You are currently browsing the tag archive for the ‘Hankie Warning’ tag.
One of the things I’ve noticed about owning an old Saab is that everything, and I mean EVERYTHING has a story around it.
The Saab this story’s about is my 1968 Saab 96. It’s been in a few stories, brought me through more than a few adventures, and in general, been a pretty dependable car.
It came with a V-4 engine (half a V-8) and a one barrel carburetor that got me about 27 miles per gallon. It was enough for smooth power, but not a lot of it.
One of the things I’d wanted to do for years was put a two barrel carb on it – which would allow the engine to ‘breathe’ more easily. Allowing an engine to breathe more easily made it more efficient, (it also meant more power 🙂 …and if you’re thinking of cars, and breathing, between the carburetor, which did the inhaling, and the engine, which needed the air, was a hunk of metal known as an intake manifold. This was basically a cast collection of tubes that allowed the air from the carburetor to be divvied up and sent to each of the four cylinders that needed the air and provided the power. The one thing I needed in addition to the two barrel carburetor was one of these intake manifolds so all the pieces could come together. So over a few years I managed to find a manifold – as I recall, it came from a junkyard in Germany. I then found a carb on ebay, and was going to put the two together only to find that the carb was old and in desperate need of rebuilding.
It turns out that everything that could be worn out on this carb, was worn out on this carb. And… it had been dropped, and that meant it would have a bit of a vacuum leak if I wasn’t able to fix it. (that’s known, in technical terms, as a bad, but fixable thing). But, it was worth a try, so I bought a gallon of carburetor cleaner like I’d seen in a shop years ago, and just soaked the carb in it. That way everything that the cleaner could get to, would be gotten to, and then I could start this whole rebuilding process with clean parts and a rebuild kit. I needed good weather for it because you generally don’t work on car parts on the kitchen table (don’t ask why I know this, but it involves a friend’s motorcycle and the kitchen door catching fire… but that’s another story for another time), and one day, when it was sunny outside and I had some free time, I decided I’d actually do the cleaning bit, so to get started, I read the instructions on the can…
…and the thing that gets me about reading labels like that is “Why do the contents of the can only cause cancer in laboratory rats in California? I mean, is there something magical about laboratory rats in Seattle?”
Sigh…
Right. Bottom line, stay upwind of the stuff, don’t get any on you, and for heaven’s sake, don’t get any in the house.
I read a bit more, and found that the cleaner was to be used between 70 and 110 degrees.
The problem was it was 20 degrees outside.
Fahrenheit.
No more, no less…
But 20 degrees was clearly on the “a little too cool” side of making this stuff effective, so I tried to figure out a way to warm it up without causing problems… I mean, the stuff’s evil, nasty, flammable, whatever… I had to come up with some way of heating it carefully so that I could get it up to operating temperature. After some thought, I got a pot of water and put it on to boil, figuring that the cleaner had been sitting there in the garage for weeks, and it’d take some heat to warm it up to somewhere between the required 70 and 110 degrees to make it work. I figured I’d just put the gallon can of carb cleaner into a 5 gallon bucket, then put the hot water in the bucket and safely heat everything up.
Right?
Oh, if you’re reading this, you know dang well that there’s a story here…
I poured the first pot of water into the bucket, it covered the bottom of the bucket up to a couple of inches. Figuring that wasn’t enough, I went inside to heat up some more water.
It took a little bit to heat that second batch up, and I took it outside as soon as it was ready, but by the time I got out there with the water, the gallon of carb cleaner was boiling out over the top of the can inside the bucket, and it was well into eating the label off the can. (see picture).
The can was in the garage for awhile until I ran into it recently. It has been safely disposed of, and yes, the carburetor cleaner did eat the label off the can, as you can see.
It became fairly clear that the reason for the 110 degree limit was that that was the boiling temperature of carb cleaner – and if it ate the label off the freaking can, I didn’t want anything to do with it…
For whatever reason, the plastic bucket didn’t care about the carb cleaner, and the cleaner that had boiled over was sitting down at the bottom of the bucket – under the water. But gosh, you’d think they’d make the label out of something a little more durable or something…
I ended up putting the bucket in the very back of the Buick station wagon we had at the time to take it to a hazmat place here in the city. It was a little surreal to be driving there in the station wagon, with my son, who was still in a car seat at the time, just chatting away, only to get out and hand the bucket to a guy who was dressed in a full-on hazmat suit.
But we got rid of it, and that was a good thing.
I later put the carb itself on E-bay, wrapped in several layers of plastic that it didn’t dissolve, with a warning that it would smell like carburetor cleaner…
As I recall, a fellow in Utah bought it along with the rebuild kit I’d gotten for it, because, as it turned out, it would fit his Lotus. I told him everything about it, and he still wanted it. In the end, he was happy, because it made his car run. I was happy because the carburetor was miles away, and I was to the point where I didn’t want to have anything to do with it.
Later, I just bought a new carburetor instead of trying to rebuild the old one, and put that on the intake manifold. I worked with Rob at Scanwest Autosport to make a linkage for it, and the car could inhale, deeply.
Now I had to figure out how to get it to exhale fully.
I’d learned that having an MSS (Motorsport Services) exhaust system on a Saab V4 was worth about 10 horsepower, and since the exhaust was pretty toasted anyway, I saved up my money and ordered one. The problem was that, if you’ve ever owned a Saab with a V-4 engine, there’s kind of a metal donut between the heads of the engine and the exhaust manifolds that allows everything to fit together. But the holes didn’t quite match up right. The exhaust came out of each head of the engine through a hole that was about 1 ¼ inch in diameter. The gasket that was between the head and our donut had a 2 inch hole in it. The diameter of the exhaust headers was also 2 inches, but the hole inside the donut was only 1 ¼ inch, all that breathing-exhaling stuff we were doing was nothing but huffing and puffing until that was fixed (because the car was trying to push lots of exhaust through 1 ¼ inch holes when it had a 2 inch pipe it could go through – it’s like putting your thumb over a garden hose) so that had to be fixed… I figured that if the gasket were the right size, then everything else should be that size, including that 1 ¼ inch donut hole.
I wasn’t sure how to do this, I didn’t have a machine shop, but then I found a fellow named Dan who did this kind of work.
On big engines.
I’d taken the heads off my Saab engine to get them down there to him to get hardened valve seats put in there so the car would run on unleaded gas, and he laughed as he looked at the valves that came off them. They looked like little toys in comparison to the engines he normally worked on. Some of the valve stems on the engines he normally worked on were 14 inches long, and the valves themselves were, I’m going to guess about 4 inches across. (by comparison, the valve stems on the Saab engine were about 5 inches long, and the valves 1 1/2 inches across).
The thing I learned quickly about Dan was that he came across as gruff as all get-out on the outside, but was a marshmallow on the inside.
Dan, doing what he did best
© Cale Johnson – used with Permission
I found out he liked Sprite, so I made it a point to stop by the shop on the way home from work a couple of nights a week, just to see how things were going. I wasn’t in a hurry, in fact, I was more interested in learning about the magic of turning a hunk of metal into something useful than getting it done fast, and Dan was a willing teacher.
And we talked… about life, about our families, about work, and friends, and how important it was to have them. I remember telling him how much fun it was to just be there in a machine shop, where things were actually made, which was so different from being in an IT department as a database administrator, which I was at the time.
To see him use all those tools he had at his disposal and make useful things out of raw metal was a treat. I mean, he could point to something and say, “I made that.”
He could reach out and touch it.
It was real.
But he kept saying I had to be smarter than he was because I worked with computers.
I told him, “Dan, you take these hunks of metal that are just that, hunks of metal, and you MAKE something of them. I work all day pissing off electrons. You tell me who’s smarter.”
He laughed, but I was serious.
It took a while, but I think it sunk in. I mean, I worked very hard at making sure the right electrons got pissed off, but at the end of the day, I just didn’t have anything to show for it, so chatting with Dan, in his shop, surrounded by all his tools, not a computer in sight, was a real treat for me. Not only did he teach, but he let me do some of the work myself. In one case, he was looking for the right drill bit in the mass of bits and taps and dies and all sorts of things he had on massive workbenches, and the sound of him rummaging around was so close to the sound of a kid looking through a pile of Legos that I just had to smile.
Eventually he did find the right drill bit, wiped it on his overalls, and popped it into the drill for me, then stood there, patiently, as I drilled out the new brass valve guides that he’d hammered into the heads.
One day when I came in with the can of Sprite, he was almost done. He’d installed the hardened valve seats and ordered valves to fit the extra-large holes he’d let me drill, and about a week later, the heads were finished. I put them on the car, where they are to this day.
But on that last day, when I was picking them up, I asked him what I owed, and he just waved me off.
“Don’t worry about it.”
“What?”
“This was fun for me. Don’t worry about it.”
And he wouldn’t take my money.
I was floored. I couldn’t believe what he was doing, but it turned out that for Dan there was more value in something as simple as conversation than there was in a collection of little oval pictures of dead presidents.
I put the engine back together, and in doing so, was able to combine the heads on my Swedish car with the intake manifold from that junkyard in Germany and that two barrel carburetor from wherever it was made, along with the MSS exhaust system from Jamestown, New York, and I drove it down to the shop to show him, so he could hear how his work that connected all the different parts came together.
He listened to the rough idle, hearing music he’d helped make, and smiled as I revved it and it smoothed out. And I thanked him and shook the hand of a true craftsman.
For some time afterwards, I’d stop by every now and then to say hi, and if he wasn’t there, I’d just leave a can of Sprite sitting on the doorknob for him to let him know I was thinking about him.
A few years passed, I changed jobs, his shop wasn’t on the way to work anymore, and life happened. I didn’t see him for a long time, but a few months ago, my son had a problem with a metal part he was working on, and I thought it was time to introduce him to someone who could make metal do anything, so we got a cold can of Sprite and headed down the road to see Dan.
But it turned out Dan wasn’t there anymore.
His son was, and told us that his dad had had to give up the shop, and that it was going to be sold to their biggest customer in the next few months.
I looked around, and while I could sense his presence in all of his tools, and in no small way, in his son, standing there in front of me, I realized the spirit of the place had changed. Not only wouldn’t I see Dan again, at least the Dan I knew, but the shop, with all its familiar machinery, would soon be gone, too.
My son didn’t quite understand the catch in my voice as I asked Dan’s son if he’d take the Sprite to his dad and tell him it was from an old friend, the one with the little blue Saab. The one that he’d made go a lot better, a little faster, and just a touch louder.
© Tom Roush, 2012
I’m posting this on Maundy Thursday – the Thursday between Palm Sunday, when Jesus was welcomed into Jerusalem, and Good Friday, when He was killed there. This is the day when that Last Supper you’ve seen in pictures happened, and later that evening, when Peter, one of Jesus’ strongest supporters and disciples, denied even knowing him – . Tomorrow, those who celebrate Easter will remember Good Friday, and the crucifixion. Thursday and Friday are the lowest points of the Christian calendar – but it is Sunday – Easter – when we are shown that Grace can abound, that there is hope. It is through the remembrance of that Last Supper Jesus had with His disciples, what we now call Holy Communion, that through confession and repentance, we find forgiveness, even for those who feel there is no hope, or forgiveness.
The following story, for anyone watching as it happened, took about as long as it takes to sing the verses below – but inside me – I was transported through thousands of miles, and hundreds of years – to places where time, and distance, were absolutely irrelevant.
With that, please, as you may ponder the significance of Easter, I submit:
“Amazing Grace.”
It was Sunday, in a large, old church, in a big city. The pastor had called for Holy Communion, and as he got out the bread and the – in this case – wine, the notes gently flowed while the organist cleared the pipes to play. But these weren’t just notes that had come from the organ to our ears, nor were they words that were just now coming from our lips. They had come a great distance, through many years, having been written by a man named John Newton, who was exactly what he said he was in the second line of the song, a wretch.
But the story in the song is one of redemption, of John Newton coming to an understanding that this concept of Grace – in which we are given something we do not deserve. And the words, written by him in 1779 in England, composed with notes by William Walker in South Carolina in 1835, came together in this church, on this morning.
The organ sang the first notes out, and old bones and pews creaked equally as people stood, each heading to the aisle to walk to the front to receive Holy Communion, their chance to remember in the symbol of the Bread and the Cup the forgiveness that was theirs because of what Christ had done for them. Worn shoes shuffled forward on an equally worn carpet as they sang, not with gusto, but with the tired reverence that comes with age.
Amazing grace! How sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me!
I once was lost, but now am found,
Was blind, but now I see.
I was one of those shuffling, and heard the voices singing – some gray with years, some with the color of youth, many of them older, first generation Americans, for whom English had clearly been a a second language.
And suddenly, even though I was still shuffling – I felt I wasn’t in this church in this big city anymore.
I was transported to a land of tile roofs and cobblestone streets
A cool mist touches my face as I find myself stepping carefully on a foggy sidewalk.
As I walk, I’m overcome by the wonderful smell of simmering corned beef wafting out of a kitchen window. I follow the sound of singing around a corner to a church, where the voices and harmonies show a faith and fellowship that has lasted through the ages.
An odd tinkling sound reveals itself to be from a young man, sitting on the sidewalk with a tin cup, begging. All questions are answered by the scar across his face. The tinkling comes from the people walking by toward the church, as they put some of their Sunday offering directly where it’s needed.
He smiles and blesses them as they go on.
We shuffled forward a bit:
T’was grace that taught my heart to fear,
And grace my fears relieved;
How precious did that grace appear,
The hour I first believed!
I’m confused, for a moment – as I find myself suddenly transported to what is clearly a prison, to a cold, damp cell, with only one small, high window. A church bell rings in the distance, and the prisoner in the cell has experienced something not all prisoners do. He’s finally not only understood the significance of the mistake that brought him here, but has experienced a remorse that can only be answered by forgiveness. This does not mean that there are no consequences to his mistake, but there is forgiveness. His quiet prayer is as sincere as that from any pulpit, and the light and warmth coming into that dark cell at that moment isn’t just from the sun.
We shuffled on, and started to sing the next verse…
Thro’ many dangers, toils and snares,
I have already come;
’Tis grace has brought me safe thus far,
And grace will lead me home.
A steam whistle blows. A locomotive hisses by, slowing for the station, and a young soldier nervously holds onto the open window as his now gray eyes search for the home he left two years ago. In those eyes are the exhaustion of a thousand battles he’d wanted nothing to do with, and both the longing, and creeping doubt of seeing his family again.
He looks at his battered watch, the strap long gone, and knows that at this time, the Sunday pork roasts will be cooking, wafting their delicious smells out into the street. It’s always been the first smell he smelled after getting out of the train station. It’s a symbol of home, and this time, the war over, he should be home for good.
The train clatters and bumps to a stop. He gets up, and like all travelers, reaches for his bags and automatically walks toward the nearest exit, his uniform helping to part the respectful crowd of people so he can get through easier. As he steps to the platform, he stops in the middle of the river of people pouring out behind and around him, and stands on his toes, looking around to get his bearings – so much had been destroyed in the war – and to see if anyone is there to meet him. He is tackled from one side by his younger brother and sister, with the excitement only younger siblings can have for an older one. The little brother, as little brothers do, wants to hear all about the battles. The little sister stands quietly until he kneels to her level. She hands him a small, soft object in a cloth napkin. It’s a slice of pork roast. THE pork roast. “Mama sagt, dass Du Heim kommen sollst, dass wir alle zusammen mit dir Mittags essen können.” He shares the slice with both of them, and as his little brother picks up the bags, he picks up his little sister, and they all run across the street to the still standing house, to the kitchen, to his family.
There is no shortage of hugs, no shortage of tears.
He is home.
The melody continued, and we shuffled another step…
The Lord has promised good to me,
His word my hope secures;
He will my shield and portion be,
As long as life endures.
Again, I am transported – to a sidewalk near a church. As I stand there, looking left and right, a stooped old woman walks closer, uncomfortably using a new cane to support her. She passes me by, sobbing softly. The gold ring on her gnarled left hand tells the story. It is her first Sunday coming to church alone in nearly half a century, her husband who had sat beside her every Sunday for that many years, who stood at that altar in the radiance of youth and repeated the vows with her – ending with “…until death do us part…” had loved her – for richer, for poorer, in sickness, and in health – and he had fulfilled those vows to the very last one. He would never accompany her to church again, but church is where she needed to be on Sunday mornings, and church was where she would go. Someone who is obviously her daughter runs up to her and supports her, saying gently, “Oh maman, je suis sincèrement désolée. Je suis venue dès que j’ai su.”
The rest of the words are lost, as I hear the sound of voices singing, and feel myself being pulled away again.
We shuffled forward again…
Yea, when this flesh and heart shall fail,
And mortal life shall cease,
I shall possess within the veil,
A life of joy and peace.
Again, I find myself near a church, with the bell ringing quietly, but closely. Only this time I’m in what’s known in some countries as the ‘churchyard’ – and the group of people, all dressed in heavy coats of dark colors to ward off the cold, have come to pay their last respects to one of their own. It is clear – even without understanding the language, that she was held in high regard by everyone there. It seemed, given the expressions of some, that they were now both relieved at the end of the suffering she had endured, and confused as to who would take her place, but one thing was certain, she had enriched their lives by her simple existence. She had enriched their lives by supporting them when they thought they were supporting her. And those looks on their faces told me her transition from this life to the next had been one of peace, of joy, and eventually of rest.
We shuffled forward one last step.
I was getting close to the front of the line now – and as we sang….
When we’ve been here ten thousand years
Bright shining as the sun.
We’ve no less days to sing God’s praise
Than when we’ve first begun.
I found myself in a large, old church, in a big city.
It was my turn for communion, and as I took the bread, and drank from the cup, that first verse came back to me…
Amazing grace! How sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me!
I once was lost, but now am found,
Was blind, but now I see.
Folks, it’s been two years since I was asked to speak at my friend Betty’s memorial service. I got to thinking about her just recently, and as I read through this again, thought it might be something worth sharing. So that said, here’s my eulogy, for my friend Betty…
Hi – My name’s Tom Roush – I had the pleasure of knowing Betty – well, Don and Betty back – gosh, how long’s it been? – close to three years now, meeting both of them at the cancer survivor’s support group that was held in a nondescript conference room at the Ballard hospital.
There were a number of us there – old folks, young folks, and everything in between… I was one of the in betweeners, I guess… Each of these meetings was “moderated” by a social worker of some sort – and they each had their own way of going about things. They were all wonderful in their way – the goal being to bring us to a safe spot where we could actually talk about our feelings toward this – this *thing* that had brought us together.
There was the one who really insisted that things be done by the book.
(None of us had read the book)
There was the one who was like everyone’s Jewish Grandmother – she brought laughter, love, encouragement and hope to each of us.
And then there was the one who came in one day when we were all talking about something other than cancer.
You know… Life…
…and she got so mad…
We were there, in a cancer survivor’s support group, and she was upset because we weren’t talking about cancer.
And you know what?
We’d LIVED it – to be honest, it pissed us off…
We all knew – in that support group, that if you said “Chemo” – you wouldn’t have to explain that chemo was the thing that made you barf, or made your hair fall out – that chemo often – for lack of a better, more socially acceptable term – spayed women and gave men involuntary vasectomies. We didn’t have to explain to the folks there in the room that chemo – oh, let’s see if we can find a nice word for it….
Nope…
No nice words…
Chemo sucked…
For some of us, radiation sucked – and we didn’t have to explain that or talk much about it – it was something that most of us in the room knew.
You know what we wanted to talk about? We wanted to talk about surviving. Remember what kind of support group it was?
Here, I’ll tell you what it wasn’t.
It wasn’t a cancer survivor’s support group.
It was a cancer survivor’s support group.
We wanted to talk about surviving.
And we did…
Oh Lordy, we talked about surviving…
It was wild – if you can imagine a bunch of scarred up people who’ve done battle with “the big ‘C'” wild – we were so into talking about life –about this thing called survival – and not just surviving, but having fun doing it – that that moderator got mad and walked out…
Dang we were a rebellious bunch…
She wanted us to talk about cancer – because in her eyes, it was cancer that defined who we were, and she saw the common theme between all of us being that we’d had cancer…
The thing was – we had had cancer, but it hadn’t had us.
We didn’t have to take the time or words to explain to the people in the room that this whole thing called cancer sucked.
We didn’t have to spend the time talking about how lonely it was, to go through this battle that no matter how many people are helping you, supporting you, loving you, the battle, and the fight, is yours alone to fight.
But this was the place we could talk about it.
As so often happens when going through a battle like this, we do our crying in private, and then put on a brave face – a mask, if you will, and go out and face the world. Sometimes, in that room where we met, we cried, and sometimes the conversations we had were astoundingly hard, and sometimes – some of the best conversations we had had no words at all.
Sometimes, we didn’t say anything.
We didn’t have to.
The conversations were – you know what?
I’ll tell you what the conversations weren’t.
They weren’t shallow.
We rarely talked about what TV show was on, or what movies were on. Much as some might consider this heresy, we definitely didn’t talk about which sports teams were playing – or winning.
We talked about life.
We talked about easy stuff that made us laugh, and hard stuff that made us cry.
We, who had stared death in the face, and had death blink, had absolutely nothing to hide from each other.
When we went into that room, the masks came off.
You know what masks I’m talking about… They’re the ones we wear every day. The mask that you put on
- When someone asks you how you’re doing, and you’re having trouble at home, and you say, “Fine”
- When someone asks you how you’re doing, and your finances are down the toilet, and you say, “Fine”
-
When someone asks you how you’re doing, and you just found out that you’ve lost your job, and you say, “Fine”
Oh, the masks we hold onto – so tightly
- When someone asks you how you’re doing, and you found a lump the night before, and are waiting for an appointment to go talk to the doctor about it – but you still have to go to work to keep the health insurance, and you say, “Fine”
- When someone asks you how you’re doing, and you’re waiting on test results, and you say, “Fine”
-
Or when someone asks how you’re doing – and your spouse – or someone you love – found a lump – and you feel helpless beyond words, because no matter what you do – the battle is theirs to fight, and you choke out a “Fine”
And – after all those – when someone sees a certain look in your eyes that could mean any or all of these – a look you didn’t even know was there, and asks, really asks, “How ya doin’?” and you either bravely or stupidly, or, because honestly, you can’t quite face that question yourself, you put on that lie of a mask and you say, “Fine.”
Those masks were left in a pile outside the door to that room.
Oh, we did talk about cancer.
We talked about fear, about how much to tell people because society still wigs out a bit when they hear that word…
We talked about how much to say to the people you spend most of your life with – at work.
We talked about knowing you were going to be out of commission for a year or so as the medical establishment tried to cut or fry or poison the cancer out of you, hoping to kill it (the cancer) before either it (the cancer) or it (the poison) killed you, making you feel worse than the cancer ever did in the process.
We talked about how to get your job back after your body’d healed, knowing you’d be dealing with the effects and mental/emotional scars of this long after your hair grew back, long after those physical scars had healed.
We talked about our fears for our families, for our loved ones, for how this was affecting them, and how, in so many ways, they were fighting the same battle – and yet a totally different one.
We did talk about cancer.
But we didn’t talk about cancer nearly as much as you’d think – when we needed to, we did, but you know what we did most often?
We laughed.
We told stories.
We encouraged each other.
We talked about ferocious penguins in Antarctica, we talked about adventures across the country, we talked about our children – how proud we were of them, or what trouble they were getting into, and about journeys we’d taken, and journeys we wanted to take.
Closer to home, we talked about walking around Green Lake, about going up to Costco, and getting that pound cake they have up there, – and especially those Costco hot dogs. And we talked about Don’s wonderful little carvings when he brought them in for us to see.
We talked about this, this thing called life.
And every time I showed up late – let me re-punctuate that – and every time – I showed up late – it was hard for me to get out of work that early – I’d come into that room, with that pile of trampled masks outside the door, and in that room, there was at least one moderator (pick one, we outlasted them all) and a variety of people, but the one constant there was Don and Betty.
And when I saw Betty –there was always this look that said, “I’m so glad you made it!”
A look that told me – without the mask, how she was doing. Sometimes she was doing well, sometimes not… We didn’t hide it in there.
And actually, that says something… without masks, there were no secrets… Betty didn’t have any secrets from anyone… You called their house, and by golly you were on speakerphone. You talked to Don, and you were talking to Betty.
I have to tell you – that my memories of Betty are pretty much limited to that room.
I’ve spent the last week or so trying to put to words my memories of her, and as so often happens in times like these, your mind, in its shock, tries so hard to lock the memories away for safekeeping that you can’t unlock the door to get them out, even when you want to, and no matter how hard you try.
But one thing leaked out through that door.
It’s how Betty made me feel.
There were times when I came into that room – all frazzled from a crappy day, whether it was at home, at work, or somewhere in between, it didn’t matter, and there was this sense of peace there.
It didn’t make sense – given the battles we all were facing, and fighting, but the peace was there. There was always a hug from Betty – always a smile, a handshake, or a hug from Don. Betty made me feel welcome. No matter how hard it was to get there –
Betty’s eyes told me I’d done the right thing in coming.
Betty’s hand, when I held it, told me that everything was going to be alright.
Betty’s body – when she hugged me in that warm, gentle, soft way, told me things I can’t even put into words.
See? I told you some of the best conversations had no words.
Now you’ll see I’m not dressed all fancy here, that’s no disrespect to anyone here, especially Betty… In fact, – I was thinking about it, honestly –every time Betty saw me, she saw me, as I said, all frazzled, with my backpack from work slung over my shoulder, having either ridden a bike or a bus to get there. That’s the way I’m dressed now, because if she saw me all dressed up, she’d wonder who the heck that stud muffin was in the suit – and to be honest, I’d rather she recognized me.
The thing is – the last time I hugged Betty – I didn’t know it would be the last time I hugged Betty.
The last words I spoke with Betty – I didn’t realize they would be the last words I spoke with her…
And I don’t remember them.
But do remember how she made me feel, and so I’d like to leave you with this…
You young folks out there:
Look around – you’ve got parents, brothers and sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins and friends here.
You middle aged folks – Oh, Lordy – I have to classify myself as one of those now.
Look around – you’ve got brothers, sisters, children, nieces, nephews, and friends here.
And you older folks – the ones who have earned that silver in your hair…
Look around – take your time – nobody’s leaving – look at those kids, those grown up kids of yours – those grandkids.
All of you – When’s the last time you hugged them?
What were the last words you spoke to them?
How did they make you feel?
More importantly – how did you make them feel?
I suggest to you, that
…if there have been cross words, go and forgive – or ask for forgiveness.
…if there is distance, reach out to each other.
…if there is pain, reach out to heal.
You don’t know which of your words will be the last ones, folks.
Please, take the time to think about them, make them good ones.
I’ve tried to put into words who my friend Betty was – but I can’t talk about her in the past tense – because my friend Betty is still very much alive, right here. (my heart)
Thank you.
…
And so, on this anniversary, I remember my friend Betty – and I wanted to share some of the lessons I learned from her with you as well.
Take care…
Tom
In this blog, I’ve been trying to write stories that have been “baked” – where I’ve spent the time over the years getting to that “aha” moment, where the laughter has finally come, the lessons finally learned, the tears finally dried, and I can share them with you.
This post is a little different.
I’ve been asked by a number of people to give “hankie warnings” on some of these stories, and in honor of that request, please consider yourself warned.
This post is a little more personal than the others, and it’s a number of stories, kind of intertwined.
As I write this – November 8th, it will have been 10 years since I spoke the words below, in front of a well-dressed, somber group of people who listened, who laughed and who cried.
I had been in that last category for ten months, and on November 8th, 2000, these people joined me there.
It was the day we buried my dad.
He’d been in the Air Force. He’d done his time in many countries. It was his time in the Air Force that had him meet my mom, that gave him stories of far-away places to tell, and that shaped my childhood. Some of those stories I’ve recalled in past posts, some are still, as it were, baking, and will be written when they’re ready.
I was at work on January 10th, 2000, when I got “the call”. Those of you who’ve been through this will understand what that means. It’s actually hard to describe the feeling to someone who hasn’t been there, but when I got “the call” – my heart froze, and given where I was, I did the only thing I could do…
I prayed…
…and then I wrote.
I didn’t know whether I’d ever get a chance to tell dad all the things I’d wanted to say over the years – and it seemed that if I was ever going to take the chance, that right then would be that chance, instead of saying all the things I wanted to say to him in a eulogy where he couldn’t hear me, and the words would be empty.
So I wrote a note to him that January afternoon. It’s included in what’s below – which, ironically, is the eulogy I gave for my dad, 10 years ago today.
= = =
Eulogy…
That’s what it says there in your program that this is going to be.
But how do you put into a few words the life of a man who was a brother, a husband, a father, an uncle, a father in law, a grandfather, a teacher — and all those countless other things that a man is in his life?
I’m not going to go into the history of dad too much, you all can read that on the backs of your bulletins. We tried to get as much in there as we could. We’ll also have some pictures going in the fellowship hall so you can see a little more about who dad was.
But right now, I’d like to tell you a little bit about who dad is.
By now most of you know a bit about how this all came about, and for a number of you, the last time you saw him was in this very church on January 8th of this year at Tom McLennan’s Memorial Service.
Dad went into the hospital that night, stayed in ICU at Madigan until May, during which time he had a stroke and some other complications, and later was taken to Bel Air Nursing home in Tacoma, where he died last Friday.
I wrote him a note on January 10th, when things looked pretty bad, his heart had stopped the night before, and we didn’t know what was going on, since he’d walked into the hospital the night before that, and I tried to tell him what he meant to me. I’d like to read part of that note to you, because in a lot of ways, it tells a bit about the thoughts, the feelings, the emotions, and the legacy that he left behind.
<note>
1:45 PM 1/10/00
Hi Pop,
It’s Monday, you’re in the hospital right now, and I’m praying for you.
I have to tell you a few things, just so you know them.
I love you.
— this is so hard to write…
I don’t want this to be the time to say goodbye, but I need to say a few things so that when the time comes, I can say goodbye knowing I’ve told you what I need to tell you.
You know as well as I do that there were a lot of things in our lives that haven’t panned out the way we’d planned.
Because of the time you spent away from the family in the Air Force and at school, I didn’t get a chance to have you around when I really needed a dad.
This doesn’t mean it was easy for you, in fact it was hard. I know now it was very hard for you as well.
But I want you to know that good has come out of that.
I try to spend time with my little boy now as a result, and I’m glad I was able to get my schooling out of the way before I became a papa.
Because you went away to school to improve yourself, I learned that sacrifice is sometimes necessary for future growth.
And good has come out of that.
I learned how much a son needs his father, and I try to be here for my son. So even though you felt very much like you were a failure, you weren’t. You taught me a valuable lesson, one that I will treasure always.
Because of the time you spent fixing things (and the time I spent holding the flashlight for you*)
*He’d ask me to hold the flashlight for him while he was working on something, and being a kid, my attention span was about as long as a gnat’s eyebrow, and so I’d be looking all over, shining the flashlight to what I wanted to see.
I learned how to fix things I never thought I could.
I also expanded my vocabulary during these times.
Because of the way you showed us responsibility, I was able to get a paper route and learn responsibility early, on my own.
Because you helped us deliver those papers on weekends sometimes, I learned that sometimes helping your kids to do the things they’re responsible for doing is a good thing.
Because of the way you told me to take things one step at a time, I was able to build pretty big things at Microsoft when I was there,, one step at a time.
And because you made things for me (like a train table)
and read to me (from Tom Sawyer)
and told me stories (like Paul Bunyan)
and sang to me (The Lord’s Prayer)
and took me to work (where I spun the F-4 Simulator)*
* — in the Air Force Dad was a flight simulator technician — he fixed flight simulators, and one time he took me to work, I think I must have been 5 or 6, and there was this whole line of these simulators — all just cockpits of airplanes, and he, as fathers are known to do, picked me up and popped me in the driver’s seat. I sat there, my eyes huge, as I saw all these dials and gauges in front of me, and it was just so cool and so complicated. — And there was this big stick thing in the way, so I pushed it off to one side so I could get a better look at the dials. I didn’t know that the simulator thought it was flying, and by pushing that stick over I made it think it was corkscrewing into the ground, and all the dials and gauges started spinning alarms went off. I got so scared, I thought I’d broken it, and I looked out at him — he was standing right there, talking to someone else, and with fear and trepidation said,
“Daddy?” —
He turned around, took one look at what was happening, reached in and fixed it. Just like that. He fixed it. I hadn’t broken it. But he just reached in, and with one touch, he fixed it.
and showed me things, (like Wolf Spiders)*
When we lived in Illinois, we discovered that the spiders there are significantly bigger than spiders here in Washington.
So one time Dad was in the basement, doing something, and he called me down. He wanted me to see what he’d found under this can. So, being a kid and being curious, I squatted right beside it, and then picked up the can — to find the biggest, hairiest god-awful ugliest wolf spider I’d seen in my entire life. I jumped up and screamed, and dad was over there laughing so hard. I didn’t think it was funny then, but for years all we’d have to say was “wolf spider” it would bring the whole thing back, and we’d have a good laugh over it.
and surprised me with presents (like at Christmas in 1971 when you told me to clean up a pile of newspapers, and you’d put a bunch of toy trains underneath them)*
*He kept asking me to clean up the papers, but there was always another present to unwrap, another toy to play with, another cookie to eat — and finally, when the Christmas eve was finally winding down and we were cleaning up, I remembered the newspapers and started to clean them up — and underneath was a train set he’d gotten from somewhere, on a set of tracks, just waiting for a little boy to play with them.
and provided for me (helping me get my first Saab)*
*Many of you in this church may remember praying for that very car…
and went out of your way to help me (when that first Saab broke down)
— and the second Saab, — the third one (the fourth one’s out there, it runs fine)
and drove all the way up to Seattle to SPU when I was a student one Christmas to bring me a present — a radio controlled Porsche 928) when you knew it was the only thing I would get.
and visited me at work when I was able to show you where I worked and what I’d become professionally
And supported me in your thoughts and prayers as I became a father in my own right.
You showed me love.
And because you told me, I know you love me.
I love you too.
</note>
I read this note to him several times, never being quite sure whether it got across to him. In August, at the nursing home, I read it to him again, and he looked at me very intently while I read it, and as I finished, there was this look on his face, of peace, of contentment, of, “My job is done.” and for a split second, the stroke seemed to be gone.
He then took the note from my hand and read it himself.
And I know that he knew when he left that he was loved, he was cared for, he was appreciated, and that he would be missed.
We rejoice for him, we’re happy, for him, that this ordeal is over, but we’re sad for us, for the big, dad/Gary/grampa shaped hole he leaves in each of our lives.
— I was thinking the other day about the things I’d miss about him, and I’m sure there will be many to come, but the things that come to mind right now are the little things — and it’s always the little things, isn’t it?
The fact that he’d say “I love you” and “I’m proud of you” so often that we didn’t realize how important it was for him to be able to say that, and now, how important it was for us — the whole family to have him as a cheerleader in the background. There were times he couldn’t do as much as he wanted to do for us, and in his mind, he always wanted to do more — and the fact that he’s no longer in the background, just being there cheering us on — I’ll miss that. We’ll miss that.
I miss his meow — for those of you who don’t know, he had this way of meowing like a cat so you couldn’t tell where it was coming from. It drove us nuts — and we miss it.
I miss him greeting Michael and me with, “Hello Sonshine”
I miss seeing him snuggle my little girl Alyssa, in his lap, reading any of a number of books to her, and the look on her face that told me of the security she felt in those arms.
I miss him standing with mom, waving good bye to us as we left after a visit. — and no matter where we were, when we got together, he’d always thank us for taking the time to do that, to get together as a family, and to include him and he would always remind us, “You are loved.”
We miss him telling us “Remember, a fat old man loves you.”
I miss him yelling at us to shut the living room door. That’s the sound we grew up with. We’d run out, be halfway up the stairs, and hear, “SHUT THE DOOR” — of course, he hadn’t done that for years since he put a spring on it so it’d shut itself. But I miss knowing I won’t hear it again.
I miss him calling me up at night to tell me there was something interesting on Channel 9 (PBS) that he wanted to share with me, even though we couldn’t be together, we could see it at the same time.
When I was growing up, and I’d be upstairs brushing my teeth late at night, I’d hear dad snoring downstairs, — a gentle snore (at least from upstairs) and I knew that that meant all was right with the world.
I’ll miss that, too.
And even though there are many things we’ll miss about him, I know he’s better off now than he was for the last 10 months.
Some time ago I had a dream — a dream of him essentially dying, and it didn’t look as bad as we all generally think of dying.
In my dream, he was laying there, his body all there, but kind of gray, and damaged. It looked like dad, but suddenly he broke free of that body, and he just kind of came up, there was this whole, healthy copy of him, in living color that kind of came out of him like a butterfly comes out of a cocoon, and he was free, he was whole, and he flew away, leaving the gray, damaged body behind him.
After Dad died, Petra was doing some thinking about what his death was like for him, and the image she came away with was this, that dad was in bed, in the nursing home, having just been sung to and prayed for by the love of his life. She laid down on the bed next to him to rest, and dad, who had had his eyes closed, suddenly could see her.
The machine wasn’t breathing for him anymore.
His mind was clear, not muddled by a stroke.
His heart didn’t struggle.
His feet weren’t cold.
We imagine he looked around, saw the things we’d brought in to make him feel at home, saw his beloved wife laying there, who’d been with him for 41 years, for better or worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, and with his new, whole body, then left the presence of his wife to be with his Lord.
During dad’s life, we all knew that no matter where we went or what we did, dad loved us, and I am convinced that up there in heaven, he loves us still.
When the service was done, we headed to what would be dad’s final resting place, and on that cold, clear day, the wind blowing the oak leaves around the cemetery, our family gathered around dad one last time as he was given a military funeral, with an Air Force Honor Guard from McChord Air Force Base, a flag, and a rifle salute.
We shivered as we took our places in the chairs under the portable gazebo they’d set up for us, with mom sitting in the front row. I walked away for a bit to clear my head as the ceremony started.
I’d seen the airman with his trumpet, trying to keep his mouthpiece warm on that cold day, and I knew he was going to play Taps – which I’d learned to play when I played the trumpet in junior high school, but I’d never had to play when it counted.
Taps, originally used to signal “lights out” in the military, eventually became the bugle call played at funerals, where it signaled – or symbolized – a final “lights out” for an individual.
I’d heard it played when my friend Bruce Geller died in 1978.
I’d heard it played when I, as a photojournalist, was covering the funeral of Lee Stephens, a sailor from the USS Stark that was hit by a missile on May 17th, 1987, and each time I’ve heard it, it has been like a knife in the heart for me.
It is a symbol of the end of a life, and of a loved one, where they make that transition from living in your life to living in your memories.
I remember, as I shot the funeral of Lee Stephens, how I wanted to honor the grief and sorrow his family was experiencing, but at the same time, I wanted to tell the story that this young sailor, from a small town in Ohio, who’d graduated just a few years before, had people left behind who still loved him.
I remember seeing, through the viewfinder of my Nikon, through a long, long telephoto lens, the look on this sailor’s mom’s face as the sergeant of the honor guard handed her the flag. It was a photo that, while it was “the” photo from a photojournalism point of view, I did not take. The moment was too intimate, the grief was too raw.
I remember her eyes, simultaneously exhausted, numb, disbelieving, and utterly spent as she accepted a flag from an honor guard member, “…on behalf of a grateful nation…”
In walking away a bit, I had unconsciously recreated the view I’d seen through that camera, the photo I didn’t take in 1987 at that cold cemetery 13 years later, and I was not prepared to see that look on my mom’s face and in her eyes.
But I’d seen that look before, and knew what it meant.
We’d had 10 months to prepare for this moment, but the fact is, we all know we’re going to die. Being faced with it as “sometime” in the vague future is one thing. Seeing it in front of you in unblinking reality is something else entirely.
I saw the honor guard fold the flag as precisely as they could fold it
But this time, I wasn’t hiding behind my camera, trying to insulate myself from the pain of a mother who had lost her son.
This time, while I wasn’t a mother who’d lost her son, I was the son of a mother who’d lost her husband.
This time, I was the son who’d lost his father.
I understood things a little more clearly now.
I understood a little more about how much it means to sit in that chair, and have someone hand you a flag, in exchange for someone you love.
As if that wasn’t enough, it was then that they did the rifle salute. For those of you who have not experienced it, it is very much like a 21 gun salute. Retired military members who have served honorably receive a 9 gun salute, a volley where 3 soldiers fire off three rounds apiece. It is done as a sign of respect, of honor. For those not prepared for it, it can be shocking.
The call was made,
“Ready! Aim! Fire!”
Three fingers squeezed three triggers.
“Fire!”
Three firing pins hit three cartridges.
“Fire!”
Three cartridges fired and were ejected.
The honor guard was called to attention, and the command “Present Arms” was given so precisely – they all moved as one. Those without rifles saluted – those with rifles held them in the “present arms” position.
As the three shots echoed away, the only sound left was of those leaves, the movement of cloth, and the click of rifles being presented.
There was a moment where this was all we heard. Leaves rustling, coats flapping, and the stunned silence of those still not ready to let go.
It was then that the bugler, who’d clearly kept his mouthpiece warm, played Taps. He played clearly, with dignity, and with the respect and honor due.
– and through the wind, I heard the sergeant’s words I’d heard years before, “on behalf…of a grateful nation…” drift across on the wind as he solemnly handed the folded flag to my mom.
And at the end of the day, as I watched them drive off, I found myself, in spite of the fact that I had my own family, a job, a mortgage, all the trappings of being an adult, I found myself crying, because underneath it all, I was a little boy who’d just lost his daddy.
I cried for the fact that much as I’d wanted to, there were things left unfinished.
I cried for the relationship that had at times been rough, but had started to mend.
I cried for the relationship that, like it or not, mended or not, was ended.
…
It is Veteran’s Day as this is published…
For those of you out there who are wearing the uniform, or for those of you who have worn it, with honor, you have my greatest respect.
For those of you who’ve lost your sons – like Mr. and Mrs. Stephens, who lost their son Lee, and so many others, and for those of you out there who’ve lost your daddies, my heart goes out to you.
For those of you who are still daddies, remember your kids only have one of you, and they only have one childhood.
It’s not a dress rehearsal, it’s the real thing.
Take the time to be there for them while you can.
Love them. Hug them.
Veteran’s Day, 2010
Dad and one of the merry go round horses he carved.
Tom Roush's Blog 
