In George Muller-esque fashion, I opened the mail today and received a moderately large check out of the blue from an unlikely source...an old family friend of Agent Wife who use to support us as missionaries through the izzy group.
Of course, the check is in Canadian funds. And banks in the fair mother city hate non-US dollars. It took us 6-8 weeks to cash the last one. And the wife & I have a Canadian account, but the check is in izzy's name, not ours. And Canada banks don't let you cash other's endorsed checks.
...but really...I'm not complaining one bit! I can make this work. Thank you God.
Friday, December 09, 2005
Agent Offspring #2 update
After almost a month of knowing Agent Wife was pregnant, we finally had our first visit with the doctor today. So it's official. She's pregnant (I don't have much faith in those dollar store pregnancy tests).
Our doctor is a new doctor, both to us and here in the fair mother city. The doctor is a "she"...and so far we really like her. She actually spent quite a bit of time with us (over an hour) rather than a 30 second "Good to see you. Sign here". She's also recently out of med school and is probably a few years younger than me. But I'm more than willing to give a rookie a chance, especially if she's willing to treat us like humans, and thus, not people who are funding a yacht payment this month.
We actually got to see a sonogram, which is pretty early for normal since AO2 is about 6-8 weeks right now. Nothing makes a pregnancy less fictional than the great invention of sonogram. The first time I saw AO1 in sonogram form, I cried. Wow...I help create that. I actually have a friend who was a full fledge abortion rights guru until he saw his baby's first sonogram. Amazing how an entire philosophy can be changed by viewing a grey & black blob on an old Atari video game screen.
At best estimate, Agent Offspring #2 is due to join us July 3rd. Which may pit my Canadian in-laws to hope for an early birth on Canada Day (July 1) against my family for a late birth on July 4.
...usa...usa...usa...
Our doctor is a new doctor, both to us and here in the fair mother city. The doctor is a "she"...and so far we really like her. She actually spent quite a bit of time with us (over an hour) rather than a 30 second "Good to see you. Sign here". She's also recently out of med school and is probably a few years younger than me. But I'm more than willing to give a rookie a chance, especially if she's willing to treat us like humans, and thus, not people who are funding a yacht payment this month.
We actually got to see a sonogram, which is pretty early for normal since AO2 is about 6-8 weeks right now. Nothing makes a pregnancy less fictional than the great invention of sonogram. The first time I saw AO1 in sonogram form, I cried. Wow...I help create that. I actually have a friend who was a full fledge abortion rights guru until he saw his baby's first sonogram. Amazing how an entire philosophy can be changed by viewing a grey & black blob on an old Atari video game screen.
At best estimate, Agent Offspring #2 is due to join us July 3rd. Which may pit my Canadian in-laws to hope for an early birth on Canada Day (July 1) against my family for a late birth on July 4.
...usa...usa...usa...
Thursday, December 08, 2005
Faith or reality (another faith rant)
To date, no bill is due or looming down our backs. To date, I thank God for the small, daily miracles, such as always having food on our table. Or never having to pay a late fee on a utility bill. Or my baby's amazing health and daily advancement.
In search of encouragement, I decided to reread a biography of the late, great secret agent George Muller by Roger Steer. This was given to me by a friend about 9 or 10 years ago. I read it with great interest back then as my life was just beginning a faith journey after my radical healing of mental depression.
The Prussian born Muller became a follower of Christ in his early 20's after living a playboy lifestyle. He eventually took the words of Jesus seriously...words like "sell all you have and give to the poor". You know, the parts of the gospel that make westernized Christians twitch nervously and invent contexts.
Throughout his life, Muller did great things to advance the kingdom of god, like start and operate orphanages with no business plan or serious financial backing. Just a heart for the people Jesus mentioned in Matt 25, and prayer. Muller preached all over the English countryside, refusing salary from any church. Eventually he refused to tell people of his needs, only asking God for his supplies.
...and also, I love this book because of my fascination with England. I hope to visit there someday, and not necessarily the trendy parts. My ancestors come from there, you know.
Right now, I'm almost at the place of keeping my needs from being known by people (except the obvious act of writing about it on this here blog...but I swear, I have no intention of soliciting anyone. You don't know who I am or how to physically reach me, etc.). I'm trying to shut my yap to people and only consult the father. I don't always do this, but old habits are hard to break.
Then there's my confusion about how, "he already knows our need before we ask". Well...if you KNOW my needs God, then why do I have them? And why must I pray about them? Are you bringing me to some kind of uncharted faith territory in my life??
...and then there's my American surroundings and workaholic motherly upbringing that punches my faith in the groin. I justify this by calling it "reality". So today, I go to the Texas Workforce Commission to register for work in Texas (since "reality" tells me I have no money). I figure, maybe they can find me a job since I'm obviously inept to do so my damn self. This place is a joke. It's nothing more than a room full of computers with free on-line access to register on their website. I could have done that from home. But I feel like I accomplished something by burning my own gasoline to get there to apply online.
Plus, every employee I engaged there asked me for my SS# before they'd answer my question. Revelation 13 has come true. I am nothing but a number on a forehead. However, the elderly lady who helped me get started praised my abilities: "seems like you're good with computers". Hey - right now I'll take any encouragement I can get.
And btw, I'm not very gung-ho about typing my personal info & numbers onto web sites. But if I suddenly have massive credit problems, why should I care. I don't use credit anyway.
God - is "reality" a lack-of-faith thing? Even Paul made tents. Well, I never liked Paul anyway. Yea, sure...everyone quotes his writings. But so what. That jack-ass promoted celibacy. Like I'm gonna follow THAT "advice". As if..
In search of encouragement, I decided to reread a biography of the late, great secret agent George Muller by Roger Steer. This was given to me by a friend about 9 or 10 years ago. I read it with great interest back then as my life was just beginning a faith journey after my radical healing of mental depression.
The Prussian born Muller became a follower of Christ in his early 20's after living a playboy lifestyle. He eventually took the words of Jesus seriously...words like "sell all you have and give to the poor". You know, the parts of the gospel that make westernized Christians twitch nervously and invent contexts.
Throughout his life, Muller did great things to advance the kingdom of god, like start and operate orphanages with no business plan or serious financial backing. Just a heart for the people Jesus mentioned in Matt 25, and prayer. Muller preached all over the English countryside, refusing salary from any church. Eventually he refused to tell people of his needs, only asking God for his supplies.
...and also, I love this book because of my fascination with England. I hope to visit there someday, and not necessarily the trendy parts. My ancestors come from there, you know.
Right now, I'm almost at the place of keeping my needs from being known by people (except the obvious act of writing about it on this here blog...but I swear, I have no intention of soliciting anyone. You don't know who I am or how to physically reach me, etc.). I'm trying to shut my yap to people and only consult the father. I don't always do this, but old habits are hard to break.
Then there's my confusion about how, "he already knows our need before we ask". Well...if you KNOW my needs God, then why do I have them? And why must I pray about them? Are you bringing me to some kind of uncharted faith territory in my life??
...and then there's my American surroundings and workaholic motherly upbringing that punches my faith in the groin. I justify this by calling it "reality". So today, I go to the Texas Workforce Commission to register for work in Texas (since "reality" tells me I have no money). I figure, maybe they can find me a job since I'm obviously inept to do so my damn self. This place is a joke. It's nothing more than a room full of computers with free on-line access to register on their website. I could have done that from home. But I feel like I accomplished something by burning my own gasoline to get there to apply online.
Plus, every employee I engaged there asked me for my SS# before they'd answer my question. Revelation 13 has come true. I am nothing but a number on a forehead. However, the elderly lady who helped me get started praised my abilities: "seems like you're good with computers". Hey - right now I'll take any encouragement I can get.
And btw, I'm not very gung-ho about typing my personal info & numbers onto web sites. But if I suddenly have massive credit problems, why should I care. I don't use credit anyway.
God - is "reality" a lack-of-faith thing? Even Paul made tents. Well, I never liked Paul anyway. Yea, sure...everyone quotes his writings. But so what. That jack-ass promoted celibacy. Like I'm gonna follow THAT "advice". As if..
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
gimme shelter
It's very cold in the fair mother city today. It's been cool for a while, but today the high was 27F and the low will be around 10F.
On average, it only gets below freezing (for a whole day or more) about 3-5 times a year. That's laughable to my Canadian inlaws. And I've been in Saskatchewan during one of their winters. We Texans have no idea what cold is. But days like this always makes me feel like I'm supposed to be working...overtime. I guess it's kind of nice to be able to relax when it's cold.
50 year old houses like mine have no insulation in the walls. And my house is mostly updated (except the wall insulation) in comparison to my neighbors. Obi-Wan heats his whole house with this gas furnace that he sits by. It scares me. So...most poor people's houses around here aren't designed for extended, sub-freezing temps.
A homeless person can survive the elements in these parts quite easily. It's warm or hot 8 months a year. Then cool the other 4 months with about 5 days of freezing. But who am I kidding...those freezing days are miserable. So are the hot ones (ever go camping in a Texas summer? Not good).
Back in the old izzy days, freezing temps meant work. We usually had a once a week shelter on Thursday nights. But if the forecast called for real inclement weather, we'd call in the reinforcements and open up whenever possible. There was no way to advertise this. Just word of mouth on the street.
I remember camping out in the building during a 2-day snowfall back in '01. The whole city shut down so we might as well play card games with our homeless friends and hot coffee all day. A big black guy named Chris decided to trust in Jesus during that campout. I haven't seen Chris much since. Hope he is well.
Also, I don't know if there are any other make-shift shelters in the mother city at this time. I hope there is. For years, the only place in town has been the Salvation Army. They started charging $8 a night a while back. But if temps are below freezing they waive the admission fee. I don't have very many positive comments about that. I understand budget crises (my life is a budget crisis). But I'm not too impressed with our local Salvation Army. They also charge for dinner now (breakfast & lunch are still free). Which is why I'm anxious to get a dinner thing going...someday (my dream gig...more on that some other post). I have a few contacts in the Sally and I'm fond of their founders (William & Catherine Boothe - they were radicals) and I'm most impressed with their nearly 150 history...but our local Sally is your basic institutional operation. I wish that would change.
I wonder where the local homeless go for shelter these days. I use to know, but I don't anymore
On average, it only gets below freezing (for a whole day or more) about 3-5 times a year. That's laughable to my Canadian inlaws. And I've been in Saskatchewan during one of their winters. We Texans have no idea what cold is. But days like this always makes me feel like I'm supposed to be working...overtime. I guess it's kind of nice to be able to relax when it's cold.
50 year old houses like mine have no insulation in the walls. And my house is mostly updated (except the wall insulation) in comparison to my neighbors. Obi-Wan heats his whole house with this gas furnace that he sits by. It scares me. So...most poor people's houses around here aren't designed for extended, sub-freezing temps.
A homeless person can survive the elements in these parts quite easily. It's warm or hot 8 months a year. Then cool the other 4 months with about 5 days of freezing. But who am I kidding...those freezing days are miserable. So are the hot ones (ever go camping in a Texas summer? Not good).
Back in the old izzy days, freezing temps meant work. We usually had a once a week shelter on Thursday nights. But if the forecast called for real inclement weather, we'd call in the reinforcements and open up whenever possible. There was no way to advertise this. Just word of mouth on the street.
I remember camping out in the building during a 2-day snowfall back in '01. The whole city shut down so we might as well play card games with our homeless friends and hot coffee all day. A big black guy named Chris decided to trust in Jesus during that campout. I haven't seen Chris much since. Hope he is well.
Also, I don't know if there are any other make-shift shelters in the mother city at this time. I hope there is. For years, the only place in town has been the Salvation Army. They started charging $8 a night a while back. But if temps are below freezing they waive the admission fee. I don't have very many positive comments about that. I understand budget crises (my life is a budget crisis). But I'm not too impressed with our local Salvation Army. They also charge for dinner now (breakfast & lunch are still free). Which is why I'm anxious to get a dinner thing going...someday (my dream gig...more on that some other post). I have a few contacts in the Sally and I'm fond of their founders (William & Catherine Boothe - they were radicals) and I'm most impressed with their nearly 150 history...but our local Sally is your basic institutional operation. I wish that would change.
I wonder where the local homeless go for shelter these days. I use to know, but I don't anymore
update: tool shed
Last night I told Obi-Wan of my delay to his request of me picking things out in his shed. I finally decided on 3 things only:
1) 35 year old motorized roto tiller: I borrow it at least twice a year. The best one in town, imo.
2) Pitch fork: Again, I borrow it for garden related purposed. Shovels don't work at the city's wood chip mulch recycle pile
3) 3 gallon gas can: It's metal and has a cool closing top. They don't make them like that anymore.
1) 35 year old motorized roto tiller: I borrow it at least twice a year. The best one in town, imo.
2) Pitch fork: Again, I borrow it for garden related purposed. Shovels don't work at the city's wood chip mulch recycle pile
3) 3 gallon gas can: It's metal and has a cool closing top. They don't make them like that anymore.
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
PMS - poverty's monthly system
Monday December 5th I went to HEB (a local, TX chain grocery store) for an errand. I had time to kill and walked around. I enjoy doing that at HEB. There's a well rounded slice of life that shops there: rich & poor, black, white, Hispanic, young & old, etc.
This particular day I noticed the large amount of poor people shopping. Boom. It hit me...the date. Social security and disability checks come through on the 3rd of every month. Since the 3rd fell on a Saturday, they probably got paid Monday the 5th...
Two women caught my attention. Both had "single mom" written all over them. They were together with their carts filled with 5 kids. Probably only had one working car between them, so they car pooled to get groceries. One woman barely looked 18. The other, probably 25. She had a black eye, I swear. Probably boyfriend or husband's doing.
The poverty class generally follow a monthly cycle (I wanted to title this "poverty's monthly cycle", but PMS sounded better). The cycle goes like this:
- 1st-3rd..get paid, buy groceries, pay bills
- next week or two...all is well, maybe
- last week...out of money. Visit church assistance and social services
In the old izzy days, the volume of people tripled during the last week of the month.
I love going to HEB around the first of the month. You get to see poor people feeling dignified, buying groceries like everyone else.
This particular day I noticed the large amount of poor people shopping. Boom. It hit me...the date. Social security and disability checks come through on the 3rd of every month. Since the 3rd fell on a Saturday, they probably got paid Monday the 5th...
Two women caught my attention. Both had "single mom" written all over them. They were together with their carts filled with 5 kids. Probably only had one working car between them, so they car pooled to get groceries. One woman barely looked 18. The other, probably 25. She had a black eye, I swear. Probably boyfriend or husband's doing.
The poverty class generally follow a monthly cycle (I wanted to title this "poverty's monthly cycle", but PMS sounded better). The cycle goes like this:
- 1st-3rd..get paid, buy groceries, pay bills
- next week or two...all is well, maybe
- last week...out of money. Visit church assistance and social services
In the old izzy days, the volume of people tripled during the last week of the month.
I love going to HEB around the first of the month. You get to see poor people feeling dignified, buying groceries like everyone else.
Monday, December 05, 2005
transcript - 6:16p
OBI-WAN: Agent B, I want you to go out to the shed and make a list of things you want.
AGENT B: Make a list?!? Things I want? Why?
OBI-WAN: The people that handle my affairs will need to know what to give you after I pass on. I want you to pick out all the tools you want.
******************************************
I can't fathom doing this. Very vulture-ish. I mean, I'm honored Obi-Wan would give me anything, much less a list of things I choose.
I wouldn't mind if some lawyer contacted me in the future and said, "here, Obi-Wan wanted you to have this". But picking things out ahead of time...(shudder)...I don't know...I don't think I can do it.
AGENT B: Make a list?!? Things I want? Why?
OBI-WAN: The people that handle my affairs will need to know what to give you after I pass on. I want you to pick out all the tools you want.
******************************************
I can't fathom doing this. Very vulture-ish. I mean, I'm honored Obi-Wan would give me anything, much less a list of things I choose.
I wouldn't mind if some lawyer contacted me in the future and said, "here, Obi-Wan wanted you to have this". But picking things out ahead of time...(shudder)...I don't know...I don't think I can do it.
Sunday, December 04, 2005
Tiger Tales
As written here before, Tiger Sanford (aka The Tiger) is my 16 year old next door neighbor who lives in generational poverty (a term from Payne's "A Framework for Understanding Poverty"). Before we moved next door, Agent Wife & I knew The Tiger and his extended family from the old izzy food pantry days. The Bossman has known him since he was 6.
The Tiger loves to work, especially if the work involves some sort of loud, manly, motorized power tool. Especially if that tool is a chainsaw.
I miss hanging out with The Tiger. He and his brother and sister used to play board games at our house every night after dinner. They're too cool for that now, so I don't get to see him much, unless I'm in the back yard running motorized equipment.
My dear friend Grandma Nelly, who has kept me somewhat employed doing odd jobs during this desperate time in my financial life, needed a limb cut up that fell from a 2 story cedar tree. Sounds like quality time with The Tiger, I figure. Especially since I don't own a chainsaw and he has five...and begs for opportunities to use them.
I learn so much about the poverty culture by hanging out with a teenager who knows nothing outside of the poverty world in the fair mother city.
Grandma Nelly lives two blocks from ACU, which is within (what I call) the ACU Biosphere. The houses are older than my neighborhood, but it's kept up fairly well since it's a college neighborhood (lots of money-making rental properties, etc). We turn onto the main drag, Washington Blvd, and The Tiger says, "This is a rich neighborhood". So I say, "Well, actually it's about 80% college kids which makes it a rental neighborhood. And I guess those kids go to an expensive private school and their parents might be rich, so you're right. It's a rich neighborhood".
Then we drive by a car full of people all dressed up. So he says, "Look. They all wear nice suits around here". I reply, "They're probably going to church or a social club function or something. We're wearing flannels because we're about to chop up a tree".
In The Tiger's world view, you're either "rich" or "poor". Rich means your things look nice. Poor means things look crappy. It's all based on looks and there's no middle ground. No "how much or little" you own. No "how many friends you have". Just "does it look nice".
But yesterday his mom Frieda gave us two nice dress outfits for Agent Offspring #1 that she bought in a garage sale. They were brand new (still had tags). And they find nice stuff like that all the time for themselves too.
I'm a little confused on The Tiger's definition of rich and poor. I suspect being "poor" is kind of a tough-guy identity he's embraced.
The Tiger loves to work, especially if the work involves some sort of loud, manly, motorized power tool. Especially if that tool is a chainsaw.
I miss hanging out with The Tiger. He and his brother and sister used to play board games at our house every night after dinner. They're too cool for that now, so I don't get to see him much, unless I'm in the back yard running motorized equipment.
My dear friend Grandma Nelly, who has kept me somewhat employed doing odd jobs during this desperate time in my financial life, needed a limb cut up that fell from a 2 story cedar tree. Sounds like quality time with The Tiger, I figure. Especially since I don't own a chainsaw and he has five...and begs for opportunities to use them.
I learn so much about the poverty culture by hanging out with a teenager who knows nothing outside of the poverty world in the fair mother city.
Grandma Nelly lives two blocks from ACU, which is within (what I call) the ACU Biosphere. The houses are older than my neighborhood, but it's kept up fairly well since it's a college neighborhood (lots of money-making rental properties, etc). We turn onto the main drag, Washington Blvd, and The Tiger says, "This is a rich neighborhood". So I say, "Well, actually it's about 80% college kids which makes it a rental neighborhood. And I guess those kids go to an expensive private school and their parents might be rich, so you're right. It's a rich neighborhood".
Then we drive by a car full of people all dressed up. So he says, "Look. They all wear nice suits around here". I reply, "They're probably going to church or a social club function or something. We're wearing flannels because we're about to chop up a tree".
In The Tiger's world view, you're either "rich" or "poor". Rich means your things look nice. Poor means things look crappy. It's all based on looks and there's no middle ground. No "how much or little" you own. No "how many friends you have". Just "does it look nice".
But yesterday his mom Frieda gave us two nice dress outfits for Agent Offspring #1 that she bought in a garage sale. They were brand new (still had tags). And they find nice stuff like that all the time for themselves too.
I'm a little confused on The Tiger's definition of rich and poor. I suspect being "poor" is kind of a tough-guy identity he's embraced.
Friday, December 02, 2005
of death and agents...
My assignment in life has me deal with death more often than I'd prefer.
Before I was placed in a deep cover role, I was assigned to a public benevolent operation for the working poor and homeless (the izzy group). During this assignment I discovered that the best way to "get in tight" with those we served was to become friends with them (see John 15 in The Book) as opposed to some sort of sterile director/client relationship.
I grew close to a number of people. And unfortunately, the people I grew close to typically have short life spans due to various habits and circumstances that the poor fall victim to: substance addictions, lack of health care resources, outdoor elements, mental disorders, etc.
I'm not a preacher but I've conducted two funerals, both for close friends of mine. It sucks. I can think of at least a dozen or so funerals I went to during the years of the izzy operation and about 3 in recent years.
All death sucks. No one enjoys it. Death snuck up on most all of my friends. They were happy and normal one day. Then the next day they were dead by some bad batch of drugs or they unknowingly had a disease or God knows what. Boom. They're here one day, gone the next. They weren't dying in a hospice for days where you have time to say 'good bye' or anything like that.
One really close friend of mine was mysteriously missing from our big food outreach one night. He was suppose to run the thing. I get a call that he's in the emergency room and things don't look good. I get there and the doc was just about to let me in to his room. As I touched the door knob those flashing lights on the wall go off. They push me out of the way and a chaplain ushers me into a "counseling" room. He dies.
I missed seeing him by 5 seconds.
Another guy I met was once homeless and living in the mesquite scrub brush camps by the tracks. He had come in for various help for months. Then he disappeared for months. Then he shows months later to tell me he's got a house and a job and just wanted to "thank" me for all the "help" and to invite me and Agent Wife over for dinner that week. We came and ate and had a good time. Five days later I read his name in the obituaries. He had unknowingly developed pneumonia while living out in the camps.
Now, as a secret agent, I'm dealing with death in an entirely different way: the slow, day to day, natural digression of an 88 year old diabetic. And this sucks just as bad as the others if not worse.
I watch Obi-Wan struggle with his body more and more daily. His blood sugar gets dangerously low because he forgets to eat or take his insulin. His breathing is sounding harsher than normal. He moves much slower and stumbles more than ever.
But I wanna tell you something, Death...you bastard...I'm not scared of you. Anymore.
Before I was placed in a deep cover role, I was assigned to a public benevolent operation for the working poor and homeless (the izzy group). During this assignment I discovered that the best way to "get in tight" with those we served was to become friends with them (see John 15 in The Book) as opposed to some sort of sterile director/client relationship.
I grew close to a number of people. And unfortunately, the people I grew close to typically have short life spans due to various habits and circumstances that the poor fall victim to: substance addictions, lack of health care resources, outdoor elements, mental disorders, etc.
I'm not a preacher but I've conducted two funerals, both for close friends of mine. It sucks. I can think of at least a dozen or so funerals I went to during the years of the izzy operation and about 3 in recent years.
All death sucks. No one enjoys it. Death snuck up on most all of my friends. They were happy and normal one day. Then the next day they were dead by some bad batch of drugs or they unknowingly had a disease or God knows what. Boom. They're here one day, gone the next. They weren't dying in a hospice for days where you have time to say 'good bye' or anything like that.
One really close friend of mine was mysteriously missing from our big food outreach one night. He was suppose to run the thing. I get a call that he's in the emergency room and things don't look good. I get there and the doc was just about to let me in to his room. As I touched the door knob those flashing lights on the wall go off. They push me out of the way and a chaplain ushers me into a "counseling" room. He dies.
I missed seeing him by 5 seconds.
Another guy I met was once homeless and living in the mesquite scrub brush camps by the tracks. He had come in for various help for months. Then he disappeared for months. Then he shows months later to tell me he's got a house and a job and just wanted to "thank" me for all the "help" and to invite me and Agent Wife over for dinner that week. We came and ate and had a good time. Five days later I read his name in the obituaries. He had unknowingly developed pneumonia while living out in the camps.
Now, as a secret agent, I'm dealing with death in an entirely different way: the slow, day to day, natural digression of an 88 year old diabetic. And this sucks just as bad as the others if not worse.
I watch Obi-Wan struggle with his body more and more daily. His blood sugar gets dangerously low because he forgets to eat or take his insulin. His breathing is sounding harsher than normal. He moves much slower and stumbles more than ever.
But I wanna tell you something, Death...you bastard...I'm not scared of you. Anymore.
Thursday, December 01, 2005
Grandfathers
At Obi-Wan's the other day, he received a phone call from his 20-something year old granddaughter who he's only seen when she was a new born. She's never called before.
Obi-Wan went into a polite-attack mode. "Why haven't you come to see me?". I thought he could have been a little nicer and more inviting, not just "dammit, where have you been all my life...I'm an dying old man" kind of talk. The granddaughter kept saying she plans to come see him, etc. She lives in Temple, TX - only 3 hours away.
I've only met one of Obi-Wan's relatives (he has none in the fair mother city). A niece of his came from Waco one afternoon to visit for a few hours and invited him to live with her. He declined the offer. He also griped about nobody coming to see him and the niece said, "well...if you'd quit being so MEAN to everybody". Her comment bordered on sarcastic, but I think she was serious. This took me by surprise, but it made sense. Obi-Wan is a great friend and the nicest guy I know. But I've been baffled at how his children and grandchildren never come, therefore they must not know him the way I do.
I've long suspected the CEO put Obi-Wan in my life for several reasons. One of which I now understand...Obi-Wan is a parallel to my own grandfather, who I hardly know. I am almost like the granddaughter who called.
Grandaddy B...
...my father's dad and my last remaining grandparent, Grandaddy B lives off lake LBJ in the Texas hill country (NW of Austin). He is a two time widower: my grandmother died in 1988 and his 2nd wife passed a few months ago.
I can count on one hand the times I've seen him since I was in 6th grade (1982). I couldn't remember why I wasn't close to him. The first time I saw him was in 1997 on a vacation from my job at a TV station. I was taking some kind of crazy, hippie, God-lead-me-somewhere kind of journey and my only agenda was to spend a certain night of that week in Austin to visit some friends. I packed up my old honda with tent, food, map, and a mission of solitude. There was no planned route. Just wander between Abilene and Austin and see what I find. I took photos of all the people I met, including some elderly couple that broke down on the side of the road. That guy trusted me to take his wife & her wheel chair to the nearest town while he waited with the car...
Anyway, I decided to go and find Grandaddy B. All I knew was the little town he lived in, his street had the word "Castle" in it, and that he was remarried. Well dammit, all 25 of the streets in that little berg had the word "Castle". No joke. I didn't have a phone number. The guy at the corner store never heard of my grandfather. So I go driving in hopes to recognize the cabin he lived in from my youth. After three or four streets, I see the cabin. That's it. But it's obviously vacant. Frustrated, I pull up into the driveway of the neighbor across the street to ask the man sitting in the front lawn if he heard of my grandad, Grandaddy B.
"Yes. That's me"
He had gotten married to the widow across the street and thus moved in with her, leaving the old cabin vacant. "I'm your grandson, Agent B". I can't remember much after that. I think he was in initial shock and said few words the rest of the visit. His wife did most of the talking over the noise of the Nashville Network.
I saw Grandaddy B again earlier this year, after Agent Offspring was born. My dad was in from NY so we went down and spent the night, he met my wife, got photos of the four generations, etc. Still...I don't know him.
Two months later his wife died. I drove down for the funeral, where after 25 years I see my Uncle Lenny, the black sheep of the B family. Grandaddy B wasn't in the mood to talk and I understood.
So back in August, about two weeks before I began this here blog, I decide to go visit Grandaddy B alone and spend the night there. I've never in my life done that before - spend time with him...alone. I've always had my parents with me.
I had a lot of questions I wanted answered. Who was I. Where did I (we B's) come from. What was your life like? Where did you serve in WWII?? I had plenty of them. Unfortunately, like me, he's not much of a talker...even though I was the only other person in the house all night.
I must have broke through to him when I offered to pay for the dinner I was going to pick up. After dinner, he finally told me where all his old photos were kept. I've been begging to see them since 1997. There were photos of everything, his war years in the South Pacific, pictures of my dad as a kid, ones of me that I've never seen, etc.
I finally heard about his WWII years: how he was a simple farm boy near Teague, TX, married his high school sweetheart, got drafted, had a daughter, about to have a son (my dad) then went over seas for three years, turned into a killing machine, received the purple heart award, etc. I found newspaper clippings of his heroic deeds. He helped liberate a concentration camp in Manilla run by the Japanese. To this day, he hates "japs" and anything made in Japan. No wonder he never liked my Dad's cars.
I finally remembered why I had no relational bond with him. He can be a mean jack-ass. He rarely has anything positive to say. Upon my trip home he did say, "thanks for coming to see me".
There's still a huge chasm between us in terms of relationship. I'd like to think that I did my part.
I need to go see Grandaddy B again. Soon.
Obi-Wan went into a polite-attack mode. "Why haven't you come to see me?". I thought he could have been a little nicer and more inviting, not just "dammit, where have you been all my life...I'm an dying old man" kind of talk. The granddaughter kept saying she plans to come see him, etc. She lives in Temple, TX - only 3 hours away.
I've only met one of Obi-Wan's relatives (he has none in the fair mother city). A niece of his came from Waco one afternoon to visit for a few hours and invited him to live with her. He declined the offer. He also griped about nobody coming to see him and the niece said, "well...if you'd quit being so MEAN to everybody". Her comment bordered on sarcastic, but I think she was serious. This took me by surprise, but it made sense. Obi-Wan is a great friend and the nicest guy I know. But I've been baffled at how his children and grandchildren never come, therefore they must not know him the way I do.
I've long suspected the CEO put Obi-Wan in my life for several reasons. One of which I now understand...Obi-Wan is a parallel to my own grandfather, who I hardly know. I am almost like the granddaughter who called.
Grandaddy B...
...my father's dad and my last remaining grandparent, Grandaddy B lives off lake LBJ in the Texas hill country (NW of Austin). He is a two time widower: my grandmother died in 1988 and his 2nd wife passed a few months ago.
I can count on one hand the times I've seen him since I was in 6th grade (1982). I couldn't remember why I wasn't close to him. The first time I saw him was in 1997 on a vacation from my job at a TV station. I was taking some kind of crazy, hippie, God-lead-me-somewhere kind of journey and my only agenda was to spend a certain night of that week in Austin to visit some friends. I packed up my old honda with tent, food, map, and a mission of solitude. There was no planned route. Just wander between Abilene and Austin and see what I find. I took photos of all the people I met, including some elderly couple that broke down on the side of the road. That guy trusted me to take his wife & her wheel chair to the nearest town while he waited with the car...
Anyway, I decided to go and find Grandaddy B. All I knew was the little town he lived in, his street had the word "Castle" in it, and that he was remarried. Well dammit, all 25 of the streets in that little berg had the word "Castle". No joke. I didn't have a phone number. The guy at the corner store never heard of my grandfather. So I go driving in hopes to recognize the cabin he lived in from my youth. After three or four streets, I see the cabin. That's it. But it's obviously vacant. Frustrated, I pull up into the driveway of the neighbor across the street to ask the man sitting in the front lawn if he heard of my grandad, Grandaddy B.
"Yes. That's me"
He had gotten married to the widow across the street and thus moved in with her, leaving the old cabin vacant. "I'm your grandson, Agent B". I can't remember much after that. I think he was in initial shock and said few words the rest of the visit. His wife did most of the talking over the noise of the Nashville Network.
I saw Grandaddy B again earlier this year, after Agent Offspring was born. My dad was in from NY so we went down and spent the night, he met my wife, got photos of the four generations, etc. Still...I don't know him.
Two months later his wife died. I drove down for the funeral, where after 25 years I see my Uncle Lenny, the black sheep of the B family. Grandaddy B wasn't in the mood to talk and I understood.
So back in August, about two weeks before I began this here blog, I decide to go visit Grandaddy B alone and spend the night there. I've never in my life done that before - spend time with him...alone. I've always had my parents with me.
I had a lot of questions I wanted answered. Who was I. Where did I (we B's) come from. What was your life like? Where did you serve in WWII?? I had plenty of them. Unfortunately, like me, he's not much of a talker...even though I was the only other person in the house all night.
I must have broke through to him when I offered to pay for the dinner I was going to pick up. After dinner, he finally told me where all his old photos were kept. I've been begging to see them since 1997. There were photos of everything, his war years in the South Pacific, pictures of my dad as a kid, ones of me that I've never seen, etc.
I finally heard about his WWII years: how he was a simple farm boy near Teague, TX, married his high school sweetheart, got drafted, had a daughter, about to have a son (my dad) then went over seas for three years, turned into a killing machine, received the purple heart award, etc. I found newspaper clippings of his heroic deeds. He helped liberate a concentration camp in Manilla run by the Japanese. To this day, he hates "japs" and anything made in Japan. No wonder he never liked my Dad's cars.
I finally remembered why I had no relational bond with him. He can be a mean jack-ass. He rarely has anything positive to say. Upon my trip home he did say, "thanks for coming to see me".
There's still a huge chasm between us in terms of relationship. I'd like to think that I did my part.
I need to go see Grandaddy B again. Soon.
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