And That's What Made Me Run

I'm an adult now (at least if you count my years) and I hope I react to things from a plane of some slight balance vs. torturous highs and lows. But it wasn't always so. Once I was 8 years old and I didn't have the same powers of reasoning, the same collection of life experience, the willingness to speak out, the suspicion of authority that I do now. I didn't have many coping skills. I wouldn't have challenged something an adult stated for anything. I'd learned not to bother anyone with anything that was bothering me. Life's little kicks in the ass sometimes crushed me, and I simply accepted them, soldiering on. I know that my own childhood traumas likely weren't any more difficult than anyone else's, and in many ways I was a fortunate little girl. But everyone has struggled with something.

My mother's large Irish family were Catholics through and through. Active in the parish. My father's family were decidedly not. The Morgan family, my grandfather in particular, could get going about Catholics and the Pope. I was not baptized as an infant, as my father objected. Mom finally convinced him to allow the baptism when I was 2 - just old enough to raise the roof when the priest applied those few drops of holy water to my forehead. By the time Gary came along, my dad had already given in once, so Gary was baptized as an infant, more typically Catholic. In very young childhood, I was not served up a lot of religion. Weddings and funerals, Mass at Easter. We were rather casual Catholics, my mother and I. Sometimes when very young, I was allowed to go to other churches of other faiths with friends. Casual. It may have been restful, convenient, to have me away from home in a wholesome environment, someone else's temporary responsibility. I don't know.By second grade, it appeared that I had a decent brain. There had been some discussion of my skipping a grade, but it had been determined my intellect could easily do that while my soul probably could not. I was delicate and sensitive. It could harm me. I now know myself better than anyone else knows me. It would have harmed me. My mother and her family began to work my dad. Putting me in Catholic school would not only offer me more challenging lessons and a good foundation for my lifetime education, there were all the wonderful extra-curricular activities and, and . . . he finally agreed, reluctantly. We'd try it for my 3rd grade year.

During the summer, my mother, a person who is not of the same species as I, had to teach me to write perfect Palmer Method cursive writing with a cartridge pen as the Catholic kids had all learned that in 2nd grade. They hadn't taught us that at public school. I was not grand at catching on to perfect Palmer Method. My mother and I should never have been allowed to occupy a room alone together. Certainly no one should have thought it was a good idea to have her try to teach me anything. Not good for her, not good for me. And I was a messy child, for the first time ever. That cartridge pen was a challenge to me. I remember it as the summer of permanently blue-stained fingertips and incredible stress. Ah ~ and in the fall, when I went to Catholic school, my uniform blouse would be white and there had better not be any blue ink on it. A stray lazy thought in my head today: Grandpa lived about 2 miles away, wrote in perfect Palmer Method, was soft and gentle with me, had even taught me how to handle a pocket knife . . . . . hmmm.

In 1960 America, there were good girls and boys and bad girls and boys. I had some cousins who were bad, and very fun. They were free enough to be bad, take their lumps and move on. I was a good child. Adults liked me. I was quiet and helpful, clean and tidy except for cartridge pens, industrious and bright. I think I would have liked the child who was me. The exterior was a cute little package, smiling, always reading, always trying to please. Trying so hard to please. And when I failed to please, I suffered agonies. I will write from time to time about ways I've punished myself in life for failing to please. But at 8, the punishment was just silent self-excoriation. My family's poisons had made me, by age 8, a very grand secret-keeper. I had seen, heard and experienced things to which no child should ever be exposed. I never spilled about the worst of it until I was 50 years old. I'd learned to get up every morning, study my mother and determine what she needed me to be on this day and that's the girl I'd be. And quiet! No, it didn't make for good mother-daughter relations. Does it surprise anyone that I sought out adult females? Granny and my aunts, friends of my mother, neighbor women. Because I was pretty smart, it didn't take long for me to figure out that all of them were pretty regular, pretty normal, pretty right.

In southern California, the Santa Ana winds blow in early September. The conditions become hot and dry. Major wildfires typically occur at this time of year. The Catholic school was a good deal farther from home than the public. That was OK. I was on a new adventure. In September, my new saddle shoes blistered my feet and the gray wool skirt was hot and itchy, but I tried not to complain. The white uniform blouse was adorned at the collar with a maroon clip-on bowtie that pinched the sweating neck, but that was all right, too. At Catholic school, we were assigned far more homework and used many more books than in public school. I lugged the books without griping and always did extra credit. My dad oversaw my homework every night of life and he could see how much I was learning. By first report card, we already knew this "trial" was going very well for all concerned. I was also learning about the Catholic religion in a way I'd never understood it before. We attended Mass, walked the Stations of the Cross, made our first confessions and studied for our First Communions, studied catechism each afternoon, were given rosaries and holy cards as prizes for spelling bees, and were immersed even more than that. Oh, I was a wonderful, true believer. Age 8, tender, gentle.

At least some of the reason for my success at school was the influence of Sister Maren Therese. She was young(ish) and quite tall. Her hands were long and beautiful and I stared at her gorgeous, very fair skin. She had a lovely voice and she was very caring while still remaining firm. Our school lay right in the flight path of the Los Angeles International Airport, already a very busy portal in 1960. When the huge classroom windows were opened because we were not air conditioned, Sister could present a lesson pausing every few moments as a jet passed over and then pick up right where she'd left off, without missing a beat. I remember I loved those windows that latched very close to the ceiling. They were latched by use of a device that was a sort of a hook on a very long broomstick. Only Sister, the janitor and the boys were allowed to use this device. That was OK with me. I am not graced with much grace. I could have put the device right through the window pane. That would not have pleased Sister. Have I mentioned that I absolutely loved her? And I knew she thought I was a very special girl. Yes, the adult me understands that Sister thought all the children were special. But the 8-year-old didn't know that.

It was in the spring, and for some reason, I believe it was April, not that it matters in the least. The windows were open because it was gloriously warm, Sister speaking in her stop-start mode because of the jets. It was Friday and Catholics did not eat meat on Fridays. I'd had peanut butter, cheese and crackers in my lunchbox, in place of - say - a bologna sandwich. We were in the catechism part of our daily lessons. It is interesting to me that I can still recite entire tracts of Catholic ideology and the Mass in Latin. I paid attention, you see. I was a young, budding critical thinker. I weighed facts that were tossed my way. Nearly 4th graders by now, we needed to be learning about the afterlife. Oh, we knew about heaven and all aspired to go there. We knew we'd meet others in heaven who came from different faiths and that was all right. Anyone could go there as long as they'd made a conscious decision to embrace God's ways. And we knew about hellfire. Some Catholic art shown freely and openly to children, at least at that time, was lurid and frightening. We certainly didn't plan to go there. But Catholics had a much wider menu than souls of other faiths. Catholics had a few different forms of afterlife, and one's behavior on earth would dictate where one ended up.

It's been said of me that I experience events with all of my senses and then relate them descriptively in a way that others can almost feel the way I felt at the time. Sitting in the warm classroom, I felt safe and well-fed. I listened attentively. Always. Sister explained the afterlife reward system. When the light came on for me, I shot my hand into the air. When she called on me, I stood up to ask my questions. It couldn't possibly be the way I'd heard it. Could it? My mother and I, card-carrying Catholics, could enter the kingdom of heaven if we remained in a state of grace. My brother was headed for limbo of the infants - not heaven, but a state of maximum happiness reserved for those who hadn't been able to make choices in life. My father's best hope was purgatory - a sort of temporary hell from which he might emerge if he'd been a very fine person. Dad's downfall? He wouldn't be baptized and live a holy (read: Catholic) life. What?? I know I flushed. My ears roared. I smelled something like burning leaves. I don't believe I heard another word spoken to me that day. I ran most of the long way home.I was done with Catholicism, religion and Sister. Finished. Maybe another child would have run home and said,"Hey, Dad, we've got to get you converted while there's still time. And what are we going to do about Gary?" But not I. No. I went into my room for the weekend and soaked in it. Silently. New secrets to keep. The people I loved best weren't going to get into heaven. I began this post saying I'm now an adult. I know that God didn't come down into my classroom and traumatize me. Perhaps it would have been better if he had. Better than Sister doing it. I had lay teachers for the next several years and then we moved to Salt Lake City where there was no Catholic school conveniently located. My mother did not react at all when I said I didn't want to go to church any more. I'd been faking it for a few years and wanted relief from that. A person in better balance than I might have found some other spiritual comfort or joined a different church. I am of the generation that freely explored eastern mysticism. I could have done that, too. I was so shattered, I spent decades running from the entire topic. And keeping those secrets.

When I was pregnant, Ex and I talked almost daily about our life plan for our child. Everything from her education to the color of her nursery walls was discussed in great depth. What would we do about the God/religion thing? Ex was a lapsed Catholic, although not particularly traumatized. But he had no strong need to include religious practice in our child's life. We landed on a plan. When Amber asked, and not before, we would begin the traveling church tour, visiting every kind of congregation we could find, for a few weeks each. We'd spend time in the car on the way home talking about what we thought and felt. She was about 10 when she posed the questions. We executed our plan. We did Protestantism, Mormonism, Buddhism, and - yes - Catholicism. We did it for a long time. After about 2 years, over dinner one evening, Amber said, "OK, thanks. I'm done." Oh. As easy as that.

In my ears right now: The sound of my own voice. I'm repeating phrases in Latin. I could likely conduct a retro Mass.

Something that charmed me: I was attending a 12-step meeting in support of a friend who was to be presented with a cake and a chip for a significant period of sobriety. One AA member wished to share, and that's always preceded by an introduction of oneself. "I'm X. I'm an alcoholic and a recovering Catholic." I laughed out loud. It was probably inappropriate.

Where Have All the Flowers Gone?

My younger brother and only sibling turned 55 in January, which occasion caused me to travel many of those paths I don't like to revisit. A brother's birthday may not seem unusual to anyone else, but my brother's 55th is remarkable in that people like him do not typically live beyond preteen age. My brother who has never walked, never talked, may or may not be able to see in the way that others of us are served by our eyes. He did not have the human suckling instinct at birth and had to be fed in an unusual way before tube feedings became his norm. He does not recognize us or anyone else. He is physically pristine and beautiful in a way that I am not ~ long, graceful fingers and hands with no sunspots, scars or burn marks. You see, his features, limbs, organs, skin, brain have not been used in the way most of us are called upon to use our attributes. He can hear, I am certain. When one stands beside his bed and speaks, his head turns in the appropriate direction.

My very young parents had about a 90-day "honeymoon" after Gary was born, seemingly normal. My troubled mother was excited that now she would "have one" because by age 3, I was already firmly my father's child. I desperately needed a sibling, too, although that would not become so obvious for awhile. A lot of family energy seemed to hang on his arrival. Gary gained weight, grew longer ("taller"), and there are photos of him propped up on his elbows, holding his heavy head up on his neck under his own power . . . like all babies do, right? The only warning bell tolling was that sucking thing.

The condition revealed itself on Easter morning when my mother went to Gary's crib to put a bonnet on his head before we left for Mass. He was having a seizure. There began about 5 years of doctors, surgeons, travels to more doctors and surgeons. Neurosurgery in the day was tantamount to opening up the cranium and having a little look/poke inside. Never were my parents to hear a decisive diagnosis, hanging their hats on the various tentative causes of "a virus" and other shots in the dark for nearly 20 years. Finally, Gary became quite large compared to my tiny mother. He had to be lifted - dead weight, from a crib set at a low position - for all forms of care. He developed additional physical illnesses. When hopes for a miracle ended, it was decided that placement in the state hospital system would be the best for everyone. It was, for Gary, likely. I am less certain about the other three of us. But we'll never know.

I have seen my brother in person fewer than a handful of times since that day in 1960. I was not allowed (by the hospital) to visit until I was 18. No, they were not allowed to bring him out to the car so I could see him. I might have an illness he could carry back in. At Christmas and other holidays, came handmade "art projects" containing Gary's picture. He resided with many other people who were not as damaged as he is. They made cards and gifts for their families. Some kind person always made sure there was a Santa birdhouse with Gary's picture in the doorway to send to the Morgan home. My mother and Granny never missed one of Gary's annual reviews with the doctors and nurses. Whereas some of the patients had progressed to "walking independently about 15% of the time", Gary's reviews were more of the "full bath every other day, sponge bath every other day, hair cut once per month, tube feeding site unremarkable" variety. My mother actually enjoyed going to these events. Granny made hundreds of lap-sized quilts for "Gary's friends" over the years.

My very young parents missed the mark with my upbringing in many ways, but they managed to instill in me compassion, love and pride in Gary. While almost anything out of the ordinary can mortify me (still today), I have never paled over a loud seizure in public or the noises he sometimes makes that defy description or definition. How can one love someone/something that gives no apparent love in return? I don't know the answer. I just know it can be. When I turned 18, I was taken to the hospital for Gary's next review. He was 15. It had been 10 years since I had seen him. Granny and my mother watched me closely. I'd been known to faint or collapse over certain things in life. But no. I was a hard-boiled little hippie chick. I looked at him. I held his hand awhile. I marveled at his complexion. I envied his deep brown eyes. I got the blue ones. While waiting for Gary to become "available" for our visit, I'd enjoyed (with only a slight amount of fear, sadness and a little revulsion) watching armies of other damaged, broken human beings industriously doing their work. Patients, ambulatory and not, were assigned to do whatever they could manage. I saw clean diapers being taken from a bin as large as a room and painstakingly folded - in some cases, it took 10 minutes per diaper - the same floor tiles being swept over and over and over again. Decades later, as a union representative, I never achieved anything that made workers as happy and productive as those sweet innocents folding and sweeping.

In the mid-1970s, my mother got a telegram from the hospital. "Please call immediately." A group of residents, interns and medical students had been touring Gary's ward. A young resident, knowledgeable about the most recent findings, thought he recognized some symptoms and asked to examine Gary more thoroughly. The tests were run and the conclusion indisputable. A genetic disease, only recently scientifically identified. "Is Gary's sister still living?" Boy, howdy! I was living with Ex, hoping to have 6 children, all born at home without pain medication in the good hippie way. Testing my mother and me took about a year. It was unpleasant in every respect. My father danced. We didn't understand the dancing. Ultimately, he refused to be tested. I imagine he did not want to risk being labeled "the culprit". He has not survived that refusal unscathed, I must say. And although only 75% of our family had been tested, I was told that I could not pass on the disease. I didn't have it, and therefore, I couldn't give it to my own children. However, erring on the side of conservatism, my genetic counselor suggested I have one normal child and call it a day. OK.We didn't know and wouldn't surmise for awhile that I was infertile. Conceiving the child I finally delivered took many more years. Early in the pregnancy, we went through another round of genetic counseling. Many years had passed. My newer counselor was even more solid with "you don't have it, you can't pass it on" than the counselors of two decades earlier. I wondered if the condition was detectable through the amniocentesis I intended to have. No, it wasn't and still isn't today. When Amber was born, as perfect a specimen as anyone could hope for, I called the genetic counselor. "Do you want to examine and test her?" She didn't want to check Amber. You see, I didn't have the disease and, therefore, I couldn't pass it on.

On later visits with Gary, I was not the stoic I had pretended to be at age 18. I engaged in an impulsive act that startled my mother, every single time. You see, I'd tear off Gary's socks and spread his fingers like I was trying to break a wishbone. "What the heezy?" "Checking between his fingers and toes, Ma!" I wanted to inspect the effectiveness of the alternating full baths and sponge baths. He was always, but always, spotlessly clean. I never entered his room, or left it, without sobbing about what could have been. Not only for my brother and me, but for all of the earth angels in that place.

So Saturday evening, a group of us were laughing and talking and screaming at the TV. I'd been pulled in to some pre-Super Bowl atrocity featuring Chrissie Hynde and Faith Hill as a duet, singing one another's songs. To use my daughter's favorite comment, it was just wrong, but I couldn't leave it alone. Oh, my, the kicks on Faith's feet. Oh, my, her red leggings."Jeez, change that, Les!" No. I couldn't. So a commercial comes on. It's advertising a TV special dedicated to the 100th birthday of St. Ronald Reagan. In the background, strains of the Stones' Brown Sugar was playing and that pissed me off just a little. I'm sure Big Band music would be more appropriate to St. Ronald. I doubt he would recognize Brown Sugar. On a number of blogs as the Reagan canonization approached, harsh debate ensued. The hard question: on what should we spend our (too little) money? "Military might!" "Social programs!" "Education!" "Health and welfare!"

All right, everyone has his or her opinion. Military might doesn't tantalize me. In fact . . . well. Nor do I want marauding enemies to breach the shores of our homeland. I do believe we have a responsibility to take care of those who cannot take care of themselves. There's my stance, as bland as I can make it. Seeing some of the film footage for Reagan's special made me think of "his" California where I lived most of my life and once loved. It has been so decimated in every way. This was brought home to me as I thought about my brother. The vast hospital campus once provided health care and purpose for thousands of patients (peaking at 2,700 residents in 1967). Today, "Gary's friends" number 20. They've been moved to a small building. These are the most damaged of the damaged. The others are treated on an outpatient basis or they were simply turned loose when it was determined the money should be used for other things. Where did they go? Unfortunately, I think I know. I've done enough volunteer work to recognize that some street people are not "just" homeless. They're ill. They can't take care of themselves. There are too many of them. My brother is one of the lucky ones.

In my ears right now: You already knew it was a favorite song, but I've never had any Willie in it!

In Sugarhouse ~ Inspired by Feelings that Kass's Blog Stirred Up: Chapter II

I think I'm doing all right getting to Sugarhouse the long way. Upon reflection, I can better tell the tales of later life - for by Sugarhouse, I'd attained the advanced age of six years - by laying all the groundwork first. If the reader doesn't know about us as individuals and know what has gone before, then the stories will have no context. If the reader doesn't know our presumed limitations, the reader won't be able to cheer loudly when we step out of character in a positive way. If the reader doesn't know how well we behaved under normal circumstances, the reader won't know when to be disappointed in us.

Dad got out of the Air Force and we settled into an apartment located a few blocks from Granny-O and Grandpa. Patterns of huge family get-togethers emerged. Two of my uncles married two sisters and they lived in homes side-by-side - a natural weekend gathering place for up to 50 people wandering from one house to the other yard, cousins moving between groups of other cousins, depending upon age, gender and just being like-minded. The uncles all worked in construction trades. There was a bricklayer, a plasterer (like Grandpa), a carpenter. The women were all stay-at-home moms of growing families. It was the early to mid-50s - Ike was president, Howdy Doody and the Mousketeers ruled. I really did love Lucy and Leave it to Beaver became a firm favorite (it still is today!).

My father went to work for Firestone Tire & Rubber at the huge facility in Downey. He worked in their printing department operating a printing press. I'm not sure why Firestone had a printing department or why he was determined to be well-suited to printing, but that is what he did. It seems his work and his judgment were well-regarded. When he recommended friends and relatives for a job, they were usually hired. He seems to have honed his craft over a few years, but he wouldn't run a printing press for very long. My mother continued to be ummm . . . anxious (thank you, Kass) and sensitive to harsh criticism, but now she was surrounded by her mother, sisters and sisters-in-law in whose care I spent a lot of time - weekends or full weeks at a time. By the time I was 3, it was acknowledged that I was bright and quiet, sweet-natured, "good as gold". 1950s children were expected to be good - good was desirable. Without siblings to show me the ropes, I hadn't worked out that maybe I could not do what I was told, or that I could be loud or messy or disobedient. I tended to play quietly or "read" my books or draw, alongside my 'tend friend, Carrie, with whom I had audible conversations. I was so attached to my father, legend has it, I'd run for the door when I heard the car arrive each evening, dropping my mother flat. I think that would have hurt her feelings. Every day.

It should also be noted that by about age 3, my fingernails were chewed down to the skin at all times. I knew how to walk into a room, look silently at my mother and sense the mood. I knew when to stay in a room with her and engage. I knew when to go back to what I was doing and wait for my dad to get home. I knew when to tiptoe, when not to speak, when to smile, when not to make eye contact. I was far too easily shamed, and very willing to accept blame for things I wasn't responsible for. Someone suggested that preschool might be good for me since I was very bright and needed some social interaction with other children each day. It was arranged that I would attend Kitty Kat Nursery School which was a wonderful experience for me.

My mother became pregnant and I have heard for more than 50 years how excited she was because now she would have a child. She apparently had surrendered me to be my father's child, and now she'd get one of her own. Her pregnancy was very difficult as she had the same hyperemesis she'd suffered while pregnant with me. My turn at that misery would come 34 years later. Gary was born in January when I was nearing 3 1/2 and I liked him immediately. I liked him so much that 'tend friend Carrie went away after Gary was born. I didn't need her any more because I had an ally who was a real person. OK, he couldn't talk to me, but they swore he eventually would and I believed them. If one pays attention to the stories, my mother was apparently very happy with her son and exhibited some good mothering skills. I've never heard any "yikes" stories about her caretaking of Gary, and if ever there was some fertile ground for "uh-ohs", it would be on Gary's path.

I always think of Gary as a beautiful baby. Dark hair on a beautifully shaped head, deep brown eyes, translucent skin ~ he looked like a blend of the two parents' families. I think of myself as a clunky-looking baby. Blue eyed, looking exactly like my father and no other person. For the portrait taken on my first birthday, they had to use Scotch tape to attach a bow to my bald head so I'd appear more like a girl. I was a tiny newborn and a kind of scrawny, colicky baby. He was a bigger baby with soft roundness to his cheeks and he seemed contented. His look makes me think of the beautiful paintings of infants by Bessie Pease Gutmann. There are pictures of him at about 3 months in the typical pose, lying on his tummy, resting on his arms. One can see he uses his neck to hold his head up, just the way babies of that age are expected to do. His eyes are dark and shining.

It was Easter and we were going to Mass - mother, Gary and me. My father was willing to take us there and pick us up, but he was not Catholic and did not intend to become one. My mother and her family battled him for two years after I was born to allow me to be baptized. He finally acquiesced. Gary was baptized as an infant - the issue had been settled when I finally was taken to the church at age 2. My mother went to the crib to gather the baby and put a hat on his head. Something was wrong with him. He was stiff and twisted, making terrible noises, shaking. The day did not progress as planned. Most of the cousins hunted Easter eggs with some of the adults in charge, while other adults joined my parents at the emergency room. "Seizure," they were told. "Why?" They didn't get the real answer until 1975. Nineteen years later. Oh, they got answers in the interim. Many answers. Wrong answers. My mother was 21 years of age that Sunday. Many things changed that Easter and were never the same again. A profoundly retarded child throws a long shadow across entire families, and we were about to lose contact with the sun.

There followed a period of learning how to do things. He was seen by doctors in the east and the west and in the middle, for years. There were surgeries that were wonderfully exploratory, but never successful. At first, both parents went to whichever destination for whatever treatment or exam. Ultimately, my mother began to show the very capable person she became (at least as an advocate for Gary). She and a sister or two, maybe a sister-in-law, would travel with Gary to whatever destination, leaving my father home to work/earn income and take care of me, Granny-O being his co-parent. Some relatives, sometimes, offered a $20 bill "to help with travel expenses". It was appreciated. Sometimes an aunt or uncle would announce a trip to Disneyland that would not be complete without Limes in attendance. It was appreciated.

My mother learned the fine points of tube feeding and other specialized care Gary required. My father continued to excel in his job and big things were about to happen for him. We were about to enter our gypsy stage of life, as he got better and better jobs requiring frequent moves. I attended a shocking number of different elementary schools. 'tend friend Carrie returned to my life, as it seemed Gary wasn't ever going to talk after all. I became an even quieter child, as Gary was often ill or just returned home from a surgery or rehabilitation facility.

Gary is a human who has never smiled out of joy or humor, never sat up, walked, held a spoon in his hand, never has spoken a word, probably never has formulated a thought. There is some debate about how he sees and if he sees. His body movements are not purposeful. He does not have the human instinct to suckle for nourishment. There is no doubt that he hears well. One only needs to stand beside the bed and say his name. He quickly turns his head in the speaker's direction. When he is awake, his head turns from side to side constantly, sometimes fast, sometimes slow. He is very beautiful. His skin has not been exposed to the sun or suffered acne. He's never skinned a knee or cut himself. He looks much as he did as that beautiful infant, except he's 6 feet tall and in his 50s. There's a little 5:00 shadow going on, sometimes. One might think there's not much to love here. But there is. We love him.

My parents were young, inexperienced at many things life threw their way, but they did one thing beautifully, seamlessly. They made Gary a part of our life and they made everyone we encountered aware that there were four Nows, not three Nows and a tragedy. There was some set-up for Gary at every relative's home - a crib at Granny-O's, at some aunts' homes just a little pallet on the floor surrounded by a mountain of pillows. That was OK - he'd be safe there. His birthday was celebrated just like all of the other cousins' and he was never left out of Christmas. My parents did so well at fostering Gary's assimilation, I've never been embarrassed about a seizure in public, or diapers on a big boy who didn't seem to be able to stand up or talk. When my mother was the class room mother during my first grade year, other children asked why Gary was in a baby buggy. I told them why, they seemed to accept it, and we went on to enjoy the cupcakes my mother had brought. I don't recall ever once being aware of someone pointing, laughing, jeering, or making me uncomfortable.

A story I love - I was right on the stage when it was played: Firestone hosted a huge Christmas party each year with multiple Santas and mountains of toys for the children of the employees. The children were asked to line up and come to select their toy. I was in one line, well-behaved, not pushing or making noise. I saw my father get in another line. It was clear he wasn't escorting me into Santa's presence. No, he was by himself in the childrens' line. One of his co-workers spotted him and started a little good-natured teasing. "Hey, Father Now, you planning to select a toy for yourself? I thought they said the kids should line up." My dad responded, "Oh, I'm selecting a toy for my son who can't line up and choose his own."

In my ears right now: Pride and Joy - Stevie Ray Vaughan. I needed some noise and some drive and some throb to write this one, folks. And I'm glad I've completed it. It's needed to be told for a long, long time.

Something that charmed me: We fired Matt yesterday. It wasn't easy and the decision was not easily made, but he left us no options. On the way out the door, he was as decent and good a man as we know he really is. He thanked me for influencing his life. I was in awe of that. That I could influence a life. We wish him well and worry about him.