So, I took off a week from work last week — one of about nine or 10 single weeks I have taken off in the last 30 years. I had no plans other than to work on This Crappy Old House. I thought I could patch stucco on the outside of the 99-year-old home.
I soon discovered on Day One of vacation that job was above my pay grade. Damn! Norm Abrams where were you when I needed you?! I contemplated going back to work, but soon discovered maybe, oh just maybe, I could use my time off to relax. For whatever reason, I wasn’t able to connect with anybody so the week was to be alone with just Me, Myself and I. Let me tell you, I can hang with Me, but Myself and I are tough cookies. They ask hard questions!
During my seven-day odyssey of the mind, heart and soul I spent about two hours (total) in the company of other, living, breathing human beings — which included trips to the library, hardware and grocery stores and a hour trip to visit my aunt who was in the hospital.
I went and visited my Dad at the same place he’s been since 1996 — taking the long dirt nap at the little cemetery on Sashabaw Road, across from Sashabaw Elementary School.
‘Dad,? says I, eyes getting a little squishy. ‘What do you have for me? Why do I do the things I do? What am I to do? Got any help? I hope you’re in peace — oh and a friend of mine, she says you’re a badass.?
I stood over his grave a little bit, bent over, picked some weeds and brushed the small bronze U.S. military marker with my fingers. He answered me not.
I wandered among the tombstones, reading the inscriptions, some from as far back as the 1850s. Most of the folks planted there all lived, laughed, loved, cried and endured hardship during their time on this side of the sod.
It was awesome weather last week, the sun shone brightly in a blue sky. And, I just opened up and let thoughts come and go with no real direction or focus. I reckon I’ve always been a contemplator — a seeker for what? Something, I don’t know?
When I worked for Independence Township at Lakeview Cemetery, I was given a new nickname (I think by co-worker Jon Territo) for what reason I am not sure. They called me Dhondi and when they would say it, sometimes they would hold out both hands, thumb to middle finger, ‘OOOmmmm.?
* * *
I have been a sucker for helping people since before I was old enough to drive. I remember when I had my daily paper route, when I was about 12 or 13, the first part of said route was loaded with old-timers. The second half with families. The second-half folks got their papers way late many times because I felt compelled to stop and listen to the old codgers and then either rake their leaves or shovel their drive ? I even helped Mr. Bassett replace the antifreeze in his car one evening.
I studied journalism in college and had a burning desire, once graduated, to root out corruption, take on the bad guys, to right wrongs and fix that which was broken. Ah, the idealism of the youth.
I think I have stayed with community journalism so long because I have seen how these newspapers have a direct effect on the communities and people they serve. I felt/feel I could/can do the most good, if I stayed here.
Babies, kids, old timers and fair maidens always have found a direct way into my sense of duty. I wanna help them all, even when I know I cannot and when I cannot, it takes a little skip out of my step, a spark outta my light.
Why do I do what I do? Why am I who I am? Yeah, you can see the week alone started to work on me in ways I hadn’t dared think about for many, many years.
* * *
Sometime during the week, I thought back to Dad. A couple of years before he died, I had written a feature series on sexual abuse of kids. We were at the Clarkston Eagles and he was not sitting at ‘his? stool at the bar, but rather in a chair at a table in the dark. He beckoned me over to him and with a somber look on his face, he told me he liked those stories. Thought it would help some people. And, that it had happened to him as a boy. ‘I have told no one else. Thank you, Son.?
Those who knew Dad, knew he was full of passion, smiles, but most of all bravado. It served him well in athletics, Korea and throughout his adult life. What he told me explained a lot about the man I knew, loved and respected. I think I loved him more after that, enduring and being the best he could be, while carrying a burden he thought he couldn’t share; one no person should have to bare alone.
If only he could have felt safe and secure in himself to reach out and ask somebody for help, would he have lived his life happier? Would he have lived longer than 61 years? (I just thought this as I am typing this column on Monday, July 27, 2015. Dad died July 27, 19 years ago today . . . Whoa, how’s that for coincidence!)
Maybe Dad did answer me.
Maybe he said, accept who you are. When you need help, ask those about you whose arms are lovingly open to you. Fix what you break, but know it’s hard to fix what you have not broken. A knight of the light goes into battle for no other reason than it’s the right thing to do, expecting only to come out of the battle, bloodied and bruised. Anything more is a bonus. If you can do this, Son, you will be all right.
Reckon I will remain me. Bring your problems and your acts of kindness rekindles the flame.