Mcihigan Dreams

Here I is, back in my old home state for a brief visit with my Dad. He will be 89 this June 29th. He has had some rocky times the last couple of months, trying to recover from a fall and an infection, but he has improved enough to return to his home at Independence Village in East Lansing, Michigan.

I haven't lived regularly in Michigan since 1978. I have lived more years in Georgia than in Michigan. When I went to school here, I didn't feel particularly welcomed or loved. I didn't really feel like I fit in very well. And yet, I do have a nostalgia for this place.

I think of the crisp Michigan Falls. Biking down the two lane roads I almost felt like I was on a movie set.

I remember the Boy Scout hike I took with three other boys, where we got lost and followed a railroad track. The whole thing was almost straight out of the movie Stand By Me.

I remember going through snow drifts, and building snow forts and snow tunnels, and snow piled so high you could climb up onto the roof of your house.

I remember the travel trailer and vacations by Lakes, and getting pneumonia up in Traverse City.

I remember going over to Cindy Nestell's, and listening to her play the piano and talking to her for hours and hours.

I sometimes think how my life would have been different had I gotten to stay in Michigan and never would have moved to Georgia. Would I be even more disgusted with what's happening in your state politics than I already am? Would I be sick of winter instead of nostalgic for it? Would I have ever fit in any better than I did when I was young?

I'll never know. I've made a life for myself in the great South Georgia Swampland. The weather sucks, most people are right wing of Attila the Hun, but I have a decent job, and this is where my family and friends are. And, ultimately, it's the people in your life that make your heart sing, that makes a place right.

So, Michigan, you are a pleasant dream to me, one I won't forget. But home is where the heart is, and though the great Yankee north pulls at me, I know where I belong.

Run, You Idiot, Run!

After third grade, everything changed. But during that year it was like a golden existence, a brief bubble in time where I was somebody. For that year, I was appreciated for what I could do, not what other people's expectations were.

The teacher was trying to read part of a book each day in front of the class. It wasn't going well. She wasn't holding the student's attention. So as an experiment, she let me try to read from it. I finished out the whole rest of the book for her. Pocahontas and Captain John Smith. I had them riveted.

That year, I was the room's student council representative. When we had lunch or snack, Diane Mainprize used to let me share her desk and seat. It was the year I met Dona Bow. And it was the year of one of the greatest miracles ever.

I loved baseball, but I could not play it. Hitting a ball demanded a level of hand/eye coordination I do not possess. To the best of my knowledge, I've only hit the ball once out of the infield. And it came during the spring of that golden year.

We had a big game against another classroom. I came up to bat, probably for the only time, because they did try to work around me as much as possible. As usual, the first swing or two, I miss badly. Usually, I would begin my swing about the time the ball was in the catcher's mitt.
But somehow, by some miracle, on my last swing, I connected with the ball big time. I watched it sail past the infield. I watched it soar into the outfield. I stood in awe as the outfielders tried to chase it down. I watched and watched, in open mouth wonder, all sound and sensation gone, until finally the shouts of those around me began to penetrate. "Run, you idiot, Run!"

Shaking the cobwebs away as fast as I could, I went dashing for first base, like a possessed locomotive, steaming my way in. I stepped on first and started charging to second. Well, by this time, the outfielders had managed to corral the ball and start to throw it back in. They shouted "Stop, you idiot, Stop!" , but there was no stopping this freight express from hell.

I raced to tag on Second, but I was greeted by a very happy Second Baseman, Who held the ball. That tagged me out.

There it was. The biggest moment I would ever have in the sport that I loved. And I still felt like I was coming up a loser.

That is, until the real miracle occurred. Another boy on our team, whose name has been tragically lost to me, came up to me and said, "You know, it's alright you can't play baseball well. I just wish I could read half as well as you can, You sure can tell good stories."

Yes, for that one amazing year, there was joy in Bearcatville. It was the one beautiful year when somebody could appreciate you for what you could do. Maybe you weren't an athlete. But you could read well. Maybe you weren't the best dressed. But you can share what you had. It was a year I'll never forget. It was a year I'd spend the rest of my life struggling to get back to.

Things About My Mother

My mother was a Texas gal. True, her family had moved to Oklahoma by the time she was three, but once you're part of that Texas gold, it never leaves you. Or so I've been told. Born October 11, 1931, her mother was a housewife and her Daddy a welder. He helped build a major natural gas pipeline that started in Texas ans eventually worked it's way up into Michigan.

Every few years they would move so her father could work farther up the pipeline. These frequent moves may have been where she developed her gregarious nature. Like a military family, my Mom and her sister, Gayle, had to constantly adapt to new towns and environments.

In high school, they lived in Maumee, Ohio, which is near Toledo and close to the border of Michigan. She wanted to be a buyer for stores, and she took basic business courses. Her Dad didn't want to pay for college, not even business or night school courses. She became engaged to a boy who almost immediately went into the military and over to Korea. While the boy was gone, a friend arranged a blind date with a teacher from Michigan whom her friends told her looked like Gregory Peck. Before you knew it, the original engagement was broken, and six weeks later, my mom and Dad were married. Their marriage lasted more than 56 years.

Mom, Peggy Marie Strait, had no verbal filter. She most often would say whatever came to her mind. She never said anything to deliberately hurt anyone, but things could take you by surprise. As a very shy boy, it was difficult to be out with someone that open and willing to talk. She never met anybody she was too afraid to speak to. She never met anybody that she wouldn't tell the most intimate details of her or her kids life. I didn't talk much when I was out with her. As I grew into my teenage years, I was always embarrassed by what she might say or do.

I moved south. My first wife didn't care for her much. I lost contact with my mother, except for visits to Michigan once every few years. There was a long period of estrangement.

That ended with Alison. She loved my mother, and my mother loved her. We spent more and more time with them. We went up to Michigan at least twice a year, and they stayed with us or in St. Simon's a couple of months in the winter. Were things always perfect? No. But we never lost it completely, we never cut each other off again.

She had many illnesses and medical conditions throughout her life. But she survived them all, and would be glad to tell you about them in excruciating detail. She survived them, that is, except for the last one. She died October 19, 2008, after a very brief hospital stay. She wasn't in there long enough to even run the tests to see what was wrong. I received the call that Sunday night that I needed to come to Michigan. A half hour later, I got the call that she had already died.

The most important thing I learned from my mother was the power of unconditional love. She always cared for us, and supported us, no mater what we did. Every stranger she ever talked to came away knowing that this woman really cared about them. Throughout our estrangement she never gave up on me, never stopped loving me. And she accepted Alison into our family with open arms. Benjamin, that late grandchild, was the light of her life, and I am glad that she got to spend the time she did with him.

The power of love, the true meaning of Christian caring and generosity, these are the things my mother taught. There are so many other stories and thoughts I could give, but at this late hour, I will stop for now.

Mom, I love you. I miss you. I wish you were here.

Theatre Rat

Sometimes I don't have a clue why I do theatre. All the lines to learn, the rehearsal time that takes me away from home and fills up my DVR, the people who don't show up or work as hard as you would expect from yourself. People often chatting/texting more on the phone than to each other. Falling short of your perfectionist image. Getting overtired at a work that really doesn't care or understand what you're doing. Seeing pictures and videos of yourself looking like a beached whale. Why do I put myself through this?

But then I get into performance time and things slowly click into place. I remember my lines and every evening add more character and flow to my part. On really good nights, your performance gets into a zone, the closest I have to a runner's high, where I feel like I'm transporting the audience to someplace else. When the audience clicks into rhythm with what I'm doing, I can feed off their energies, almost like a vampire.

But the best part is this shy boy finds that in the heat of performance, I can actually make friends for a short while. I don't feel inferior and nervous, I feel like I belong and I'm in something together with somebody. Most of the friendships slip away after the play, but for that brief time, they can shine brightly.

When I'm away, that is what I miss. That is what brings me back.