God Bless Us, Every One...

I am a sucker for a good Christmas story. I admit it. I can watch, It’s a Wonderful Life, over and over and every time, see that my simple existence has meaning after watching George Bailey discover how Bedford Falls would be different without him. I’ve never been able to watch, A Christmas Carol, without crying at the possibility of Tiny Tim’s death; just knowing that the fictional world of 19th century London would be a more positive place if only he could live longer. And while I know George and Tim are just characters in imaginative stories, I always believe there is hope for a better real world if we all just try a bit harder.

I know my optimism can be a little annoying to my more cynical friends and family members. But, I can’t help it. It’s not that I’m unaware of the horrible economy, high unemployment, crime, political unrest, and other devastating events occurring around the world. I am aware. My soul is troubled when I read or hear about people being hurt by these social maladies. So, it isn’t that I bury my head in the sand and pretend that everything is great. I know things aren’t great. But I always, always believe things can be better.

The holiday season inevitably brings out songs and movies and stories about keeping the spirit of Christmas alive in our hearts. Although that can be viewed as a trite and sentimental notion, it is worthy of serious consideration. Of course it can be platitudinous to speak of peace on earth and goodwill toward others at Christmastime, but it also really can be a way of life. We really can choose the way of kindness. We really can choose to alter our thoughts, actions, and words toward others and take a gracious and loving path throughout the entire year.

Early in December I saw this photo of my great-niece, Adalynn, on Facebook. I have to be honest and admit that my first response was shock at the realization that I am a great-aunt. Not that I didn’t know I am. I just hadn’t thought a lot about it. In my mind ‘great-aunt’ conjures up images of a much older woman than I consider myself to be. But, once I was able to get out of my own way and stop obsessing about that, I looked at the photo and analyzed what I saw in it. Several people commented that my great-niece is adorable…which she is. And that was my response as well. The image captures, perfectly, the childhood innocence of believing in Santa Claus. As I looked more deeply at the photo, however, it spoke of things much larger than a beautiful, happy, little girl awaiting Santa’s visit.

It spoke of hope.

What I see written on Adalynn’s precious face is joy, and promise, and anticipation. A belief in good things to come. I am aware that at 2½ she hasn’t yet faced any of life’s disappointments and pain. She doesn’t have any reason to be jaded and discouraged. But my wish for her is that even after she has experienced those things she will still view life with a hopeful expectation of something better. And that she will choose to live accordingly.

It is so easy to be discouraged and negative and cynical. We don’t have to look very hard for reasons. And yet, if we allow ourselves the complacency of negativity, we simply can’t make the world a better place. We have to look harder to find reasons for joy and hope…but they are there. And it doesn’t just have to be during the holiday season that we do our part.

Recently I came across this quote by Gladys Taber. I’m pretty sure if she and I had met we’d have been friends. As it is, she died in 1980, but it still feels as though I've met a kindred spirit. Gladys wrote: “In this season it is well to reassert that the hope of mankind rests in faith. As a man thinketh, so he is. Nothing much happens unless you believe in it, and believing there is hope for the world is a way to move toward it.”

I believe.

Shower the People You Love With Love....

It was a lovely Sunday morning in December. It was early and the house was quiet. I was enjoying the solitude, coffee, and a book when I got a text message from my friend, Debbie. That was odd. Debbie doesn’t text unless there is a good reason. And there usually isn’t a good reason on a Sunday morning. I checked the message and read that Debbie’s friend, Dianne, had died unexpectedly. She gave a few details, asked for prayer for Dianne’s family, and ended the message by saying that the last thing Dianne had said to her on the previous Friday was, I love you.

The news of Dianne’s death was shocking. I didn’t know her well, I’d met her a couple of times but hadn’t had the opportunity to really become friends with her yet. She was ten days older than I and Debbie said when she saw her on Friday, Dianne was vibrant, healthy, and happy. What stayed with me most, though, wasn’t that she was my age. Or that she had been seemingly healthy only moments before her death. What stayed with me most was that the last words Debbie heard her say were, I love you.

Later, Debbie told me that she and Dianne had said goodbye, Dianne had turned around, walked a few steps, and then stopped, turned back around and told Debbie she loved her. Her intentionality was clear.

I learned the value of hearing the words, I love you, spoken intentionally, early in life. Not because I heard it a lot. I didn’t. But, in spite of the circumstances of my father’s death, the last words he said to me were, I love you. At the time I thought he was just being weird. Later, I understood that he knew those were the last words I would hear him say and while there were a lot of hurdles to making any sense of his suicide, at my core, I'd know he loved me. As an adult, I adopted the practice of saying, I love you, to my family whenever I was leaving them, in case those were the last words they would hear me say.

Debbie used to joke that if she were picking me up to go somewhere we’d have to plan an extra five-minutes for me to hug everyone and say, I love you. But later she told me she adopted the same practice for the same reason.

In spite of my commitment to using the words, I love you, with my family, I taught my kids to be sparing with their use when it came to romantic relationships. As sweet and special as it can be to hear, I love you, I was always concerned that 14-year olds who started ‘going out’ and broke up three days later really didn’t understand romantic love all that well. Throwing the words around seemed to cheapen them. I taught them to say it only when they knew they meant it.

And I’ve had trouble understanding the recent trend toward saying, “I love you more!” When I first heard it, I thought it had a certain sweetness to it but then it started to trouble me. As if love were now a competition to see who could love the most. I’ve opted to stay out of the love competition and simply love to the best of my ability. Maybe I love some people more than others. Maybe some people love me more than I love them back. Since I’m not sure you can quantify love, I’ve decided not to over think it.

Love just is.

It seems no matter how many times we hear the message to love others and to value our days because we don’t know how many we will have, we can never hear the message too many times. Life with all its consuming aspects has a way of pushing that message to the margins and then, just as I was on that quiet Sunday morning, we are reminded of how fragile life is. And how important the words, I love you, are.

While I tell my family I love them frequently, Dianne’s deliberate action on the Friday before her death has reminded me of how important it is to tell my friends I love them also. What would my life be without so many of my dear friends? Void of such richness and diversity. Void of so much laughter and joy. My friends challenge me to be better, stronger, and deeper. I’d be lost without them. My life would lack texture without the friends I love so dearly.

I'm reminded to ensure that they know how much I love them by simply saying those words.

I love you.

Thank you, Dianne.

Merry and Really, Really Bright....

Indeed, the holiday season is upon us. For reasons I’m not completely sure of, this autumn did not fly by at a frantic pace as it seems to have in recent years. Although I try to live intentionally every year, taking in the days and weeks and seasons with gratitude, autumn seemed especially lovely and peaceful this year. It didn’t hurt that it was a spectacular season with warm weather and glorious colors. Whatever the reason, the months passed at a reasonable pace and I found myself savoring all of their homey wonderfulness. And then, December arrived and, as if on cue, with it came snow. The holiday season is upon us.

I know the holidays aren’t cheery for everyone, which makes me a little sad, but for many people the Christmas season truly is the best time of the year. I’m married to one of those people. Steve loves the holiday season. Every year. He loves the lights and the music and the shopping and while he doesn’t bake…he gleefully enjoys what I bake. If you ask which season is my favorite I am much more inclined to say whichever one we are currently immersed in. But I’m a little fickle. Steve on the other hand, is very clear. He loves the Christmas season.

In particular, Steve enjoys tradition and our family is very tradition driven. Some of that may have to do with being holiday homebodies. We’ve always spent the holidays away from extended family and developed our own family traditions when it was just the five of us. Maintaining those traditions carries a certain amount of nostalgia. Sometimes family members can get a little militant about remembering traditions and have to be reminded that things change. Sometimes old traditions need to be replaced with new ones. It is a growing process.

Nevertheless, Steve is quite the keeper of tradition and enjoys being Santa’s little helper throughout the season. Putting up the Christmas tree is the seminal event each year and Steve does it with great celebration. I personally find the process somewhat tedious but Steve always turns it into an extravaganza involving cookies and eggnog and cheesy Christmas music and fond remembrances from each ornament. It can take days.

This year, after discovering that the twinkle lights, packed away last January, no longer twinkle, Steve decided to put LED lights on the tree. As he was carefully placing them, I mentioned that they were rather…bright. And I was being gentle. They were blinding. I’ve never seen such dazzling little lights.

Ignoring my comments, he continued to add string after string. Anna grimaced and Charles came into the room and exclaimed, “Wow…those are BRIGHT!” Steve insisted they were pretty. So, okay…it is his thing…we just decided to go with it.

Alright. Not entirely. I did wear sunglasses to place ornaments on the tree. I might have been trying in my not-so-subtle way to communicate that I didn’t exactly love the LED glare of light. Regardless, the ornaments went on the tree and the project was finished and the lights illuminated the living room. No other lighting was really necessary when the tree lights were lit. Steve commented that the tree looked beautiful. Outside. From the street. Which is fine, I guess, if we were all planning to camp out in the front yard to look at our resplendent Christmas tree. But inside the house the tree was anything but relaxing. It felt a little frenetic.

One evening a day or two after the tree went up, a young woman stopped by on a fundraising drive for RAPP, a rape education and prevention program. The temperature had dropped well below zero that evening and in spite of the fact that she was heavily bundled, I invited her in, gave her a donation, chatted with her about the program, and insisted that she sit in the living room while I made her some hot chocolate in a ‘to-go’ cup. She seemed appreciative but did say, somewhat casually, “My, your tree lights sure are….bright.” She then quickly added, “They look so pretty from the street.” Yes. We know. From the street. Inside the house however, we were fearful of corneal flash burns.

I had resigned myself to having a particularly merry and BRIGHT holiday season. Well sort of. I might have mentioned my aversion to the lights once or twice more. Okay, fine. I admit that one morning as Steve sat in the living room with his effulgent tree, I couldn’t resist coming downstairs into the living room singing Manfred Mann’s, Blinded by the Light. But no matter what anyone said (or sang) Steve held steadfastly to his admiration for the LED light bonanza.

Or so I thought.

One subzero morning earlier this week, I drove Anna to school. When I returned home Steve was sitting in the living room next to his beloved blazing tree. His face, along with the rest of the house, was aglow. But, he looked grumpy. Really grumpy. Downright Grinchy. I asked what was wrong and in a monotone he said, “I hate these lights. I hate this tree. In fact, I’m starting to hate Christmas.” I could almost see his heart shrinking two sizes too small. I started laughing and asked if he had just noticed how bright they were. He said, no, he had thought they’d grow on him. Clearly, they hadn’t.

I assumed that since the lights were already strung and the ornaments had been hung we’d just learn to be content with shielding our eyes whenever we wanted to gaze lovingly upon the beautiful, radiant tree. But no. Not Steve. He wasn’t going to be content until every last LED light was removed and new strings of softer, gentler, twinkle lights were gracing our Christmas tree. He insisted that Christmas trees are supposed to be warm and inviting not stark and glaring. That night, after attending Anna’s choir concert, he disappeared. He didn’t say where he was going, but I knew. He was out buying twinkle lights.

So now calm and joy have returned to our abode. We are no longer blasted by the sight of our Christmas tree. We no longer have to avert our eyes when we enter the living room. And Mr. Griggs's heart has once again grown three sizes.

Peace on earth.

And in our living room.

21 Years of Sunshine

Our family, like most Americans, has much to be thankful for. Naturally, this season encourages us to pause and think about our blessings. But our family has an additional reason to be thankful at this time of year. We also celebrate Parker’s birth. This isn’t a recent event, of course. His birth actually happened 21 years ago.

When Parker was born, Steve and I were convinced this parenting thing was much easier than many of our friends were letting on. Charlie had just turned two and, at that point, being a parent had been a breeze. He was peaceful and calm and we attributed this to our superior skills as parents, never suspecting that we simply had an easy baby. About the time we were feeling really smug…Parker burst on the scene.

Life has never been the same.

From very early on, life with Parker required being able to keep up. His zest was unmistakable. As a baby he had the capacity to make people stop taking life so seriously by smiling relentlessly until they reciprocated. He was charming and engaging even though he was always a little gooey. He drooled incessantly, which might have been an off-putting characteristic were he not so charming and engaging. Fortunately he got the drooling part under control a couple of years ago. But the charming and engaging part remains intact.

Creative and inventive and always envisioning the possibilities, Parker hasn’t ever been content with the status quo. As a toddler, no matter what he was wearing or what the occasion, he insisted on bucking social convention by wearing unmatched socks. His favorite color was pink. His favorite movie, Cinderella. And he loved to play dress up. At home he wasn’t ever taught nonsense about attaching gender to color or toys or preferred activities so when others would suggest these things didn’t align with him being a boy, he would look at them and then and simply wave his magic wand. He really couldn’t be bothered by their boundaries.

Parker has always been a bit ahead of his time. Harry Potter hadn't even been published yet.

When Parker learned to roller-blade, just skating around the neighborhood wasn’t enough. As a family we had been biking around a nearby reservoir but Parker set his sights on skating the eight-mile radius instead. We cheered him on as he accomplished his goal. Likewise, as a pre-teen, Parker wanted to learn to ride a unicycle. But just learning to ride it wasn’t enough. Parker wanted to ride the unicycle around the reservoir. And we cheered him on as he accomplished that goal. Parker has always set goals for himself. And we've always cheered him on! Sometimes his friends laugh at him because his goals are rarely conventional but he just looks at them and waves his magic wand. He really can’t be bothered by their boundaries.

When Parker wanted to join a competitive dance troupe he spent hours in the dance studio so he could make the team. When he wanted to play the drums we bought him a used drum set. Sometimes the only way we could have a conversation was to go outdoors because his drumming would fill our small house, but it always felt worth it because he was doing what he loved and what he had set his mind to do.

In some ways, Parker really does have a magic formula for success. He has always use his magnificent smile to break down barriers. He was very young when he discovered that his off-beat sense of humor could fill a room with laughter and diffuse pretty much any situation. He encourages everyone he meets and is rarely acrimonious. Wherever Parker goes, joy, fun, and laughter follow. He is fiercely loyal to his friends and family, especially his siblings, and includes everyone who wants to enter into his world of grace, kindness, and felicity. Parker is loved wherever he goes.

For Parker, the world is full of possibility. He has little respect for the sense of entitlement so many of his peers carry. He doesn’t grumble and complain, he simply sets goals and works hard. Always with that generous smile, gregarious spirit, and genuinely funny sense of humor.

He’s 21 today. When he was younger I often sang, “You are my sunshine,” to him. I’d sing it to him now except, I guess that might be a little weird. But he is. He’s sunshine to me, to our home, to his workplace, to his classmates, to nearly everyone he meets. Parker has little time for the boundaries others try to put on his goals, passions, or talents. He thinks deeply about life, lives it fully, and brings it into every situation.

He doesn't always dress like this...it was Halloween!


My world has been decidedly better in the 21 years Parker has been around. Our family’s lives have all been richer for what he brings. His friends and acquaintances and workmates and classmates have all been touched and changed for the better because of Parker's unquenchable spirit.

And it is really only beginning. Happy Birthday, Ray of Sunshine. So much of this world still awaits you. I can’t wait to see how your magic continues to change this world for the better!

Oddballs, Eccentrics, and Me....

I’ve been going to art show openings for the past few years. While these aren’t events I would necessarily participate in of my own accord, being married to an artist, I attend by way of support. I’m glad for the impetus to do something I might not otherwise think about doing although when I go, I have nothing to contribute. While the artists stand in clumps and discuss techniques and tools and other artists they admire, I play my part like a politician’s wife; smiling sweetly and gazing adoringly. Truthfully, I’m just an accessory. In that environment, though, I don’t mind. It is fun to just observe.

I’ve found that artists are amazingly supportive of one another. Their conversations are convivial and affirming. They encourage one another as they discuss the challenges of identifying themselves as artists rather than hobbyist and pushing through creative blocks. Not only do I enjoy viewing the art, I enjoy the community among the artists.

Really, for me, art has always just been a spectator sport. I have no talent for the visual arts whatsoever. None. I can’t even play Pictionary. And in spite of his immense artistic ability, neither can Steve. You don’t want to invite us over for game night if that is the activity of choice. We are a disaster. Steve can’t play because his drawings end up needing a bit of shading here, a bit of perspective there. By the time he produces whatever it is he is supposed to be drawing, the time has run out and people have gone to get more snacks. A few have even decided to go to bed.

I, on the other hand, cannot play Pictionary because I have absolutely no ability to draw. My playing partners are often looking at the paper, quizzically asking, “What IS that?” Plus there is the whole over excitement issue. The one where after a disastrous attempt at drawing I fling the pencil across the room and start flailing around wildly, turning the moment into a solo game of Charades while my bewildered partners wonder what in the hell I’m doing. It is hopeless. And humbling.

Because I’m not an artist, I would have imagined, prior to my adjunct role in that community, that artists fit the stereotype of oddballs, eccentrics, and moody, temperamental creators with just the slightest need for anger management courses.

Hollywood has trained me well.

Turns out, artists are just regular people. Of course there is the occasional oddball and eccentric but go to any grouping of lawyers, chefs, professors, or construction workers and you’re sure to find oddballs and eccentrics. Because oddballs and eccentrics are everywhere.

Delightfully so.

I’ve discovered, while attending various art functions, that artists are no more quirky and strange than any other group of people. Some are people who’ve chosen art. Others are people whom art has chosen. Either way, they are letting their souls speak through their work and living one day at a time just like everyone else.

Of course, it isn’t just artists whom I’ve categorized incorrectly. I’ve done the same to lots of groups because that’s what our culture teaches. We sort and define and assume. We judge. Often unkindly. Usually incorrectly. Sometimes we judge according to profession. Sometimes according to belief systems. Sometimes according to characteristics over which there is no control, such as race or sexual orientation.

Regardless, if we pay attention, we find out that people don’t fit into our expected notions about them. When we discover that the feminist isn’t a man-hater and the conservative isn’t narrow-minded, we owe it to them to listen carefully and embrace the person behind the ideology. Or the individual immersed in the profession. Or the soul embedded in the creative pursuit. Or simply, the human whom God created.

Because difference is important, individuality is necessary, and labels are incorrect. Because everyone deserves to be known and respected.

And because our humanity is what binds us together.

Frankly, Scarlett......

In what our family is calling the ‘turnaround of the century,’ my mother is alive, and well, and doing what she enjoys the most…using her womanly wiles to entrap a man. I’m concerned that her latest victim, Ray, may be unaware of what he is getting into. And I have to admit this presents something of a quandary for me. Because setting her sights on Ray has become her most recent preoccupation (obsession, really) it reduces the daily phone calls and demands on my time. I am relishing the freedom but do feel a little sorry for poor old Ray.

I’m fairly certain sure she gets up in the morning and assesses her wardrobe to decide which color will put her at the best advantage, making sure it enhances her hazel eyes and snow white hair. She probably primps and fusses and then heads downstairs to the common area where Ray awaits having, no doubt, rolled out of bed, dressed without any concern for what he is wearing and strutted into the common area assuming he is a stud and all the women want him.

Given the ratio of men to women…he’s right. All the women do want him. It's just that some are more determined than others.

In her younger years my mother was quite a beautiful woman. She still is, although she spends an inordinate amount of time reliving her ‘glory days.’ Somehow she missed the feminist notion that a woman’s value isn’t found in cultural ideals of beauty. But, then that seems lost on a lot of us so, I really can’t fault her for it.

The troubling part isn’t so much that she was beautiful. The troubling part is that she bludgeoned people with it. My mother got what she wanted, when she wanted, how she wanted, where she wanted…because she was pretty. And beguiling. And bossy. I’m fairly certain she watched Gone With The Wind one too many times and started channeling her inner Scarlett to manipulate men and life into giving her what she wanted. And she’s been fairly successful. Perhaps not all that happy. But successful.

I thought she had given up on beauty and men after the daily medical dramas last summer but then, one morning (perhaps recalling the whole carrot scene when Scarlett musters all of her determination) my mother decided to stage a remarkable recovery and resolved that it was time to catch a man once and for all. I can envision her getting out of bed (all five feet of her), shaking her fist (dramatic music playing) and saying, “With God as my witness, I’ll never go manless again!”

Men are a rare commodity in her community. And men in possession of their mental faculties and bodily functions are even rarer still. As it happens, just about the time my mother decided she was going to continue slogging through this thing called life, in waltzed Ray who is, apparently, the cat’s pajamas. If you like your pajamas in the form of a short, gruff, codger with a New York accent and a pot belly.

It was on!

The competition for the few eligible and desirable men can be fierce with the elderly set. Middle schoolers could learn a few ‘survival of the fittest’ lessons from these women. The cattiness. The drama. The boyfriend stealing. I tell you, it gets wicked. Certainly no place for the faint of heart. And in the end, of course, it is the Queen Bee who wins.

Enter Mommie Dearest.

Anna and I went to visit her yesterday. She was busy holding court. She sat there in her bright blue sweater and pearls, flirting shamelessly with Ray while eight of her besties sat around them (seriously! I’m not making this stuff up!) enviously watching her preside. My mother, the 83-year old ‘popular girl,’ was in her glory. I found myself in rapt terror that the next words out of her mouth were going to be, “And then, I was like, oh my Gawd!”

It was disconcerting to say the least. We didn’t stay long. Just long enough for her to introduce me to Ray. She’s introduced us the last three times I’ve gone to visit. Yesterday I thought seriously about trying to find a discreet way to mutter out of the side of my mouth, “Run away while you can!” But then, I thought, hey, he’s playing Rhett to her Scarlett of his own volition. Who am I to dampen the embers of love? Besides, if I disturb what’s meant to be, I become the object of her attention, drama, and demands again. I am the one she calls when she is bored. The one she demands drop everything to take her shopping. The one she expects to entertain her.

Sorry Ray old buddy…you’re on your own!

In fact, I’ve been thinking I might just add a little fuel to the fire. Sort of seal the deal. Maybe the next time Ray and I are introduced for the first time, I’ll tear up, throw my arms around him and cry, ‘Daddy!’

What's In a Name....

It has been 23-years, to the day, since the birth of my first child. Never one to be late, he arrived exactly on his due date. But not without a ridiculous 26-hours of pointless labor and, ultimately, an emergency c-section. He had a flair for the dramatic right from the beginning.

I’m pretty sure I might have watched six or seven minutes of the World Series while I awaited his birth. I assume that I stopped watching because I didn’t want to die of boredom before the kid was actually born. I am not a fan of baseball. In fact, I have a theory that in Hell there is a perpetual baseball game we are forced to watch for all eternity. My other theory is that there are only public restrooms in Hell. I’m hoping to avoid Hell. Nevertheless, when I hear or see something about the World Series every autumn, it transports me back to those days of anticipating Charles’s birth.

Prior to his grand entrance we had planned to name Charles after my paternal grandfather. While there are a lot of nutty characters in my lineage, my granddad wasn’t one of them. He was a good, quiet, caring man who always went by the moniker, Charley. When my Charles was born, I assumed he too would go by Charlie. And he did while I had something to say about it. I had no idea that at five-years old he would discover his given name was Charles and insist on being called that. But then I also I had no idea he would refuse to walk on his own until he was 18-months old or spontaneously start to read when he was three. Or, by three-and-a-half would be giving me driving directions. I’ve spent my whole life perpetually directionless and here was a 30-pound kid with a compass emblazoned into his brain, strapped into a carseat and telling me how to get downtown.

Weird.

By age four, Charles was a pint-sized compendium of automobile knowledge. Babysitters were confounded when I told them his bedtime story of choice was automotive marketing brochures. Seriously. His favorite part wasn’t the photos as much as the specifications. And you can imagine the strange looks I got when Charles would converse with adult men about drive shafts, towing capacity, or chassis systems. It was surreal to listen to him explain power ratios and final drive ratios while I was zipping up his footie pajamas.

At age five he got up every morning and read the newspaper, cover-to-cover. Thank God we didn’t have any cigarettes in the house and he hadn’t developed a taste for coffee yet or I’m pretty sure he’d have looked like a miniature adult following his morning routine, mindlessly flicking ashes into the ashtray, slurping hot coffee, and pondering the future implications of NAFTA.

By the time he was in public kindergarten his teacher didn’t know what to do with him. While the other kids were learning letter sounds, Charles was reading the Encyclopedia. When it was time to draw, Charles had the same crude drawing skills as his peers, except he conceptualized the fire truck in 3D. But he could not, for the life of him, figure out how to play 'Simon Says.' Or why. When he was in the 9th grade he lost interest in school. At 17, he dropped out.

Charles is an enigma. Charming, melodramatic, caring, belligerent, loving, and argumentative all at the same time. As with a lot of brilliant people he can, at times, be the most delightful person to spend time with and at others, positively exhausting. Small children adore him and as my brother aptly pointed out, children are often excellent judges of character.

Last summer my brother, sister, and I were looking at old family photos. We came across a picture of our grandfather, Charley, when he was in his mid-20s. It hadn’t really occurred to any of us how much Charles’s physical resemblance matched his great-grandfather’s. Uncanny, really. Charley died when he was 90. Charlie was 3. I have one cherished photo of the two of them together.

It is interesting to note how much, beyond appearance, the two are alike as well. Fans of country music, generous, exceedingly loyal, and terrified of heights. A slightly gruff exterior and a deeply sensitive interior. I don’t know if my grandfather made bad decisions and was given to histrionics when he was younger. Doubtless he made bad decisions. It is a little hard to imagine him being dramatic, but who knows.

He was a good man. One of those ‘salt of the earth’ types. A barber, land surveyor, and a friend to his entire community, he cared for others generously and graciously. He was honest and hard working. He gave without expecting anything in return. He had a dry wit, a charming smile, and a tender, loving manner. He was a man worthy of being named after.

It is odd to think that 23-years later Charles could be like my grandfather in so many ways. I am watching him grow into a man his great-grandfather would be proud of. And, I know he will use the innate qualities he has been given to offer the world his best. I have no idea what someone does with all that intelligence but I have every confidence Charles will use it to do something amazing.

And I know my precious granddad would be happy to share his name with the man Charles is becoming.