmates IPA neat for me. To our delight, there were nice dart boards in a room on the other side of a partitioned half wall and darts with pointed tips. I emphasize nice and pointed because we have a tendency to play in a place with a terrible board and darts with blunt tips that don’t stick. Like the twinkle lights and green velvet, these were wonderful surprises.
I had been practicing my aim, and our game was tied. It was a matter of shooting two more bullseyes. I already had one, and so did Kody. With my eyes on the board, my ears overheard a conversation between two guys at the bar, “What’s the longest road trip you’ve ever taken? I mean, not with your parents as a kid, but that you drove yourself.”
I couldn’t hear what the other guy said, but the bartender said, “Probably Austin. I never drive anywhere.” She seemed very young, but now that I’m fifty, so many people do.
I wanted to pipe into this conversation, but I was busy concentrating on my target. Ready. Aim. 5. Ready. Aim. 16. Ready. Aim. 2. Kody said, “I’m telling you, you’re on the spot.” My darts were close, but not close enough.
Kody couldn’t hit his either. His darts fell on the 9, the 14, and the 8. He breathed out with a huff.
“Thanks for giving me another chance,” I said with a smile. My wins against Kody are few and far between.
The first road trip that came to mind was the one I took with my friend Misti back in 2009. She had moved to Sitka, Alaska for a couple of years, and she was moving back to Texas and driving her car, the first stretch for her via ferry. And so I flew to Sacramento and met her to keep her company for the rest of the way home. We stayed in Sonoma Valley that first night, toured Napa, and dined at Bottega, Chef Michael Chiarello’s restaurant, where I had my favorite meal of the trip—Tortino Rustico Southern Italian ratatouille in a mascarpone pastry shell, fresh goats’ cheese, heirloom tomato sauce and arugula salad. I hate to be one of those people snapping photos in fancy restaurants, but I don’t regret keeping the memory.
I threw my darts again—6, triple 12, 10. By the way, if you don’t play darts, I hit the twelve on the small red strip on the inner circle, which means absolutely nothing. Triples on 15-20 is exactly what you want, but I had closed those numbers.
From wine country we spent a couple of days in San Francisco, drove down Lombard Street, toured in a double decker bus, walked on the Golden Gate Bridge, ate at Fisherman’s Wharf, caught a performance of Wicked, and ate pizza in a parlor alongside the famous San Francisco twins. From San Francisco, Misti and I traded off driving first down Pacific Coast Highway One and then east toward Las Vegas. And you know what they say about Vegas—what happens there, stays there.
Kody had another opportunity to beat me, and as he threw 20, 17, and 16, I heard the guy who proposed the road trip question mention his travels between Houston and Odessa. “It’s a good ten hour drive, but I just take my pee bottle.”
“Did he just say pee bottle?” I said to Kody in a voice quiet enough that no one else could hear. “Who needs a pee bottle? Just stop the damn car.”
Kody said, “I don’t need that much time. I’m already driving 110.”
There was a note of truth behind his joke, and suddenly his driving seemed better than traveling with a bottle of pee. No offense if you happen to use a pee bottle, just not my style, and I laughed and shook my head.
From Vegas, Misti and I drove southeast a bit before hitting the Historic Route 66, stopping for restrooms and gas along the way, and after an overnight respite somewhere in Arizona, we sped on toward Santa Fe where we spent another night at a nice resort and celebrated with massages in teepees. Misti planned every last detail, and I’m the friend who says, “Okay!” I’m not sure who was Thelma and who was Louise. Brad Pitt may or may not have shown up along the way. But instead of running away and driving off a cliff, we drove right into Dallas back to our jobs and the reality of our lives. No one was hurt in the making of our escapade. Well, Misti might have been, but that’s her story to tell. Anyway, that is how you road trip with one of your besties.
I held the dart with three fingers, my index and my thumb with my middle finger to steady it. I stared straight in the center of the bull. I threw. I missed. I refocused. I threw my second dart. “Kody?” I said, pointing.
“Is that it?” he said, and he walked forward for a closer look at my dart in the red center of the board, worth a double bullseye.
“Didn’t you have an opportunity to take some points on me?” I said, rubbing it in just a little bit.
“You really gonna say that? I’ll be taking my points next time. Another game? I’m bringing the pain.” He was totally jesting.
“Well, game on.” I said with feigned bravado. “Game. On.”
“My Name Is Human” played in the background. This was Kody’s playlist. To think that jukeboxes can be controlled through the touch of a phone. Anyway, I had a friend tell me that he always liked my playlists. So Tim, this is for you—a random sampling of our Wednesday evening songs, old and new, from the jukebox to the car radio to videos on our TV in the living room. And for those of you who don’t celebrate Valentine’s Day—try, “Póg mo thóin.” St. Patrick’s Day is just around the corner.
I’m on a two-week church streak. Since moving to Houston in 2016 and leaving behind my seemingly irreplaceable Chase Oaks in Dallas, well, let’s just say I sort of slipped off the church wagon. I visited here and there, and in a city the size of Houston, it’s weird that I couldn’t find a place that felt like home. Eventually, I gave up and just lived in sin.
(Ha Ha! I kid. We’re all sinners and by that I mean imperfect. But I keep trying to be a better human anyway.)
Two Sundays ago, I found myself at the Methodist church in my Oklahoma panhandle hometown. Olivia, my five-year-old great niece, was singing in the children’s choir, and well, I couldn’t miss that. Their song went something like this, “Count your blessings, name them one by one. Count your blessings for what the Lord has done.” And I did. While the kids sang, I counted my blessings.
Seeing my sweet mother again.
Hearing my mom say, “I love you,” to me one more time.
Seeing and hearing Olivia’s performance and gleaning a jewel of wisdom.
The opportunity for some time off of work to spend time with my family.
A safe solo trip to the panhandle.
My three-year-old niece Allyson, playing hide and seek with me in the next pew.
My last class of my 12-week, long-term sub job, where we had a round of Show and Tell, and Jennissa and Neicko brought down the house with their own rendition of Lady Gaga and Bradley Cooper’s duet “Shallow” from A Star Is Born.
I could’ve continued counting, but I zoned back into the service in time for the hymn “It Is Well with My Soul,” which led into the sermon and the backstory of the song writer Horatio Spafford. A lawyer from Chicago, in 1871 Spafford’s four-year-old son died of Scarlet fever and the Great Fire destroyed his real estate investment and ruined him financially. Two years later his wife and four daughters headed to Europe on vacation, where he planned to later join them, and their ship the S.S. Ville du Havre sank in the Atlantic Ocean. His wife’s telegram read, “Saved alone.” Their four daughters had drowned. He wrote “It Is Well With My Soul” on his journey to England to meet his wife while passing near the spot where the ship went down. In the face of more tragedy than the average person could bear, Spafford’s soul was well. Mid-blessing count, my soul is well, too.
Back in Houston last Sunday, I tried a new church, River Pointe, by recommendation of my friend Mary. Like my Chase Oaks back in Dallas, the music was outstanding, a mix of contemporary and traditional, and for the second time in a week, I sang “It Is Well With My Soul.” This time the minister referenced the songwriter Horatio Spafford and said, “You should Google him.” I remembered the story from last week’s service in Oklahoma (Thanksgiving Episode 1) and silently wondered if God was trying to tell me something. I mean, my soul still felt pretty darn good. As pastor Ryan Leak spoke, I heard the boom of God’s voice and a special Thanksgiving message crystal clear.
Regardless of what you think about Jesus, you have to admit he has a common sense approach to relationship restoration. And while some of us can’t wait to gather with our families at Thanksgiving and throughout the upcoming holidays, some of us have some relationship issues that strike discord and darken spirits.
As I typed up a few sermon notes to keep for myself, I decided to share with you if you so choose to read on. Let us now turn to the New Testament.
“Then Peter came to Him and asked, ‘Lord,
how many times will my brother sin against me and I forgive him and let
it go? Up to seven times?’ Jesus answered him, ‘I say to you, not up to seven
times, but seventy times seven’” (Matthew 18:21-22).
Did you see the italicized and? It’s
not just about the forgiveness. We must also let it go.
“If your brother or sister sins against
you, rebuke them; and if they repent, forgive them. Even if they sin against
you seven times in a day and seven times come back to you saying, ‘I repent,’
you must forgive them” (Luke 17:3-4).
Before you sit down to the Thanksgiving table, remember the words. You see, faith allows you to do what sometimes seems impossible…like letting go and moving on. It is impossible that no offenses will come. We are human. None of us are perfect, but it’s so much easier to point the finger in blame rather than to let a wrongdoing go. Jesus says, “Let it go. 490 times. Let it go.” Did you notice the imperative statement, also known as a command (ment). Ask God to give you an opportunity to be honest (rebuke them), then be generous with your forgiveness and discerning with reconciliation. That is God’s message. The message I needed to hear.
As I left the sanctuary that day, the woman sitting next to me turned, looked me in the eye, and said in a lilting Nigerian accent, “And to think that God would give us the grace to forgive every family member.”