Cavs Need to Make Adjustments

            The Cavs need a single focus this season—winning the championship. Anything else is unacceptable. The team is that good. Even without Kyrie and Shumpert on the floor, this team should be playing better. There are no excuses, but there needs to be adjustment.

            Move. It seems so simple. The Cavs need to move on offense. Too often one player is dribbling the ball and four are standing flatfooted. Set a pick. Cut to the hoop. Switch across the baseline. Post up underneath. Do anything but just stand there. If you plant your feet for your shot, realize this is NBA basketball. If someone doesn’t feed you the ball in two or three seconds, you’re no longer open.

            The Cavs have some serious threats in terms of feeding their teammates. When they pass up the bad shot for the good shot, they become far more effective. When they pass up the better shot for the best shot, their offense is unbeatable. At times they look lazy or confused. Like many fans, I look at this team and I know this is our chance for a championship. In terms of both talent and depth, it doesn’t get any better than this!

            Switch. At times, I think the Cavs are fighting too hard to work through opponent’s picks. Yell, “Switch”. And then, switch. It’s pretty obvious what other teams are doing with these picks, since teams have been using this offensive strategy for decades. One guy is trying to set up a shot—and, when that ends up being an open jump shot behind the line, it’s going to hurt. Or, the other guy is going to roll towards the basketball and is looking for an easy bucket or the deadly plus one.

            Spread. Too often the Cavs defense collapses on the ball and then a man opens up on the weak side for the easy three. The game plan for many teams is to spread the offense. The way to beat that is to spread the defense.

            Every team is going to make errors on defense. What do you want to give the other team when they force those errors? An easy two or an easy three? It seems logical to err towards protecting against easy threes. This is particularly true since it seems the road to the championship runs through Golden State.

            Coach Blatt and Lebron, listen up. Move! Switch! Spread! In terms of talent, you won’t find a better team. You have a rare opportunity. Don’t waste it!

My AGT Tryout

            On Friday the 13^th of November, I began my journey to Queens, New York. Mom came along, because she wanted to see the city. We stayed in the Super 8 on North Conduit. We were either in or near an area called Jamaica.

            On Saturday began the journey to the tryout. I drove out to Queens College. I was suspecting with the tryouts, there would be police and others directing traffic to parking. But, I didn’t see any. I guess that was good, because according to the information I had, parking was going to cost $10. I found Melbourne, which was one of the streets AGT had given as a place to park. So, we parked and then walked up a sidewalk next to a long, tall, cement wall until we found the college entrance. I asked someone where the dining hall was, since that’s where tryouts were. We began our journey, somewhat dazed and confused, across the campus trying to find the landmarks from our directioneer. Yes, I made up the word “directioneer”!

            I saw a group coming across campus in matching uniforms—white shirts, black ties, red scarves and matching jackets. So, I asked if they were going to the AGT tryouts. Since they were, we stuck with them as we tried to find our way. They were a group called “Dangerous Signs”. They did some sort of synchronized, sign language act. I’m not sure what that entails, but they were super nice.

            Someone saw the line and we headed towards it. After asking a few questions, we were directed where to go. We stood in a short line outside that wrapped around the outside of the dining area. They had a long area marked off. I jumped the police tape, since the line wasn’t long at that time. It was around 9:00 a.m. I imagine later in the day that line was longer. After asking a few people, I showed my AGT ticket, showing preregistration. They gave me a purple wristband and my identification sticker. Mom, as well as any guests, was given a yellow wristband. We were then directed to the doors where we entered. Carousels were set up that winded back and forth to the registration tables.

            Before getting in that line, I was frisked by the NYPD. There were quite a few police officers around. I’m not sure if that had anything to do with AGT or if police presence was on high alert due to the recent terrorist attacks in France.

            So, the journey through the carousels began. Fortunately, the line moved pretty quickly. While in line, mom and I had a chance to talk to some of the other acts. We were in line not far behind Dangerous Signs. I hope they make the show! We spoke to a fellow who was maybe in his 50’s or early 60’s. He had a cool, white hat. He was going to sing, “That’s Amore”. Apparently a friend of his convinced him to come try.

            We spoke to a young lady who was going to sing. I’m guessing she was around twelve or thirteen years old. She had strange eyebrows—painted on with eyebrow pencils like older ladies do. I didn’t say anything about the eyebrows. Behind us was a tall, black guy with a thick head of hair—almost an afro, but not quite. He was with a friend, who was also trying out as a singer. We started talking to them and she notified me that she thought I had a booger. After checking, no booger was found. Apparently, I had some wild nose hair with a booger-like appearance. There were several booger jokes exchanged.

            While in line, I heard some beat boxing. He sounded pretty good. I’m not sure how people make all those sounds.

            We didn’t see anyone that looked too crazy in line. I was somewhat suspecting to see a guy on roller skates in a chicken suit. But, nothing that crazy. There were a few unusual looking people I saw later.

            At the front of the line, we waited until directed to the registration table, which were actually several tables set up. The young lady we spoke to had a computer open. I showed her my pass after taking her picture. I had everything printed out, but she found me in the computer and things went pretty quickly. She also spoke with mom. I think mom needed to fill out a form or something. I was given a few pieces of paper stapled together with my preregistration ticket. On the front was a questionnaire to fill out. We were directed to a large waiting area, where I was supposed to fill out the form and just wait. They said there were pens. I didn’t see anyone handing out pens, but saw a deserted pen on a table, which I snatched. Hopefully it was deserted.

            The form asked things like name, age, place of birth and residence, how long and how you learned your act, what other talents you have, occupation, what are your dreams, what obstacles have you overcome in reaching your dreams, and who is your biggest supporter. I hope they could read my writing, since I was writing with my paperwork supported on a few folded up magazines mom had in her purse.

            I suspect the large area was probably the college cafeteria. There were hundreds (maybe even a few thousand) people in there—some seated, some practicing and some eating snacks. There was a Nathan’s hotdog. I think there may have been some vending machines somewhere, since people had pops and waters. After sitting for a while, I went to use the restroom. I saw a guy in there putting some sort of red body paint on his chest. I didn’t take a picture, because there’s a creep factor snapping a picture in a busy men’s room.

            The room was pretty noisy, with some just sitting, some practicing and some milling around. There was a guy that would occasionally stand on a small platform up front and give announcements.

            I wandered around a while and took some pictures. I saw my friend that was going to sing, “That’s Amore”, so I snapped a few pictures of him. There were some cute little girls in red dresses. I suspect they were doing some sort of Latin American dance act, but who knows. One lady had something that looked like a small candelabra. I have no idea what she was doing.

            There were some young ladies singing behind us—unfortunately, off key at several points. In front of me, a guy had a table. He had a few cups and a few other things set up. He had two pens and was doing some sort of drumming act. At points, it sounded really good.

            Mom saw a guy in blue hair. She directed me to him, since I was taking pictures. There he was, the guy with the body paint in the bathroom. He was wearing blue hair and had a bare chest with some sort of red body paint. It didn’t look like his body-painting job was complete.

            Across the room was a guy singing and playing an instrument. I think he was doing some sort of one-man-band act. He sounded pretty good.

            All through this whole process, I was running my lines through my head for my standup comedy act.

            To the side of the waiting room, was a line composed of the numbers they were calling. When they called 850 and below, I was pretty excited, since the last three of my ID sticker was 870. After a while, they said 900 and below was coming up. Mom suggested we make our way closer to the line.

            We spoke to one of the helpers, who thought I was in line. I said I was in the next group. He directed me to get in line right before the guy called 900’s and below. I suspect getting near the line early saved about a half hour.

            Everyone was notified that after that point, there would be no videotaping, photography or food. Anyone found doing that would be disqualified. I so wanted to take pictures, but I couldn’t.

            A helper split off the group shortly behind us, and our group was told to follow each other to the next area. We walked through an area cordoned off that was in the same room as the people snaking their way to the registration table. I felt like a big shot looking at those poor fools in line.

            We went to another, smaller waiting room. You could occasionally hear a singer or instrument in the next room. People were cutting back and forth through this room. One group came in with some instruments. They were told to get their instruments out and ready. One guy had a beat-up, silver-colored sousaphone. One guy had a large saxophone. Someone had what looked like a clarinet. When they went in the room, you could hear a little bit of what they were playing, which was some variation on a Michael Jackson song. They sounded pretty good.

            I ended up talking to a guy that was playing guitar. He had a small amp and stomp box. I think he was from the Baltimore area. He was a little ornery. He said, “Nice legs”, to a guy that walked by in high heels with shaved legs. He did have rather muscular legs. I’m not sure what he was doing, but he entered the audition room.

            The AGT helper was trying to keep a path clear in the middle of the room. He would also occasionally tell us to keep things down, as apparently they could hear us in the audition room. I spoke with him a little. He was a local hire. He said they had about 1600 RSVP’s for the tryouts and that tryouts would probably run to eleven or midnight. The tryouts closed at 7:00 p.m., but I assume they still had many in line at that point.

            There were several acts in the waiting area. One guy was about fourteen and wearing a suit. There was a teenager with a guitar. Throughout the whole process, I saw countless people carrying guitars. There were some young girls and a kid with his mother. Only one guardian was allowed in the audition room with minors.

            Anyhow, eventually we were let into the audition room. It was probably about fifteen feet by twenty feet. Up front a few tables were set up with a laptop and various papers. Occasionally an AGT person would wander in. Those trying out sat in folding chair lining the sidewalls of the room. I was seated right above a power strip, which apparently ran to various equipment. In the back corner was a speaker, microphone, keyboard and bench set up. Behind the desk was a lady, maybe in her late twenties or early thirties. I think she was the producer lady for that audition room. Beside her was a guy with a video camera. She told us that when she called us, we would walk to the X (which was just an X made out of green tape), give our name, age, where we’re from and what we’re doing. Then, we would perform. She said we didn’t need to stand on the X, but could walk around if needed. She told everyone to keep things clean and that she would stop us at ninety seconds. Actually, I think she let some of the kids go a little longer. She also said she would be taking notes.

            As she called, people performed. It’s a little hard to remember exactly what everyone did, since I was running through my act in my mind. Several younger ladies sang. One girl had a strong voice. One didn’t project well and could barely be heard. One young lady sang and played piano. There was a young man, I think fourteen, that played guitar and sang. His playing was excellent and his singing was solid. He was seated right next to me, so I gave him a fist bump after his act. After each act, all the people trying out gave each other applause.

            One kid had a harmonica with a neck band. When he was called, he did his act at the keyboard. He did Billy Joel’s Piano Man. He could sing. His keyboarding and harmonic playing was also strong. So, I suspect he makes it. I gave a thumbs-up. If you see a young (maybe ten-year old) Asian kid doing Piano Man, you heard it from me first.

            The fourteen year old in the suit was a magician. He did a card act. He went up to the table with the producer lady and did a close-up act. I couldn’t tell for sure what he did.

            Eventually they called me. I really let it fly, giving my act a ton of energy. The producer lady was laughing at several points. I could also hear people behind and to my sides laughing. She stopped me before I finished my act. I only had about fifteen words left, so I was a little disappointed I didn’t get to do my ending. I was using a ton of facial expressions and taking dramatic pauses. So, maybe I was at 90 seconds, but I think she may have stopped me a little shorter to keep things on track. One line in my act was, “Anyone wake up this morning and your first thought was, I hate my job?” I heard the producer lady respond something to the effect of no, not me. Usually, it’s a pretty good sign when the audience is so involved in your act, that they’re responding under their breath while also laughing and smiling.

            When the guy with the guitar, stomp box and amp performed, he said he was going to free style. The producer lady said since he was free styling, that she would stop him at 90 seconds. He got a few loops going with his stomp box and then starting rapping. His rap wasn’t that great. This was an opportunity for me to read the producer lady when she stopped him. I wanted to see if his stop was different than when I was stopped. Her demeanor was different when she stopped him. While subtle, her demeanor was saying, “Okay, okay, enough already!” Mine was a positive stop. The body language was more speaking, “Okay, I’ve heard enough. I think you’re great!” It was just a slight smile and a positive tone in her voice. I suspect she noted to look at my video further, but that’s just my best guess. They only notify the people who make the show and that could be as late as April.

            After audition, we left. A few of the young girls said I was funny. Their mom mentioned they were teachers and we’re kidding me, because one of my lines dealt with teachers having teaching disabilities. I told them I teach college and they seemed fine with that. We walked out and I saw the line wrapping around the building. It was around 1:00 p.m. We walked past a group in blue uniforms. I wished them luck. And, my tryouts were over.

Students to Blame for Our Failing Education System

            Who’s to blame for our failing education system? Students! That’s right, I said it—the thought that every college instructor ruminates. At the end of the term, it seems some of my students are dumber than when they started. They haven’t grown any dumber. I just got to know them.

            It seems many students have no useful purposes—perhaps beyond serving as an alternate food source. Why must Soylent only come in green, when stupidity comes in a rainbow! Before processing into victuals, lop off their heads and use the contents to fertilize the rainforest. Bye, bye, Global Warming!

            After considering such suggestions, you may be pondering my sanity. Don’t worry. I’m also pondering it. I’m one ill-formed argument about pot legalization away from a straight jacket. Just because you’re in favor of legalization, doesn’t mean you need to smoke it. Particularly when writing a paper! I can even smell it on that Word document you emailed me. The smell permeates from the sentence fragments, run-ons, and ill-constructed verb tenses. I use the term “verb tenses” nearly as loosely as you demonstrated it. Had I not opened the file, I wouldn’t have known what you were sending. At least you put your name on it this time. I know who to give the F.

            I know someone out there is thinking my suggestion constitutes murder. Apparently you haven’t seen the blank stares on my students’ faces. A lack of brain activity is one definition of death. How can you murder a corpse? I would be willing to offer pardons to students who asked thought-provoking questions; but, there would be rules. Any questions concerning matters covered in class more than twice are illegitimate. “Will this be on the test?” “Can we get extra credit?” And, “Can we get out of here early?” do not count as proof of brain activity. Any questions clearly covered in the syllabus will move a student to the front of the line. We’ll lop off the head right there—in class. Don’t worry, no one will even notice until the video goes viral. Several minutes later, some back-row cell phone jockey will loudly declare, “Dude! Did you just see what happened in class?”

            Now, those ill-informed of the realities of college classes, may suggest I’m simply boring. I’ve tried everything in class—lecture, discussion, videos, games, dancing, singing, and playing trombone. My bone playing is the auditory equivalent of waterboarding. It would jar consciousness from anyone with even the most modest sense of pitch. But in class, more blank stares!

            Some may wonder that if it’s fair for students, it’s also fair for instructors. Okay, then let’s go there! Imagine dragging highly educated professionals to the grinder? I’m guessing Soylent processing begins with a grinder, but what do I know? My degree work never included classes on meat processing. My degree work never included any information useful outside of academia. Why do you think I’m teaching these slackers!

            Upon further reflection, dragging instructors to the grinder seems ludicrous. Let them teach for ten years. You won’t need to drag. They’ll volunteer! They’ll march to the grinder with purpose. It’ll be the first time they’ve felt purpose in years. Yes, they used to be vibrant people—with ideas swimming in their heads, fire coursing through their hearts, and compassion dancing in their souls. The blank stares extinguished that. The blank stare isn’t a void; it’s a heaping helping of apathy! It’s a statement that the instructor isn’t viewed as a person. They are viewed as an obstacle between the student and the degree.

            We might as well kill students now. Their degrees are worthless. At most it’s a ticket to corporate serfdom. Used to be that serfdom was earned through a high school diploma. But, that was in the days when students worked hard and cared, so the diploma carried some weight. That was also in the days when companies cared—when employees were viewed as people and management had emotional attachment. Now, management is composed of MBA’s with blank stares. It’s the same stare that existed in the classroom, but now it’s at some profit and loss statement, where employees are seen as liabilities. These managers are the lucky few whose degrees served as golden tickets, only to find that Willy Wonka isn’t a fun loving chocolatier.  He’s a slick-talking politician with a bad toupee. And, the factory doesn’t produce chocolate. It produces Soylent in a rainbow of colors.

What is Wrong with Our Education System?

            The education system seems so huge, that it would seem impossible to simplify its problems into a short essay. But, while the system is huge, we can boil it down to individual students and teachers. There are certain truths of human nature. When these truths are grasped and applied—from both the teacher and student—then education begins to be transformed.

            True transformation is an inside-out process. Besides being involved in education, I’m also a born-again Christian. I’ve been around churches and church folks. In those circles, you will hear people talk of legalism. Legalism boils down to people whose whole perspective on their faith (and life) comes down to following a set of rules. Internally they are often dead, but outwardly they appear righteous.

            It’s frightening how closely this mirrors our education system. The system at its core is an external system of rewards and punishments that are designed to bring people into conformity. These rewards and punishments take the form of tests, papers, and other assignments, as well as rules, policies and procedures. Of course, some will argue that those things aren’t always wrong. No, they’re not always wrong. The issue is focus. When the externals become both a means and an end, and they have in many ways, people learn to play the game. Outwardly they conform, but inwardly they aren’t developing creativity or critical thinking. The ones most highly rewarded are the ones most conforming to the system.

            Think about those people who most changed society in a positive way, people like: Einstein, Beethoven or Shakespeare. What made these people unique wasn’t that they conformed. What made them unique was they did new things—or, perhaps old things in new ways. Uniqueness always comes from within. If we want to produce these type of people, our system must change from an outside-in to an inside-out focus.

            Grabbing the heart first. Grab a syllabus for a class or read a textbook. Ask yourself, is this person primarily focused on making a head-to-head connection? Or, is the primary focus on making a heart-to-heart connection? While there may be some exceptions, for the most part our system focuses on making a head-to-head connection.

            I can already hear some bureaucratic sighing, “Oh no! He’s another one of those liberal hippies who wants us all to have a group hug. Let’s make every child feel good, blah, blah, blah!” I don’t think we need to make everyone feel good. At times, anger can be a useful tool for teaching—particularly when a slacker student is pushed into the corner and comes out with an I’ll-show-them mentality. The truth is, we think about those things that impact us emotionally. The heart is the engine of the mind. Deep thinking without emotional engagement is virtually impossible.

            Individual teachers in the system do connect emotionally. But, the system as a whole is not designed for this. The system is designed around content when it should be designed around human nature!

            Detached from real world application. Academia is detached from real world applications. We divide things into artificial categories—Math, English or History. Problems outside the class are seldom chopped up into these little boxes. The classroom is such a detached environment. Kids don’t care about a train leaving Chicago at 60 mph and another train leaving Los Angeles at 45 mph. When will they meet? They do care about problems in their own neighborhood—like hunger, or crime or why there are people living underneath the bridge. This is particularly true when some of them are hungry or living underneath the bridge. People face problems everyday—problems they care deeply about and problems that will require applications of math, English, science, government and a whole host of other disciplines.

            The most detached people are often the ones at the top of the academic food chain—the tenured professors. The farther up the ladder they climb, the more specialized they become. Pretty soon the Ph.D. in education is no longer applying the dynamics of human nature in artistic ways in the class. He’s sitting in front of a computer screen, crunching numbers—boiling down something as complex as classroom interaction into a set of variables and looking for correlation and causation. And, with each number entered into the computer, he becomes a little more detached from the dynamics of the real world.

            Give them a big ugly problem. I see many students who lack the essential skills of creativity and critical thinking. I’ve asked myself the question over and over, “How do I teach those skills?” I keep coming up with the same answer. I need to give students a big ugly problem. It has to be a problem they don’t know how to solve. Then, I step back and let them struggle with it. And, I let them struggle some more. I let them work, work and work until they’ve either come up with a solution or they’ve exhausted all their resources. If they’ve exhausted all their resources, I give them a nudge—not much help, but just enough resources to continue the struggle. Then, I sit back and wait until they either solve the problem or exhaust all their resources. This process continues until they finally come up with a solution to the problem. This is how to teach creativity and critical thinking.

            Now, go ahead and try that with your average high school or college student. I dare you! Try it! The bitching, pissing and moaning from students will be unbearable. Some will complain to your supervisor. Some will just stare and you’ll feel their violent thoughts. Some will curl into the fetal position and stare out into space. Few will do the assignment. Most of their education up to this point has told them what to do and how to do it. It has given them answers instead of questions, and they simply don’t know how to handle the big ugly problem you just gave them.

            Most don’t know how to tap into their internal drives. Everything has taught them to follow externals, because the system is designed that way. They need to become emotionally engaged, because they need that fuel to think through and tackle the big ugly problem. This answers those who responded earlier in this essay by thinking, “Well, he just wants to engage people emotionally, so he can have a big group hug.” No, no, no! I want to engage people emotionally not to make them feel good. I want to engage them emotionally, because they’ll need that emotional engagement when I throw a big ugly problem in front of them. I don’t want fragile little flowers that wilt at the first sign of drought. I want people that when they’re pushed, they will push back—not in defiance or anger, but will push back by throwing their all into tackling the problem.

            I’m been teaching college over a decade and I’m in the process of working through my exit strategy. I can no longer play the game. I am a great teacher. But, I’m not going to keep working in a system that is in such utter ruins. I’ve tried to push students. They never push back. They deflect, manipulate and complain. And, students are often far more open to true education than administrators and bureaucrats—who are masters at deflecting, manipulating and blaming everyone but themselves. I believe the system is so sick, that it cannot be cured. A new system must be designed. All the problems in our system can be boiled down to one. Our education system doesn’t work, because it’s incongruent with human nature.

The Election Circus

            The only thing thinner than Trump’s toupee is the security of Hillary’s email server. Yes, it’s election season again. Well, it’s not quite election season. But, it’s not Halloween or Christmas season either, but Walmart is already rolling out the decorations. Why must the decorations come out earlier every year? Because every year, We The People have less to look forward to. So, every year we push the holiday hope a little sooner. The election circus comes earlier for a similar reason. Our sole hope as an electorate is a change of guard.

            I remember a day when we used to have hope. We had the Democratic version of hope—a vision of society helping those in need. We had the Republican version of hope—of economic prosperity emerging from free commerce. Both of those visions have some merit, but We The People now see the truth. The visions aren’t based on policies. They’re marketing slogans. That’s what our politicians have degraded into—slick snake oil salespeople. And, the snake oil is poison and it’s overpriced.

            We The People don’t want an insider. Used to be, we lacked trust in the Washington insider. Now, we no longer even trust our local school board.

            Let’s look at a few of the Republican candidates. Christie wants to cut social security. Kasich made disparaging comments about teachers. Walker’s policies have led to turmoil in Wisconsin. Graham has as much presidential demeanor as Foghorn Leghorn. This isn’t to say every Republican personality or idea is bad. But, at times I feel like I’m watching reality TV as opposed to thoughtful leaders.

            The Democratic side of things also has its drama. How can anyone seriously consider Hillary as viable? Benghazi! Email security issues! And, she tries to deflect with bad jokes as opposed to addressing the issues. There is Biden. He seems a nice man, but his propensity for spouting stupidity seems only surpassed by Dubya!

            Amidst this freak show, two candidates are stepping forward: Trump and Sanders. Two or three decades ago, I’m not sure either candidate would have been taken seriously. Trump seems to speak what’s on his mind. That seems to be his main appeal. He’s not one of them (political insider) and that’s why people like him. He doesn’t have a sliver of presidential demeanor. Electing Trump would make us the laughing stock of the world. But, here’s the catch. The bar is so low, that he’s a better choice than some of the other candidates.

            The Democrats have Sanders. He’s their black sheep. He claims to be a Socialist. At least he’s honest. And, some of his ideas do have merit. He wants to talk about income inequality, police brutality, the soaring cost of college education and the need for quality healthcare. These are key issues people are struggling with. Merely mentioning them grabs attention. His demeanor is crusty—not what one would expect for someone seeking a job that requires high-level diplomacy. At one level, I’m proud that We The People are able to see past the veneer of personality. At another level, Sanders may be a little too far left and too lacking in diplomatic demeanor. He may be the best the Democratic Party has running, but is he the best our country is able to produce? I don’t think so!

            This election season is a turning point. People are screaming NO to politics as usual. They don’t want the insiders. They don’t want slick politicians. They want a change of guards. I’m only hoping that We The People are beginning to see that the guards are not public servants. The guards are running the prison.

The Definition of Manhood

            As I reflect on my Dad’s life, his life makes a vivid statement on the definition of manhood that was imposed on him. In both Dad’s life and culture in general, I see that manhood is often defined by what a man does—his job, his salary or his service to others. Dad did many wonderful works—for his kids, for his wife, for his employer, for his church and for society. But, what he did was merely an extension of who he was. His character was far more important than his works. As a society, we need to redefine manhood—not based on what a man does, but based on who a man is.

            Dad was a faithful employee of Goodyear Tire and Rubber for about half his life. As he was nearing retirement, Goodyear terminated him. He was escorted to the lobby and given the contents of his locker in a box. Goodyear was cutting employees nearing retirement to avoid paying full benefits. The doing part of Dad’s manhood was stolen just so some greedy bastards could be a little richer. Dad never fully recovered from that blow. It left a deep scar on his psyche.

            When dad became sick with cancer, the doing part of his manhood took another blow. He became weak and needed rehab to regain his arms and legs. Because he had a large tumor removed from his sinus cavity, he needed rehab to regain his voice and his ability to eat. He lost some hearing and vision. He never fully regained the vigor in his body, his ability to talk, his ability to eat, his hearing or his vision. He did regain the ability of talking to the point the family understood him, but he never regained enough to have confidence in sharing with those outside his immediate circle.

            I wish Dad could have fully grasped that it was enough for him just being Dad in those dark hours of cancer. The family never forgot all the doing he did to make our lives better. He worked hard so his family had the best he could give us. When Dad couldn’t do, it was enough for him to just be Dad. I could still feel his love, his gentle spirit and his humbleness.

            I remember Dad telling me that I was now “the man”. It was his humble way of honoring me—of saying that I was now a man he admired. It’s special to know Dad felt that way about me. But, I think his proclamation had another meaning. Dad no longer felt he was the man in the family. In his mind, he could no longer hold up his end of the bargain—the bargain imposed on him by society’s definition of a man as doing instead of being. I wish Dad could have understood that by simply being Dad—the loving, gentle, humble man he was—was enough. Neither his employer nor his cancer stripped Dad of being Dad. Dad had a dignity that came from within. Dad’s suffering would have been less if he understood that truth.

            True men face hardships. They may be stripped of the doing of manhood by disease, society, or through circumstances. But, this never strips a true man of his manhood. Just being a man of character is enough. Dad was more than enough!

An Abnormal Grieving Process

            Today, June 23^rd, 2015 is Dad’s birthday. He passed away on June 13^th, 2015. Surprisingly, I’m not filled with grief on his birthday. I think part of this is that Dad never made a big deal of his birthday. He was a simple man. He usually wore the same clothes. He never was into fancy things. So, I can’t recall any huge celebration for Dad’s birthday or significant gift I bought for this day, other than the heated mattress pad I discussed in another blog. Maybe memories of gifts will come later.

            I think my grieving process is abnormal. Dad’s fight with cancer started in earnest in October of 2013. I think both Mom and me accepted through the process that Dad could die. So, I think we already did some of the grieving before he passed. Around Spring 2014, I removed myself from organized religion. I also didn’t read the Bible much through that time until now. I’m not sure I was angry at the church. I definitely was frustrated. When I read the book of Acts, I see miracles. I see people healed. I see a priesthood of believers. When I look at organized religion, I see sick people everywhere and I see an ecclesiastical structure. I believe that structure inhibits God from moving like he should. The Ekklesia needs to go through a radical transformation. I’ll have to examine that in future blogs. Dad’s death is causing me to work through my faith and my purpose. I’ll also have to think through the whole process I’ve been through the past few years and see if I was grieving and didn’t even know it. The grieving process is strange, but I need to understand it. So, these are things you’ll see me working through in future posts.

            The grieving process is one of extremes. The last few days I’ve been facing extreme exhaustion. I’ve noticed since Dad’s death, everything is extreme. One minute my stomach is upset. The next minute I’m starved. Or, I’ll feel starved and then only be able to eat a few bites. One minute I’m extremely happy. Then, I’m overwhelmed with sadness. Then, anxiety. Everything is an extreme. It’s like my body, heart and spirit have all the possibilities they can experience on a giant wheel—like Wheel of Fortune. Every now and then the wheel is spun and then whatever it lands on I experience full force.

            This is a strange post. I’m not sure I’m so much working through anything as I am just working through what I need to work through. Anyhow, I’m working on lunch, so I’ll have to end and attend to my physical needs.

Father's Day was Stolen

            Today is Father’s Day: June 21, 2015. My Dad passed away a little over a week ago on June 13^th. From the title, you may believe I’m talking about this Father’s Day. But, I’m not. Most children outlive their parents, so most face those special days (holidays, birthdays or whatever) after death. The Father’s Day that was stolen was in 2014.

            I went over to see Dad in the morning. I’m not sure if I brought him a gift or not. He was so sick, there was really nothing I could do except be with him. When I arrived, Dad was extremely anxious. He thought he was dying. I tried to talk him down, but I couldn’t. Dad was jittery and out of sorts. He couldn’t focus on anything but bad thoughts.

            As the day progressed, I found out Dad had been given Phenergan. Dad had been given that in the past to help calm his nervous stomach. He reacted poorly to it. It threw him out of whack. When I found out he had been given that, I was concerned. I was forceful with the caretakers that visited and also went out to the desk to make sure the situation was handled. His reaction to Phenergan should have been on his chart and I was questioning why it wasn’t and demanding that it was. According to Mom, I was angry about the situation. I don’t think I lost my temper, but I was forceful.

            Throughout the process of Dad’s sickness, I saw how terrible our medical system could be. I say the system, because many of the people are wonderful. I’ll go into more detail about other situations in further posts, but the system adds unnecessary stress and hardship to people who are elderly, sick or injured. The system stole the last Father’s Day I had with Dad, because it missed an important detail. I don’t want to dwell on it, but people need to understand these things happen and it’s unnecessary.

            Dad did have many wonderful caretakers. To close this post, I’d like to share an email I received from Kim Dalton, his nurse at Pebble Creek Nursing Home. She helped bring joy to my Dad’s life. Right now mom can't look at the pictures of Kim and Dad. Last night I showed her a picture of Kim and Dad and she burst into tears. In this picture, Dad is with Kim and there is happiness on his face. Mom will be able to look at it in the future, but right now it brings her to tears.  Mom and I talked to Kim for about an hour on June 19^th and I asked if she had anything she’d like to share as I am putting together memoirs of dad. She sent me an email with three pictures attached at 10:06 p.m. Here is Kim’s email:

Brett,

It was great talking to you and Bonnie tonight.  I shared with you many of my memories of your dad on the phone, but what I didn't say is what I'd like to share for your memoirs. 

I walked into Pebble Creek last March as green as they get.  I had been a nurse less than a month and I truly had no idea what to expect.  I learned many things such as how to pass pills, how to insert a catheter, and most definitely how to efficiently clean up poop.  What I didn't expect was for my very first patient to touch my life the way he did.  As a nurse, I may have thousands of patients.  Some I will remember, some I won't, but from the moment I met your dad, he had me wrapped around his little finger.  I can't really say it was one specific thing....I think it was just his presence.  The way his eyes lit up when your mom walked in the room amazed me.  It gave me hope that true love does exist.  I cared for Marv when he was really at his worst.  He was in such pain, but always found a way to put a smile on his face when I came in the room (even when I was there to scold him for getting out of bed without help!). On my birthday, he was all smiles, all day. I knew he had something up his sleeve.   I was sitting at the nurse's station and I heard him talking on the phone to your mom....he didn't know I could hear him....but he said to her "Bonnie, don't forget to bring Kim's birthday present!".  Then a little while later, I heard him again...."Bonnie....don't forget to bring Kim's birthday present when you come".  Then again later......"Bonnie....when are you coming up here with Kim's birthday present??".  I was just tickled pink that he was so excited to surprise me.  I cherish those two bracelets, two necklaces, and two pair of earrings as though they are priceless gems.  Well, to me, they are.  Marv made those with his own hands, and he thought enough of ME to bestow them upon me.   I know I'm rambling at this point, but I wanted to let you know that Marv was so much more than my patient.  He stole a little piece of my heart (as did your whole family).  He confided in me about things and we had some very intense heart-to-heart talks.  He was a good man, a good husband, and a good father.  I consider myself priveleged to have cared for him and to be welcomed into his family and his home.  Attached are the picutres I took the day he left Pebble Creek and one of the bracelets he gave me for my birthday last year.  I'll keep it forever and will always cherish my memories of Marv.  

Good night.  Rest well my friend.

Kim

Dad's Hands

            My Dad was a man of few words. If I had to guess, his most frequent words to me were, “I love you” or some variation on that theme. He said those words a lot through his battle with cancer. I think our love grew closer through his struggle and Dad’s appreciation for me grew. He developed a fondness and appreciation for the man I had become. I remember him telling me within the past month or two that I was “the man”.

            Before Dad’s funeral, Mom and I talked. Let me share mom’s recollections of the families’ last words to Dad. My last words to Dad were, “Love ya, Dad. Sleep good.” My brother Lance’s last words were, “Love you, Dad.” Mom’s last words to Dad were, “Love you. Sleepy good.” Dad responded with some variation of the theme of love to me. So, our last words were kind and that is a cherished memory.

            I wish Dad had become more of a talker or writer, so I better understood his thinking. But, Dad primarily showed his love through his action. So, I want to remember Dad’s hands—the thing he used to show his love.

            When I was a kid, Dad had big hands. Mom on occasion would call them, “Meat hooks.” He was a small guy, but because of work (and working out through various stages of his life) his hands were strong. His hands were broad, but more than that they were thick with muscle.

            I can recall intertwining my fingers with Dad’s. He would jokingly straighten his fingers and squeeze them together. My poor hand (I think I was a teenager or maybe even in my twenties at this time) was helpless in his viselike grip. I remember doing this with my right hand, but probably did it with both. I think all this hand squeezing came out of some macho hand challenges boys that age do. I remember thumb wrestling and other stupid things boys do with other boys. Then, I would try those things with Dad. Dad was much stronger than the other boys. There was no way to beat Dad in thumb wrestling—at least I think I thumb wrestled Dad, but I’m not sure. But, either way, I doubt I would have beaten him!

            In his prime, Dad had a ridge of thick calluses just below his fingers. The ridges came up to a peak that was sharp. The calluses were rough and thick—like a type of padding that would add grip to a tool in his hand. Even the tips of Dad’s fingers had this type of texture. Dad wasn’t afraid to work until he had bloody blisters on his hands. Sometimes he did this when he was gardening.

            Dad loved gardening. I think part of it was his hyperactivity. Part of it was saving money. And, part of it was he liked to give food to his family—not any food, but food that he helped create. I suppose it was his part of the meal-making process. Mom was the official cook and we were glad of that.

            One time Mom was sick. I don’t remember her illness at the time, but Mom was and is faithful and hardworking. So, she must have had a bad bug. Dad cooked. His hands made us hamburgers. I think Dad feared undercooking them, so he did the opposite. Those burgers were like charcoal briquettes. I don’t ever recall Dad being chef again. I think I may have written some sort of funny story or poem about the day Dad cooked for a school assignment. Seems it was likely around third or fourth grade, but I don’t remember for sure.

            Wherever he went, Dad made some sort of garden. At our house on Massillon Road, Dad put in a large garden. I think it spanned the width of the backyard and was fairly deep. We probably had a big enough harvest to feed a neighborhood. I only vaguely remember what was back there. I can recall cucumbers, but I’m not sure it was that garden. I think there may have been corn back there. My foggy memories of that house (I was about seven when we moved to another house) are somewhat limited. I think there was corn, because I have a vague image of the garden having some height.

            I remember Mom telling the story how Dad dug around to help build the foundation of that house. I’m not sure why. It was probably to save money. Likely there was an expensive repair, I can’t recall, and Dad said he would do it instead of paying guys to come out and dig it out with machines. That was Dad—he was strong and could work like a machine.

            As a kid and young man, I thought Dad was a workaholic. I didn’t like that. I wanted more of him. But, now as I reflect, I can see Dad was giving us all of him in the way he knew best. Dad’s father died when he was only four-and-a-half. He had no role model to follow in terms of how to be a Dad. But, his great love allowed him to figure it out and he did well. He raised my brother and me right.

            Dad’s hands were outdoor hands. He loved hunting. He took my brother and me on a few hunting trips. It never took. I somewhat wish I would have feigned a hobby in hunting, just so I had a few more memories with Dad. He took us squirrel hunting on a few occasions. I remember Dad taking us to hunter safety courses. He made sure we were safe. I think we were only teenagers at the time.

            Dad’s hands played catch with my brother and me. I don’t have a vivid image in my head, but more of a feeling of throwing a ball back and forth in our front yard at Laura Lane. I think we may have also played catch in the lot beside my Grandparent’s (Mom side of the family) house. I remember having baseball mitts, oiling them up, putting a baseball in the middle and then putting it under the bed mattress and sleeping on it. I’m not positive, but I think Dad showed us how to do that to break in the mitt.

            In the front yard (on Laura Lane) we had this weird planter made out of a tire. I’m not sure Dad built that. I think it was made by cutting down the middle of the tread and the turning the rubber inside out. There were plants in there—planted by Dad, of course, but Mom may have helped. He did quite a bit of landscaping around that house—with bark and mulch. We had a drainage ditch to the front and side of that house. On the side between our house and the Meyer’s, Mom and Dad had a row of tall bushes planted. I think they had Donzell’s (a local nursery) plant those. There were low-lying shrubs behind them. I think Mom and Dad planted that part. Dad had a garden out back—not as big as the one on Massillon, but I’m thinking it was about six feet by ten feet.

            I know Dad planted tomato plants out there. I recall that clearly, because tomato plants attract grubs. My brother and I helped find the grubs and were paid per grub. I think it was only a nickel. We also put some pans out there with beer. It attracted the grubs and killed them.

            Dad also showed us how to hunt for night crawlers after a rain. We would use these for fishing trips. One time Dad took my brother and me snipe hunting in the backyard. In case you’re wondering, there is no such thing as a snipe.

            I can remember dad using his rototiller. Right now it’s sitting out in his garage. It is a John Deere. I think he loved that rototiller, because it helped him plant his gardens.

            Dad loved tomato plants. During our recollections over the past few days, Mom shared how Dad would love the smell of tomato plants on his hand. He would rub his hands together and smell them. Mom didn’t like the scent, but she did like the tomatoes. Right now out back of Mom and Dad’s house and in the garage are Dad’s tomato planters. I’m not sure any of the planters are out in the garage, but he does have wire tomato frames out there. He has something in the garage that looks like it’s made out of a five-gallon water jug. I suspect that either was a planter or one he was working on before he became sick. He used to like to create planters. There are some out back that are made out of blue plastic coffee cans. He also left behind several of the wire cages that help plants to grow upright. There are a few of his planters on the backside of his house that were made out of white plastic trash bins with trellises coming out of dirt. There is some giant red bin in Mom and Dad’s garage, which I suspect was something in the works. He also created hanging tomato planters. Dad’s hands liked to work and create.

            Dad loved fishing and he would take my brother and me with him. His hands showed me how to bait a hook. I think a few times Dad’s hand were impaled by a hook in this teaching process. You need to understand Dad’s kids. I was a quiet, relaxed kid. My brother was a hellion. Lance had (and still does) an internal, hyperactive motor that just won’t quit. In many ways, Lance is like Dad. So, Dad was in danger anywhere around Lance and a hook.

            I remember going out to Nimisila Lake Reservoir. I recall Dad with light fishing gear. He liked fishing for blue gills. As strong as Dad was, when he fished he used finesse. I remember sitting out at a slope near a tree. It’s weird—just a vague feeling. Maybe my brother and I will have to go back out there. Although, maybe things have changed and we won’t find the spot.

            Dad liked fishing with a fly rod. He taught me how. I picked it up pretty quickly. I also remember little casting weights we had to help practice spin casting. I have this vague recollection of setting up targets and trying to cast into them. I can’t say for certain, but I think one of these targets was a large, metal bin. With all these vague recollections, one thing is sure. Dad’s hands must have spent plenty of time teaching us to fish.

            Dad’s hands were the ones on the oars out at Wingfoot Lake Park. Maybe Lance and I rowed on occasion, but Dad was the captain of that ship. Dad was a strong oarsman. He made sure we made it to all corners of that lake. There were little islands out there. On occasion we visited the islands. Not for a long stay, but often to simply take a leak. Dad also took us shore fishing out at Wingfoot.

            I can remember the Canteen out there. It had an eatery and a bait shop. They also had good prices. Maybe that’s why Dad liked Wingfoot Lake! We also had some nice family picnics out there. There were some nice trails and a great miniature golf course. There were some outings where we spent time in the pavilions out there. I recall there being outings with a lot of people, prizes and events. It’s those strange phantom memories—just enough memory to give an impression, but not enough for a complete picture. I suspect these were Goodyear events, where Dad worked at the time. I remember a sense of camaraderie at these events.

            Out at Laura Lane, Dad’s hands built a basketball court. We had a blacktop driveway. Dad could have just put a hoop up and used the driveway as a court. He didn’t. He made concrete blocks—probably two feet by two feet. I remember him having mold pieces. I’m not sure whether he made those pieces or not, but he used the molds to make the blocks. I think the blocks were two or three inches thick. Using these blocks, Dad built up a place beside the driveway to give us more space to play. That little court was probably twelve feet by ten feet, but it made a huge difference. When added to the driveway, we had a nice place to play. I remember a backstop behind the court—in between the giant pine trees we had out there. It was reddish and about four feet tall by six to eight feet wide. I think Dad may have put that in as well, so we didn’t spend as much time chasing down errant shots.

            Dad spent quite a bit of time putting up the pole and the backboard. He found a steel pipe—probably four to six inches in diamater. He had someone (I’m pretty sure it was a buddy of his that did autobody work) weld little lengths of steel bar at various angles on the bottom of that pole. He wanted to make sure when he planted it into concrete, that it stood strong and wouldn’t twist or turn. I think he dug the hole about two to three feet deep. That pole was immovable—like Dad’s love for his wife and kids. I’m pretty sure he was somewhat meticulous to make sure the hoop was exactly ten feet from the ground. That was Dad. Sometimes he went a little overboard, but he wanted to do things right.

            I can remember playing hoops with Dad out on that court. With Dad, hoops was just shooting around and having fun. Dad had a decent jump shoot. We (dad, my brother and I) would play games, like horse, where we’d take turns taking shots. I think mom came out there as well, but mostly it was Dad and the boys. If someone made a shot, the rest had to make the same shot or earn a letter. Once someone was a H-O-R-S-E, they were out. The games with Dad were relaxed. The games I played one-on-one with my brother were more cut throat.

            Dad’s hands put up a swimming pool in the backyard at Laura Lane. I remember he dug out a giant circle—probably about six inches deep, maybe deeper. I think our pool had a twenty-four foot diameter. So, you can imagine the size of the hole. He then dug out the center so the pool was deeper in the middle—probably 18-24 inches or so. He lined the bottom of everything with sand. I’m pretty sure he put up that entire pool with little outside help—maybe some from me, Lance and Mom, but Dad did the majority of the work. I remember him out there with a long piece of wood smoothing out the area for the pool. He also built a nice deck for that pool out of heavy wood.

            We had a swing set in the backyard. I think the swing set was before the pool. I remember when I swung really high the legs of that swing set would come off the ground. One time Lance got onto my shoulders and jumped off and tried to fly. He ended up breaking his arm. I’m not sure why that swing set was so dangerous. I’m sure Dad tried to build it right. Maybe he simply followed the instructions instead of his normal procedures of going over the top. I’m sure it was his hands that tore down that swing set—while I can’t say for sure, probably to protect my brother and me from serious injury!

            In the back corner of the yard we had a burn barrel. Dad took a fifty-five gallon drum and shot holes in it with his .22 rifle. I’m not sure where he went to shoot the holes. While my brother and I (probably more me, because I’m more the momma-boy’s type) didn’t take too much to hunting, we did like shooting. Dad took us out to target ranges. During Dad’s funeral service, there was a picture of Dad standing behind us as we were shooting at Skyview Ranch. Dad also liked bow hunting. I remember my brother and I had these little plastic bows. I don’t think they had much power. Dad had a compound bow. I don’t recall that I ever shot that. Growing up, the only time Dad was gone from the family was an occasional week or so for a hunting trip or the time he worked overtime to buy us a computer.

            The burn barrel was a place where we would burn papers. It was a fun place to get a nice fire going and poke and swirl around that fire with a stick. When my brother and I were little, I don’t think Dad liked us playing with the burn barrel. As we grew, and he knew we wouldn’t torch ourselves, he loosened up and let us burn the papers. As little boys we loved fire and matches.

            Dad’s hands worked on cars. I’m not sure he always enjoyed it. But, growing up a mechanic’s bill was an expense. So, he did his best to fix things. At times he would become angry at the car and yell at it. I remember one time he was working on the car. He couldn’t figure it out. I don’t remember what part it was, but I recall being in our kitchen-dining room area out at Laura Lane and examining it. He was turning the screw the wrong direction. That’s one way I’m different than Dad and my brother. They immediately put their hands into action. I’ll examine something and think about it first. Dad did various things around the house—plumbing, electrical, painting or whatever. During Dad’s funeral there was a picture on the slide show of Dad helping to paint the interior of Hillwood Chapel. We attended there for a while. The church moved and built a new building. They needed extra hands and Dad was there. I can vaguely recall being in the skeleton of the building as it went up and helping out as well.

            Dad’s hand helped to feed and care for stray animals. There was Spunky, a little painted turtle. I think we found him (may have been a her, we couldn’t lift the shell to check it out) at Nimisila Lake. I’m not sure if Dad was the one who found him. It might have been my brother or me. We took Spunky home and put him in a yellow plastic dish. It was probably about fourteen-sixteen inches in diameter and six inches deep. We put a rock in the middle. Spunky was probably only an inch or two in diameter when we found him, but he grew bigger. He may have been around six inches (or more) before we released him back out in the wild. His tremendous growth was no doubt due to the baloney we fed him. Between that and his “aquarium”, he probably had lost the will to live before we released him. I’m hoping we didn’t free him at Nimisila Lake, but I fear we did. I remember fishing out there and there were snapping turtles. At least I think it was snapping turtles that would eat our fish that we kept on the metal stringers. We would put them on the stringer and keep them in the water, so they would stay fresh. Sometimes, when we pulled them out of the water, they were eaten up.

            Out at Laura Lane, Dad’s hands started feeding Lady. She was a sweet, petite kitty. She was white with various tabby-like patches on her body. We noticed she started hanging around the house. We then discovered Dad was feeding her. No wonder she was hanging around! Lady started to gain weight—quickly, especially around her sides and lower belly. She was pregnant with a load of kittens. We ended up giving away most of the kittens and Lady, but one cat remained—Spike. He was a strange cat, which was probably why no one wanted him. He was both grouchy and loving. Spike resembled his mother only much larger—and longer. Spike was a tall, lanky cat. We think he may have been the kitten that received the least nourishment in the womb before Dad starting feeding Lady. In the slide show at Dad’s funeral was a picture of him holding (almost in a hug) Spike. That was Dad—wrapping his loving hands around a needy animal.

            Two cats saved by Dad live with Mom. There is Gizmo—a grey tabby. Dad found her underneath a rail car at The National Inventor’s Hall of Fame. For some reason, I’m thinking it may have been called Inventure Place at the time. Or, maybe Inventure Place was a part of the Hall of Fame. Gizmo was only about four-and-a-half weeks old when Dad found her. He brought her home and she became Mom’s kitty. Dad was working, but Mom was at home. Mom cared for Gizmo, putting milk on her finger and letting Gizmo lick it off. Often kittens that young don’t make it, but Mom spent the time to nurse Gizmo back to health. We think Gizmo may have bonded with Mom as if Mom was her cat-mother. That cat loves to lay in Mom’s lap and purr. It’s good Mom has that companionship while going through this time of grief. She wouldn’t have that without Dad showing kindness to a stray.

            Mom also has Bootsie—so called for her white feet that almost look like she’s wearing high heels. She is a black and white cat. We think she may have been abused before Dad took her in. She has uneven pupils, her jaw doesn’t sit quite right and she has a weird knot near the bottom of her sternum. Sometimes she lays funny, on her back or side with her back legs sprawled apart. Sometimes she is on her side, but her back legs are twisted so that portion is more on her back. She has a hyperactive tail, even when relaxed and purring. Even though she has her problems, she has the sweetest temperament.

            Dad started feeding her about two years ago. She started hanging around the house. As the weather became colder, Mom and Dad built a fort for her to stay in. They laid blankets over the picnic table in their back yard. They put a box underneath there with padding for her to sleep. They put a candescent bulb to give her heat. So, Mom and Dad had an inside cat (Gizmo) and an outside cat (Bootsie). I mentioned to Mom that when the weather gets cold, Dad is going to take her in the house, which happened. I believe it was around January of 2013.

            At first Bootsie was nervous. She hid upstairs most of the time. Gizmo, who probably only weighs six pounds, was the boss of the house, even though Bootsie is a much larger (and thicker) cat. Over time Bootsie has healed and grown more adventurous. At times she’s the boss of the kitties. At times she demands attention. She is becoming an affectionate lap cat. She will be another companion for Mom.

            I remember for a period of time, Dad was away from home on a working assignment. I was probably in my early to mid-teens at the time. I don’t think he had to take this assignment, but it was an opportunity for overtime. Dad’s hands worked hard in that overtime to buy my brother and me a computer—an Atari 800XL with a five-and-a-half inch floppy drive. I remember we hooked it up to a TV for a monitor. I think Dad was working sixteen-hour days throughout the workweek and also some hours over the weekend. He was probably putting in 80-100 hour per week just to buy that computer. We did have fun with that computer. I don’t know that Dad ever fully understood that thing, but we wanted it and I was interested in computers for school. So, Dad made sure he found a way to buy it for us.

            Throughout the years, Dad’s hands changed. They were always strong, but as he grew older they became less meaty. In the late 1990’s (not sure the date), Dad had a stroke. He recovered quickly. I remember them testing Dad’s hands for grip strength. I think he was around a hundred-and-ten pounds of grip. I’m not exactly sure those grip strength tests were related to the stroke (it could have been for something else at a different time), but I’m pretty sure they were.

            Several years ago, Mom developed an interest in making jewelry. She would buy various beads and string them together. Dad became interested and also started making jewelry. Through the years Dad went through several bouts of depression that affected his health. This loss of vigor, along with age, took away some of his hand strength. But, he always found something to do with hands.

            One hard part of Dad’s cancer was he wasn’t able to do things with his hands like he wanted. Over time he grew weary. He just didn’t have the strength to go outside like he wanted and play around. I think the last tomato plants he had were last summer. I don’t think he had a chance to plant any this year. Cancer took away Dad’s hands.

            My last memory of Dad’s hands was touching them as he lay in the casket. His hands were ice cold. I was overwhelmed with grief at that moment. Through his bout with cancer, Dad became cold, and as he grew weaker, he grew progressively colder. He wore layers and layers of clothes and still couldn’t find warmth. I think the only true warmth dad received was from a mattress-pad heater my mother and I bought for him within the last few weeks of his life.

            In many ways, Dad’s hands were his life. It was one of the main ways he showed his love to me, Lance and Mom. His hands were his outlet for his creativity. He was involved in several patents while working as a lab technician at Goodyear. And, his creativity was evident in the tomato planters and jewelry he made. Dad’s hands represent Dad—a kind, humble, hardworking man. Dad’s hands were love.