Father's Day - 2012

No daddy is perfect. Mine certainly wasn’t. Still isn’t. But good. My daddy has always been a really good man. And as Flannery O’Conner always said, “A Good Man is Hard to Find.”

Truth is I spent a large portion of my childhood being afraid of him. More specifically, afraid of his popping black belt. It took me to adulthood to realize that he was only doing what he believed was the right thing to do. If there is anything both my parents held in highest esteem, it was doing the right thing. It’s something that was firmly instilled in all of their children.

I also spent most of my lifetime thinking my parents didn’t like each other very much. It was not until my mother began her excruciatingly slow path into the emptiness of Alzheimer’s that I began to understand their deep and complicated relationship. They really had very little in common.. music, children and their religious faith. It didn’t seem enough to me, but it lasted them sixty-one years of marriage. And I finally realized that those numerous arguments were because they were still talking and reaching out to one another. They still cared… deeply.

If I had only a single word to describe my daddy, it would be generous. No one raised by Mom Fowler could be anything but thrifty, and he was definitely that. But while he would pinch every penny for himself, he was always giving to someone in need… and mostly in a low key, humble way. He liked to be thanked, but not praised. Kerry and I, and all of our children have had a much more materially blessed life because of the generosity of my daddy; and I am deeply grateful for that. But I am more grateful for the example of generosity and generous spirit that he passed on to me and to my children. Thrifty and generous are not oxymoronic terms. They can exist together, and my daddy taught me how.

In spite of his gruff exterior (His first grandchild was terrified of him.), he is such a tender-hearted person. He growls when he feels like crying because he was raised to think men don’t cry. His own mama asked him if he was a crybaby on his sixtieth birthday when he got choked up about the love shown to him by his closest friends and family. In these last days when his true self shows through, his tender-heartedness has been harder to disguise. He cries when he is shown tenderness, or kindness, or when he thinks of what he has lost.

My daddy is a people person. He has a million friends who love him and are loved by him. I think it’s his sweetness and his smile and his genuine interest in everything around him. He and my mama did training union on Sunday nights for years and all the children loved him. I resented the fact that we always missed Walt Disney’s Wonderful World of Color and Bonanza, but who can count the number of lives they blessed on those Sunday nights. And they always participated in the fun stuff at church camps and retreats. When it comes to having a good time, my daddy never really outgrew his childhood self.

I just found out that recently that my daddy played center field for Furman. “I had to quit when I got married,” he told me. I knew his own daddy was a sports fanatic. I also was reminded recently that he coached a basketball team in the textile league to the championship back when the textile league was like a minor league sport. Nothing gave him more pleasure than when Jonathan played high school sports. That last blessing child gave him a lot of joy with their shared athleticism. And then came the grandchildren that allowed him more proud times in the stands. But what I remember most about my daddy’s athleticism was his ability well into later adulthood to stand on the dock, holler “Pull!” and jump off on his slalom ski and go around the lake and back and never get more than his feet wet. What a man!

His real strength, both mental and physical, came when my mama began her slow dance with dementia. Two broken hips and a broken femur joined her feeble mind and still my daddy cared for her at home and saw to her every physical need. This was the same man who did nothing for a sick child of his own... That was the mother’s job. But he crossed all kinds of barriers to be her faithful husband. He once told me he didn’t think he could do it… but he did. He reached within himself and found a strength he didn’t know he possessed. And when she finally did have to go into institutional care, he fed her every night after work and lifted her from the wheelchair to her bed. The last thing she lost to Alzheimer’s was the way her face lit up at the sight of him. I’m so thankful that she left us shortly after that happened. That was not something my daddy had the strength to face.

So you see, my daddy is not perfect. No one is. But he has been such a good man all his life. No words can really express how thankful I am to have had him as my daddy on this Father’s Day. So I offer these imperfect ones.

I love my daddy.

Father in Heaven, have mercy on me, a sinner

why do i begin my prayers this way?

in spite of my southern baptist upbringing, it is not because i am obsessed with sin and with defining sin for me and for all those around me. although i must admit to being tempted as we all are to sit in judgement on others, i try to leave that up to the Maker.

i begin first with establishing a relationship. i am a creation. i exist because of a relationship between my mother and father. i believe i exist because a higher power, the Creator, willed my existence. i have a heavenly father.

in heaven... a father i will never fully know or understand as we live in different places. heaven includes earth, but earth does not include heaven. that's a way of envisioning life that helps me understand my human condition. i am not going to understand everything. there is a distance between the heavenly father and me that will not be overcome as long as my spirit exists in this finite container.

father in heaven acknowledges both the relationship and limitation of the relationship.

have mercy on me, a sinner

mary gauthier sings it so beautifully, "we all could use a little mercy now". mercy. grace. compassion. it is what our souls long for. i don't want to be given what i deserve or what i have earned. i want what i need. i want peace. the buddha got it right to recognize the contentment that exists where there is an absence of both need and desire. it is called mercy. when there is no need for more. where there is all that you need. when the light that you are given is sufficient for the moment and there is no anxiety about the future. have mercy on me

a sinner - a flawed creature. not only am i far from perfect, i am so often far from who i want to be, who i believe i am. even when my desire is loving and kind and good, my actions do not always follow; and when my desire is not, my actions leave me full of regret and so often hurt those in as great a need of mercy as i am myself.

i am a sinner. i do not do the things i long to do and do those things i do not wish to do. i fall short of my potential, again and again.

and i am loved anyway.

and those i love are sinners like me.

i am a little obsessed with mary gouchier's mercy now. it is in my range and when i sing it, it feels like a hymn.

father in heaven, have mercy on me, a sinner.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e5MG1ZfFiZ8

Anniversary weekend

I promise…. every day

February 3, 2012

Ocean Boulevard is a four lane road. That is pretty much unforgiveable. But I sat in a rocking chair on the front porch of our cabin with the sun beating down on me through the screened porch and found forgiveness anyway. Kerry brought me an omelet better than anything we could have ordered in any restaurant around here (in spite of having forgotten any spices, including salt and pepper) and I already had a good cup of coffee in my hand, and I thought to myself, it just doesn’t get any better than this. I have been so incredible blessed in my life.

But I also couldn’t deny the sadness that surprised me on returning to the place where my best friend took her life 31 years ago. We passed by the restaurant where she worked so long ago, and despite Hurricane Hugo and Hurricane Commerce, it had not changed a bit. We both found it kind of eerie.

As I sat on the porch, amazingly still for me, I once again imagined myself at the Surfside Police Station, asking about a woman who hanged herself in a small rented house a block off the beach, wondering if they still might have the note she left before she did it. I know they wouldn’t. It has long ago been tossed as something no one would care about any more. Only I do. I would still like to know her last words, her last thoughts. Could I have survived thinking I was responsible for Shosha’s death? I really don’t think so.

In the middle of winter, this place is wonderful. It boasts probably one of the last maritime forests on the East Coast. Thank you, Heritage Trust. But as you walk out on the beach, you see that it is sandwiched in between high rise hotels on both sides. It is like an oasis of beauty in the middle of a desert of commercial sprawl. (There were few pictures to be taken on the beach.)

But although small, there are two small trails, one leading to a seasonal pond, i.e. right now it looks much more like a meadow, that can deceive you into thinking you are well off the beaten path… as in, the sounds of the ocean drowns out the sounds of cars, at least, this time of year.

But the beach is the beach, and there’s something so healing about watching the waves make their white path to the sand. It is so powerful and repetitious and soothing. We walked on the beach before our coffee, where my toes froze because I decided sandals were beach wear whatever time of year it was.

This place is not wasted in the winter anymore that it isn’t packed to the gills in the summer. The campground had at least two circles full of RVs and tents, but best of all is that the equestrians have claimed it for their own. The parking lot that leads to our cabin was jam packed with horse trailers. With a permit, you can take your horses to the beach, and on a weekday Friday, the beach held many of them. (One of the only pictures to be had on the beach was the horses disturbing the shore birds.) They were arriving as we left with our bikes to explore the park; they were back and sweaty when we returned. Side note: at the end of the day, when all trailers were gone, so was all evidence that horses had been there…. pretty impressive.

We had to go to Huntington Beach State Park. It holds so very many memories for us. I went there for the first time in 1976. I thought I had entered a magical place driving through the canopy of trees. Four years later, Kerry and I came in our new Volkswagen van following a Greenville News trip to the Colonial Cup in Camden. We were ill prepared, went to the local store and bought candles and a flashlight bread, cheese and wine. It was wonderful. Later, we would bring our children, and once our friends Doris and Timothy and Alyson to participate in a Marine Explorers weekend where we slept out under the stars and listened to ghost stories. (Doris and her crew chose to sleep in one of the rooms of the Atalaya castle.)

It was as beautiful as ever. I admit to stopping at the Park Store and purchasing a T-shirt to wear to school and also a short sleeved jacket on clearance that helped me to stay warm in what was a very cool if sunny day. (I also got two postcards I hope to remember to send to my Aunt Patsy and Norma, sort of a tradition for us.) We unpacked our bikes and went to where the old campground used to be and what is now only an old road with a circle loop at the end that holds no campsites, no small store, nothing of what we once knew, but still beautiful. From there, we checked out the present campground where we have also spent some time. We decided that tomorrow, we should spend most of the day here, but at this point, Kerry was hungry and ready TO EAT as we had had nothing since that omelet. Even though Murrells Inlet looked amazingly as it always had, we opted for a seafood trough, which actually turned out to be Chinese, but that just meant that it also had sushi so Kerry was a happy man. The deviled crab and the seafood au gratin was full of chunky green pepper, which I loved, so I spent most of my plate there.

What trip would be complete without checking out the local BIG LOTS! We purchased the needed seasoned salt and pepper and also a book for me – Girls in Trucks (a kudos from Josephine Humphries was the kicker) since I had neglected to bring one and had completely read all the SC park book last night. We also picked up some bike locks so we could have more flexibility in leaving our bikes. I just LOVE Big Lots J

February 4, 2012

Another every day

Today started at an amazing NINE o’clock. Wow. The wonders of Benedryl. Another omelet.. this time with seasonings and salsa, and we walked the beach and finished with the nature trails we missed yesterday… and then headed to Huntington Beach State Park.

We started to walk to the jetty then went back for our bikes. Between the wind and the loose sand, it was a fairly challenging ride, but well worth it. Kerry also appreciated the abundance of birds and the lack of high rises on the horizon. The jetty is beautiful, the waves crashing against the rocks. I’ve often thought that the best metaphor we ever have of God is the ocean – wild and beautiful and to be respected. There was a sad sail boat sunk near the jetty, only it’s sail beam and a small part of its starboard side visible above the surf.

As I walked the jetty back to the protected beach, I almost missed the huge and beautiful Great Blue Heron that was less than 20 feet from where I walked. I guess he (she?) sensed how unaware I was and felt unthreatened. It remained for Kerry to get many shots on his camera, but I couldn’t figure out my phone video – I so wanted to record its slow progress from the water to the shore – but my phone call to Shosha was too late to capture it. The ride back was easier somehow and when we hit the paved road to the marsh walk was easier still. There were no alligators braving the sun on the boardwalk, but we did see mullet in the stream, occasionally flashing an invitation to the birds with their shiny skin.

We rode back to the jetty parking lot and headed down the Sandpiper Pond Trail, a trail by the recently reopened to the ocean inlet in an attempt to recreate the brackish water that existed before Hurricane Hugo and the 2001 closing of the pond to the ocean, allowing invasive species to kill the native ones that were adapted to the occasional visitation of ocean water. It made us wish for grandchildren because it was so magical and with so many places to play and imagine. We are going to be such great grandparents when given a chance J

The return trip had to be by the shore where I shed my shoes and walked through the pretty cold water. It was the way all beach trips should progress. I hope I never go to the beach without getting my toes wet, no matter how cold. We had beautiful sunshine until the last twenty minutes. Who could ask for more?