Hope

I've had lots of pets over the years, known many other animals familiarly too. All those cows and chickens and ducks that my farmer relatives kept and those wild critturs I've been able to identify as acquaintances have made their impressions on me. All of them exhibited to my satisfaction lots of characteristics we tend to think of as "human". They want, they love, they hate, they defend, they are loyal, and they love a good time (and I am quite sure a simple joke). I have also seen shame. What I have never seen, however, is hope. I have instead seen expectation,-but not hope. If as they say "all dogs go to heaven", then I believe it's because they cannot imagine any other alternative. To them life is everything.

 Now, all this leads me to a natural bit of pondering, to wit: How come we humans indulge ourselves in such a seeming excess of Hope. I mean. Really. Do we not have sufficient unsupportive evidence? And yet we do hope. I think, maybe, this is what sets us apart, as we of course would have it, but in this case perhaps we are not wrong. Let us say that I have never been as stalwart a patriot as my Yorkshire Terrier is a dog, but I always have the "hope" of being better. He on the other hand is confident. And that may be it. He has no doubt, and is therefore confident, while I, doubtful, must scrounge for confidence. Therefore it must be human to be uncertain.

 Let us then be wary of humans who are certain. They may be flying false colors.

Pirate!

Sa-lute,
Daddy

The Guns of December

It is only eleven days 'til Christmas.  Couldn't we get to that at least?  What made some twit's madness so important that twenty children and six adults had to miss Santa, miss whatever they were looking forward to?  Like life. What couldn't have waited?  How about: "I'll let everybody have a good time before I kill them". Wouldn't that be an expression of superiority? 
I think we all know that crazy doesn't give a damn.  What we don't know is why.  I believe we have gotten to the point where "why" is the most important question.

Let's start with what everybody thinks:  Guns are expressions of our independence.  Bad guys misuse guns. Guns are not evil in themselves.

Okay, what is going on when some 20 year old legally buys guns and ammo and uses it to shoot up an elementary school?  It stops being a matter of philosophy.  That's what's going on.  You can't keep going on about the bill of rights when idiots are being given the right to do whatever they think God is telling them to do.

In fairness, that's if they actually blame it on God.

But on the other hand it shouldn't matter.

It's a shame that some of the kids we raise turn out to be evil.  What we need is a way to identify them before they start killing.

In a way the NRA is right.  It ain't the guns so much as the crazy evils that have legal access to them.  Can we maybe look at this?

God love all you people in Connecticut who have been hurt.

Regards,
Daddy



  

The Point

Some years back I lost my best friend ,Al Crew, a Marine veteran of the Korean conflict. He was so much his own person that he made an everlasting impression on me, and I felt compelled to dedicate a poem in his honor. Last year I lost my son Colby, and I've been struggling ever since to find some way of expressing that loss. It has lately occurred to me that Al's poem speaks to that loss as well. I do not think Al would mind. They knew one another and shared something of the same quirky sense of humor. To Al and Colby I rededicate "The Point".

The Point

Astride the turning of the year,

Straddling that fence of time

I scanned the land ahead for signs

But finding no familiar mark,

No beacon's blaze, no star to steer,

Turned my bewildered gaze behind

Where faintly glowing, warm and kind

A homely flame made tame the dark.

Just candle-light; yet as I tapped

More memory there surged a flame

'Til, brilliance filling every frame,

The windows of my mind proclaimed

A presence I had seldom paid

Such heed as now, with truth un-trapped,

I saw within me clear and plain,

Beheld the friend, his face and name,

Whose hand had touched all I had made.

I had the choice of turning back

I thought (Oh, what a wishful liar),

When suddenly, with such force and fire

I made as if to jump aside,

Like a train upon a track

His memory came rushing through,

Whistle crying wild and wide,

"Do what you're big enough to do!"

Then up the line there sped my guide.

I find in following his lead

No timid flight or stubborn stand

As one by one I take the hands

I'm dealt and play them as they lie.

For in so doing what I need

To do, I've come to understand

I'll not have done the best I can

Or stood as tall as I can stand

'Til I've stopped trying to touch the sky.

Chuck Simmons-1998

There, now you know who Daddy Underwig is in so-called real life.

Lookout,

Daddy

The r-r-rest of the story

This is another draft that has been hiding and that needs to be aired. I am not pleased that I have allowed myself to indulge in literary cowardice. If I wrote it, that's as good as if I'd said it. Here you go, my emotions were obviously in play, so take it as read.

I have been very lucky in that although I have been married several times I've never made an
enemy of a former wife. I've even made friends with some of their subsequent husbands, but more to the point I've maintained contact with my children. Without drama I've watched them grow and develop lives and families of their own, and sooner rather than later they've given me grandkids. If this sounds idyllic you have nailed it. All that's lacking in this picture is that in the fullness of time I should pass away surrounded by my loved ones,...all of them.

I'm not one to put up with irony, so if anyone wants to console me by declaiming that life is unfair let them know,now and forever, that I was already aware of that. I have buried my share of friends and relations, and I have felt grief, but heretofore my losses have followed a traditional and accepted pattern: No matter how grievous my loss was felt, it did not come before its time. So let me explain how life fooled me.

First of all, when someone is taken as we say, "before their time", we tend to endow them with more than normal attributes. They were this superlative, or that exception. I think this is a normal way of expressing guilt through grief, guilt at not recognizing someone's uniqueness before it was too late. Let everyone who crossed paths with Colby know that I do not believe any of you could have been so dim as to have not been aware of his special nature.

I was surprised, yes, mugged by the loss of my son. His brother's call found me at my computer that morning. I had only recently returned from a visit to Atlanta, and I felt reassured that the infection had passed and he would be strong enough soon to start anew his battle with the cancer. I heard Brady out. and I think I thanked him for calling me. I know I thank him for giving it to me straight.

As far as I know, Colby passed away with his eyes wide open and in the full knowledge that he was going. I envy him this, and I wish a similar passage for myself. It was certainly in character.

I have tried to think of a fitting memorial testament to give for my son. I've gotten bogged down in all the aforementioned superlatives which, while true, seem to fall short. Finally, I bethought me of the way those who knew him best behaved in the run-up to his memorial gathering.

I arrived at the height of the preparations in Atlanta. The club house had been booked, a website had been created, people and food had been pledged. However, the devil being in the details, I could sense a growing sense of frustration among those who were trying to create a gathering that Colby would have liked to have attended himself. The fact that they ultimately succeeded does not change the fact that they really wanted Colby to tell them what to do.

That is the one unique thing I hope everyone takes away with them. Our family has many talents, many admirable attributes to recommend us, but so far as I know, it has been generations since there has been such a one who has had the leadership ability of Colby Wade Simmons.

Now understand this, he did not command. He joyfully led, and who could not follow?


Godbless,
Daddy

Late

This, by rights, should have come between my last two posts, but the fact is I just couldn't bring myself to take it on. You see, he died while I was thinking he just might make it. It seemed he was rallying, and then all at once the cancer cut his feet out from under him. I wasn't there, but I'm given to understand he flipped death off as he left. I am proud; he was my son.

He was my youngest from my first marriage, and his driven attitude fueled my feeling of pissed-off pride. Imagine! Here I was remarried, kid on the way, feeling young (sort of), and here my 16 year old son calls me up and lets me in on the fact that I going to be a grandfather. I loved him and wanted to kick his ass at the same time. That was his life; he did it his way, successfully.

This is bullshit. I wanted to say something in tribute, and I've already rapped it up. I'm still not up to this. My boy deserves better of me, as does his brother and his mother.  For that matter everybody deserves better.  I'll be back. Still lookin' out.

Regards,
Daddy

P.S. This has been sitting as a draft for several months, so the posting date is misleading.  DU

Last Writes (sic)

It's been almost a year, and I've just gotten around to re-reading my last post, and it got me to thinking. Once a year's not bad.

I mean, there really is an "end-of-time" out there waiting for each of us, sooner or later. Mine, of course, is getting more "sooner" and less "later" all the time, as is everyone's, and barring surprises I might have twenty-some years left. Yeah, that "might" is what's troubling.

Thinking.

I have never been on time. I've been late, payed late, been square (not there), cut slack, laid back, hung loose.... that's enough of that. It is trite to say I'd be late for my own funeral, but I would if I could. By now I'm sure you have noticed that I love words. There is only one that I hate. It's "inevitable".

I've had no premonition, but I've reflected some lately that I haven't made a will. There's always been plenty of time, but "inevitable" slips up on you. Oh, I had in mind that though I don't have much my children might like some of my personal affects, "heirlooms" say. One of them died, untimely, recently, and now he'll never know what I was going to leave him. It was to be a surprise, but, now, who's surprised? I'll say no more now about this.

When I started this post I had intended to explore how age tends to temper your ambition, even for those of us who have had next to none. When I was young I wanted to be a rich and famous singer/songwriter. Well, I recently learned that when one of my kids' friends heard my CD, he said, "awesome lyrics". That made me happy. A friend who's working in China say's the same thing about his Chinese friends (I assume he's translating). Icing on the cake. It's homemade, only a couple dozen copies, what more could I expect.

Lastly, I come to the thought that sat me down at the keyboard in the first place (remember "thinking"?). Frankly, it's my definitions of "rich" and of "famous" that have changed over time. Actually, forget "famous". I have enough kids and grandkids and nieces and nephews to assure some memory of me. Good enough.

Yeah, I already know that I'm rich in many ways that can't be counted in cash. But that's not what anybody really means. Rich means having more money than you really need, plain and simple. It's a poor man's fantasy of the ultimate security; of never having to want. When I was very young that meant an unimaginable sum, a gazillion maybe. As I got older I started thinking about how much it would take to live the rest of my life in comfort. Adjusted for inflation this remained fairly constant until recently. Suddenly, I've come to realize I'll have no need of ten million dollars, and as I reel in the years I'll need less and less.

So, now we come to what has caused me to become so uncharacteristically introspective. It has come to me what I want my last words to be, and it has also occurred to me that a surprise may take away my opportunity to say them. That's why I will record them now.

As you attend my death-bed, please lean close, and hear me say, "Got a dollar?"

I've always wanted to die rich.

Lookout,
Daddy

P.S. If you're ever drinking and get stopped by a cop, try to work in some multisylable words like "uncharacteristically introspective" into the conversation (without slurring). It's worth a try.