Daddy liked to lie in bed and read

Daddy liked to lie in bed and read. When I was a little girl, I would stand in the doorway, run at top speed, and jump on him. He would laugh at the top of his lungs and so would I. I did this all of our lives. I was big enough for both of us and I still kept running and jumping on him. He never got tired of it and neither did I. It makes me laugh to think about it.

He lives on

Today is the second anniversary of my Dad's death. I remember what it feels like to hug him and how happy it made him. I remember chasing the warmth of his body as he left us. Now I know that he never left us at all. He always told me to pass things on. I have passed many things he taught me on to my children. He lives on.

Football Sunday

many times, he told me of his days as uncle john, 
as a football coach in carrabelle.
his stories about football 
taught me that strength is found in losing,
just like it can be found in winning.
he taught me that football is a lot like life...
there are a lot of rules.
you are all supposed to go in the same general direction,
if you decide to go in a direction that is not the direction your are "supposed" to go in, there is certainly a distance you can go that will be considered "out of bounds."
there will always be people who will make a concerted effort to go against you.
some of us are hurt by others and some of us are out to hurt others.
some of us wear clothes that are probably too tight to wear in public.
helments and skulls have evolved to protect the brain,
but, regardless, brain cell stills seem to be negatively impacted
by massive blows to the head.
sometimes in football and in life, you get your ass kicked,
and that is ok, as long as you're wearing a mouthpiece and a cup,
because you will likely need to have a voice at some point in your life...and so will your children.

Reflection on Granddaddy's Visit to Washington

there he stood, at the beginning of the end,
next to a flag of vapor, sailing in the wind,
his breath pushing smoke into heavy sighs to fall,
like the old army cigarettes, stale inside the wall.
the ghosts of modern men, frozen in cement,
pistols packed with permanent peace and pavement.
all is still on this cold day in Washington.
the war has stopped.
no politician or fabricated purpose
could move them all to kill each other now.
there are no more lies about pride,
noone to will them all to die,
noone to divide them all into sides,
to put them into boxes inside their minds,
noone to decide who has lost, or who has won,
out of so many, they are left with just one.

Nana's Story

There are many stories I could tell about my wonderful husband, but the one I have chosen is how we first met. I was in third grade when the teacher introduced a new little boy to the class. He had on short white pants and a white shirt, and looked a great deal more dressed up than any of the other little boys who wore much more casual attire, so some of  them began to giggle. The girls, however, were thrilled. My best friend at the time leaned over to me and said, "oh, he is cute!" I very confidently replied, "He's mine", and so he was. 


He did tell me later that he had to fight several of those little boys before they figured out he wasn't a sissy, no matter how he was dressed.

The Garden of Flowers

Nana and I love to plant flowers in pots in her backyard.  Granddaddy used to come outside and bark orders to us, telling us how dumb we were acting and how we didn’t know what we were doing.  Nana always told him things like “Johnny!  Why do you have to be so grouchy all the time?  We could probably do it better if you weren’t yelling at us.” 

After Granddaddy passed away, before Nana moved out of their house, Nana and I did our traditional planting charade.  This time, sadly, without Granddaddy’s commanding voice, which we now wished we could hear again. 

…Lots of flowers died that year… Turns out granddaddy barked orders for a reason : )

The Bass Drum Player

Granddaddy told me this hilarious story of a marching band marching in a parade.  One of the bass drummers was marching along and suddenly disappeared… as fellow band members tried to make since of this strange phenomenon, they discovered the bass drummer with the bass drum still strapped to him wedged in a pot hole.  Granddaddy always accompanied this story with the famous Granddaddy laugh that we all knew and loved.  Heh heh *sigh* 

The Cross

It was a small golden cross made of metal.  This cross was mysterious from the beginning.  I never really knew where it came from.  It was likely to have been given to me long ago, but I remember finding another one exactly the same just a few years ago… I have no idea where it came from.  When I went to visit Granddaddy at hospice, I stopped in the parking lot and pulled one of the crosses from my pocket.  I kept the other one so that Granddaddy and I could share this connection.  I held the cross tight in my hand and prayed for Granddaddy to feel God’s presence through this cross and that when it is time for him to go, that he goes peacefully and without pain.  I walked into the building and visited Granddaddy for the first time in this strange, scary, and yet oddly homey-looking place.  I gave him the cross and tried not to show my sadness at seeing him in the last place I ever imagined him being.  He always seemed so indestructible.  I cried harder than ever that night driving home.  It was as if God was helping me to get most of the emotion out so that I could be strong for him as it got closer to the end…. as I asked for in my prayer.  A few days later, I heard that Granddaddy was found in the morning lying on his back in the bed with the cross on his chest.  It was as if he was praying in the night and he felt the need to be close to the cross.  A day or so later, I came to visit him and played music on the guitar that we both love so much for him.  I noticed the cross was on the table next to him.  During my next visit to see Granddaddy, I noticed the cross was gone from the table, and I asked family members if they had seen it. Worried, I asked a nurse if she had seen it while changing the sheets on his bed.  No one knew where it was.  They said that they would keep an eye out for it.  A few days before Granddaddy passed away, I came to visit once again.  I looked up and there it was… the cross- sitting on the table next to him.  No one knew how it re-appeared.  The day that Grandaddy passed away, I played the guitar for him for the last time…. The last music he would ever hear… it felt like it wasn’t the glorious music I would want him to hear for the last time, but Granddaddy was the best Grandfather and I’m sure he loved the best that I could give him.  I knew that the music in heaven would be better than he could ever think it would be.  After Granddaddy passed away, the cross was given to me.  It now sits propped up on a frame containing a picture of Granddaddy and Nana that was given to each of the family members one Christmas. He looks so happy in the picture and proud to be with Nana. The cross sits next to me so that it can remind me that Granddaddy was a wise, loving, and Godly man that, as it seems, kept faith and peace till the end.  I miss you Granddaddy and I love you more than you ever knew.  

Our Soldier

Jason wrote of a story that Granddaddy also told to me.  He told of a time he had to spend all night listening to the crying and screaming of fallen friends and heroes over the hill on the cold battlefield.  He told me how he never really understood why society thinks it’s ok to kill in battle when it’s not okay to be a murderer in everyday life.  When Granddaddy told me this, I thought about how much of a man he really was.  He told me that when he was drafted, it didn’t matter that he felt this way about murdering a fellow man.  He knew that going into battle was what he had to do to protect his family. When Granddaddy was faced with a much different battle that raged inside his dying body, he once again proved to be a brave and strong man.  As family members cried around him, much like the men on the hillside, the soldier in him fought on to the best of his ability to protect his family. Granddaddy was the strong man that held our family together.  He was a real man and a real soldier.  Every soldier or any person that strives to be brave and strong should follow in his footsteps.  I know that God provided this strength.  Thank you for the life lesson, Granddaddy.  We, as a family, and me, as your granddaughter, are proud to call you our soldier and our grandfather.    

No Grand Dad Could Compare

I was at work today talking with an 85 year old Mac user. She was so modest, and portrayed herself to be a novice user that could barely browse the web but it did not take me long to realize she actually knew more than 90 percent of the customers I deal with. I addressed her questions about Pages (similar to Word), and asked her if she had any grand children. She said , "I have a grand son that I love dearly, in fact he's around here somewhere picking things out ill end up buying him". She reminded me so much of Nana (minus her computer knowledge) it was scary. We talked some more and she told me how much her grandson misses his grand dad and how amazing he was. I started to tell her about my grandfather and my throat started to get soar and my eyes welling up and I started to think, "Dammit... You can't cry at work, that's just embarrasing." I kind of stopped mid sentence and fumbled around acting like I was typing something in the computer. Her, being the intuitive women she was simply said, "He must of been an amazing man."

The Dock

On the dock, stretching out across the sea,  
a clock could carry time into infinity,
On the glossy surface of some old photograph  
I see him standing there, waiting for her time to pass.

Model Sailboat

Every Martin Luther King, Jr. holiday, I think of Granddaddy and St. George Island. January was always the month that Granddaddy and Nana rented Willow Pond and Jason would always anxiously await MLK holiday to have a long weekend to go visit.


At the beach, we'd wake up in the morning, have breakfast and Granddaddy would laugh because we cut our bananas the same way (with a spoon, no knife necessary). Then we'd spend the day listening to stories, eating mixed nuts and shortbread cookies from a tin.


One year, Granddaddy was putting together and painting this intricate model sailboat. I remember sitting around the big breakfast table together: Granddaddy, Jason, Lauren, and me. We all took turns painting the little sailors and watching Granddaddy with his delicate handy work.


I loved watching Granddaddy busy with his model sailboat. He could do anything, fix everything, tell you all that you needed to know in life, but I feel like he taught me a great deal about enjoying the small things and taking time to do what you love each year at the beach. I hope that one day Jason and I can spend long months on the beach taking the time to do what makes us happy (no matter how big or small). And like Granddaddy, I also hope we always laugh with our stomachs too.

Dreams

My favorite memory about my Dad was, what it felt like to hug him. I had a dream I was hugging him and it really felt like it was real. I hope I will dream that many more times in my life. I can close my eyes and feel like I am with him. I loved how he was honest and real. If you are all quiet enough, you can still hear him laugh.

Hello Everyone

Im excited about this blog and the effort Jason has put into it. I look to contribute a long post when I have time to really sit down and think about. Thanks Jason.

The John Gorrie Bridge

One day the old man told me about how they used to make ice before there were refrigerators.  He told me about how metal blocks filled with fresh water would be dipped into a larger container of brine water that was cooled by a large machine.  He went into detail about how pistons on the machine fired.  He also taught me what brine water is...

...The pistons worked like this:  a small amount of fuel would be injected into a small container or capillary within the engine.  The piston, a metal cylinder, would slowly rise and compress the fuel until the pressure was great enough to create enough heat to ignite the fuel.  The fuel would then explode and the piston would fire...Brine water is essentially salt water.  It freezes at a much lower temperature than fresh water... 

...The large containers filled with fresh water were then dropped in a larger container of brine water using a pulley system of some kind.  The brine water was cooled to less than 32 degrees by the machine. The pistons would fire and run the machine.  After some time, the fresh water became ice.  The fresh ice in the container would be turned upside down and warm water would be poured over the top to allow the ice to slide out. This is how I learned about how ice used to be made and how fire can be used to make ice.

He also told me that the the bridge that crosses Apalachicola bay was named after John Gorrie, the man who invented the machine that created the ice. The John Gorrie bridge is one of the bridges that has always carried me to freedom.  I don't have to explain what this bridge is to my family.  They know the bridge very well. It has carried us all to freedom many times.  If you weren't in my family and you were to ask about this bridge, I would have to tell you that it is made of fire and ice. I would have to tell you that it crosses the bay that is fed by the river where my granddaddy used to eat oysters and that I am very sure that he crossed it when he died.

Photographs & Backpacks

I remember him in photographs...
somehow he never smiles, but he always laughs...


...Once granddaddy told me a story about a time, during world war II, when he was shot at while crawling in a ditch. When he walked away, there were bullet holes in his backpack. My backpack has always held books and his held bullets. He always taught me more than my classes.

The Movement In His Toes

I will always remember him in his big rocking chair,
with his big reading glasses and his full head of hair,
with all of his stories, always watching the news,
always chuckling at politics in his favorite house shoes
I will always remember him, for everything that i know,
I will always remember the movement in his toes.

The Other Side

Once he told me about a time that he had been in a firefight with the Germans during WWII.  The Nazi army had beaten into his company very deeply and there were many drops of blood across the hillside on which they fought.  The shooting went on for many hours and then night fell.  The darkness of the night was accompanied by a brief silence, followed by the sounds of death. There were many wounded American soldiers on the hillside opposite from his ear. They were out of reach in a way that one feels about lottery tickets and drug recovery.  He spent the night listening to the the desperate, dying screams of friends that he had made, knowing that he was hearing their last words...it took me a long time to realize that the fear and despair that he felt that night was not for himself, or even for the men that laid on the hill, but for all of us and our wars.

The Old Men and the Sea

Once he told me of a struggle between a great man and a great beast, something similar to the way hemmingway told of santiago.
a man at the edge of his pulse with his line finding its way to an end. the struggle of pride and sport and sweat all finding its way into the sea. and there he saw spoonie with his brand new fishing pole at an arch to defy mathmatics, in the bow of a tiny row boat, on the verge of becoming a local hero, and then, just like it started, with the snap of tiny teeth, spoonie was in the hull with half of what he had in his heart and his hand.  the unknown, escaping out into infinity, like dreams and future days and unseen things, a mirage in a desert of distant fins, something lost that had never been.  shadows swiming in the night, like sillouetes of birds in flight, spoonie had fallen with his great new broken fishing staff, and my grandfather told this story many times... and he never forgot to laugh.

Old Dog Again

Once he told me of his grandfather,

a victim of the days when intellect was hidden sometimes,

by masks and pointy caps and shotguns.

and there they marched behind the blinds,

with windows closed, covered and exposed,

lost out in the woods, with leaves hanging from the trees,

all fallen in the fall, and in the winter left to freeze,

something discarded and forgotten, way out in the breeze,

decaying and swaying, a forest in the seas.

all of the confusion of war and loss and hate

passed down by faith and famine and fate,

some pathetic mixture of culture and genetics,

a symptom of politics and phonetics,

we're all so lost and following all we've found

and his ol' grandfather's dog followed him all over town.

granddaddy told me of his grandfather's dog,

following him in his sheets and all the fog,

in everything he tried to conceal,

in everything that was violent and real,

in all of the days and the choices of all the seasons,

sometimes those without a voice are the voice of reason...

Old Dog

Granddaddy told be of his grandfather, who was a member of the ku klux klan.

his grandfather suited up every evening and took his pride and all he had learned

to discuss all of his hatred for colors and his black and white views

and to burn all of the things he was told to believe in,

like crosses and swastikas...

but he had one problem...he had a dog.

and all dogs see different colors than we do...

and they don't seem to be so offended by them...

and the dog always followed him around in his white skin

and even in his white suit and cap,

and damnit the dog was always so obvious and naked.

so very much the opposite of what his grandfather intended to accomplish.

but sometimes love is more powerful than hate.

and so everyone always knew about his grandfather,

and his all of his silly rantings and rally's...