Abundance

When life ends

2009-06-30T20:25:00.002-05:00

Twenty six years in Madison and 160 miles of road between here and home. How many times have I driven that stretch to Antigo and why is the road always under construction? I wonder if the reason the highway is six lanes is so two can always be closed?

In Aaron's life we probably drove to and from Antgo 100 times. The family conversations, and questions about things they saw along the way leave landmark memories for the entire trip. The travel is a bitter sweet memorial journey. How many times do you think I had glanced in the rear view mirror to see their smiling, pouting, crying, laughing, sleeping faces? A gadzillion or two. Rear view mirrors are made for holding the faces of kids. Their emptiness tells a sad story the way the unused chair at a table whispers "I'm gone".

Accept it. No. How can everything be so much the same everywhere? Photographs and memories burn and I just insulate my heart to make the trip. My jaw aches from clenching. My head hurts from remembering. There is no comfort in traveling the gauntlet.

A radio talk program featured a conversation on death. According to the voices, at the time of death we relive our entire life in an instant. All of the places, all of the people, all of the smells, and feelings are experienced one more time to let us know where we will be in God's heaven. Oh, geeze, one more time with purpose! When life ends, will that then please be the last time I relive all of the memories? When life ends.

His Life is Not a Game

2009-06-14T20:29:00.004-05:00

Six years ago this summer I caught Aaron smoking marijuana. A 16 year old would have some experience with the drug before being bold, or careless, enough to light up with dad a few steps away. The proof I didn't want to find verified a suspicion. Through the smoke I faced Aaron confused. Five months later the drug had consumed Aaron and family. Choices were made, decisions were implemented. We live with outcomes for the better or worse. I'd rather not judge the decisions and choose to try to live with the results.

Today I spent some time at the location where that six year old day ended. So much has changed. I thought I never wanted to get back on that road of life which carries us away from the days of sorrow and heartache. Life appears to be a spiral instead of lineal. If hard work returns anything I expect my mind to be sharp and wise with the experience of life's brutal lessons. I'd like to not repeat the mistakes of my past.

I dream of saying the right thing, responding with wisdom to situations which should no longer baffle me. Keep dreaming. Sometimes I feel that the hard work was just hard. Did the work just smart and not give smarts?

Driving home my mind was reviewing opportunities to be more than I was; opportunities I fumbled. A United Way billboard caught my attention from a half-mile away. His Life is Not a Game. The prayer handed to me on that deadly day 5/10/05 spoke again: God let me hear the words you need me to hear-- A young person's life is not a game. My sons never need me to be their coach. They always need me to be a Dad. Other young men don't need me to be more than humble and respectful in and out of their presence. Saying the perfect answer every time is a goal I will never meet. Failure to meet unatainable expectations is certain. I wanted to be the perfect dad and certainly suffered the consequences of that expectation. A version of that mistake doesn't deserve a second look at the light of my days.

Russian Gulag

2009-06-01T21:57:00.002-05:00

Tomorrow You Go Home by Tig Hague, Gotham Books. 2008.

You don't find books. Books find you. The story of this British banker who lands in Moscow in July 2003 on a simple business trip and ends up in a merciless Russian prison nudged my attention as I walked past it in the library last week. The red jacket with black stripes looked right and the spacing of the sentences felt good as flipped the pages. "A twenty first century Midnight Express" described the story in the inside flap. A young man arrested in Moscow for carrying a tiny amount of hash in his jeans pocket. The year 2003 has meaning to me in that it was the last year of life as I once knew it. Still I picked up another new book and spent an hour reading its story about Sirhan Sirhan and the assassination of Robert Kennedy. In the end I put back the book I selected and checked out the book that found me. For a week I read.

Tonight I finished Mr. Tig Haque's true story. What happened in his story is not why I came to the office tonight to write my thoughts. When it happened moved me. July 17, 2003 was possibly the exact date when I discovered Aaron had taken on pot smoking. Tracking the story almost perfectly, Aaron was in full crisis within 3 months, the same time it took for Mr. Hague to go from problem to full blown crisis in his situation.

The story continues with Hague being sentenced to 3 plus years in a horrific prison in the frozen Russian wasteland. He landed there about the same time Aaron arrived at Mount Bachelor Academy. As Tig Hague wasted away and suffered in misery, Aaron was rebuilding his sense of well being. Hague's family mourned, and we found hope. While Hague nearly died, Aaron was given new life. Finally in April 2005, Hague was released from prison and reunited with his family. About the same time, early May, Aaron died.

The tracking of the two stories, one ends in happiness, the other is sorrow didn't jump out at me until I read the Afterward. "...flew back to London in the spring of 2005." One nearly dies and finally lives, the other nearly lives and finally dies. While one family rejoices, another mourns.

The sun shines on the joyous and mournful at the same moment. The paradox of life.

Memorial Day

2009-05-27T19:35:00.002-05:00

A picture of a dad sitting by the grave of his son stopped me on Memorial Day. The son was a helicopter pilot in Iraq. He was killed flying his last mission.

When we commit sons and daughters to war, every American should have to feel the painful consequences of the reality of battle. It must be a lonely feeling to lose a son or daughter in a war that makes not even a ripple of disruption in the lives of the rest of the country.

If you just kept walking on your way...

2009-05-10T20:54:00.002-05:00

O.A.R Dakota

I had a dream about you
It was December in the afternoon
You're something pretty and cool
Signing records as you're passing through

You saw everyone as an angel
But what about the thieves?
Who don't know what do
And don't know who to be
You saw everyone as an angel
But what about the thief?
Who took away from you
He took away from you

If you just kept walking on your way
If you just kept walking on your way
If you just kept walking on, walking on, walking on your way

Behind the archway lies a thief
Awaiting double fantasy
He's something evil underneath
Outside Dakota died the symphony

I think everyone has a devil waiting in the wings
When you don't know what to do
And you don't know who to be
You saw everyone as an angel
But what about the thief?
Who took away from you
Took away from you

If you just kept walking on your way
If you just kept walking on your way
If you just kept walking on, walking on, walking on your way

Maybe this is just a nightmare
And I will wake up
We all will wake up
Maybe this is just a nightmare
December afternoon they took away from you

If you just kept walking on your way
If you just kept walking on your way
If you just kept walking on, walking on, walking on your way
Just walking on your way
Just walk on

Aaron,
This song sings my angst. Thoughts which wrench and strangle my mind are music and poetry in the hands of artists you enjoyed. How often did we have this conversation? You saying I was judgemental, me telling you to use some judgement.

You saw everyone as an angel. But what about the thief? What about the thief? He took away from you. He took away from me.
Maybe this is just a nightmare.
If you just kept walking on your way. Just walk on. Just walk on...please. Just keep walking on your way.

May 10 2000 and forever.
Dad

Calm Before the Storm

2009-05-05T17:32:00.002-05:00

May 5th is a quiet day. Aaron will be 22 tomorrow. The night before he was born was very quiet. Probably the same for every young parent who is aware of their last meal before the birth of a first child. There were some laughs during Aaron's life as we told him of the last supper. We knew it was the calm before the storm. Quiet times were a void filled by Aaron's presence. Spilled water does the same with a depression.

Aaron's birthday is quiet because the clock ticks louder on the countdown from here to just after noon on May 10th. For a guy who looked forward to being 18 for so long it's ironic that his life would end so few days into his 19th year.

Looking at his picture on my desk I see the face and the long arms. His body appears to be filling out. I barely remember. Turn the picture sideways and the thickness of the paper represents how clear I remember my son Aaron and I miss him.

Happy Birthday Air Bear.
Love you.
Dad

I Don't Watch the NBA

2009-04-29T17:34:00.002-05:00

Monday night I went to the Library to catch up on the Packer draft. I got my first Madison Library card, read the news and hiked home to my apartment in the dark and light rain a little after 9:00 PM.

My apartment is a complex of 6 identical brick buildings. Rarely have I approached by foot and hardly ever by the front door. Walking up to the door I noticed a guy watching a big screen TV in my apartment. "Hey, what's this?" I thought. I'm not home and I don't have a TV. I almost walked in until I concluded this was not my apartment. I was sure of that because I never watch the NBA.

Past Life

2009-04-20T17:14:00.002-05:00

Two teams of boys, probably ages 9-12, filled a ball field in Madison on Friday. Parents lined the fence and occupied the stands and dugouts. The scene was familiar to me only in the way that I recognized the actitivy as something I've seen before, not participated in.

I was a parent of young boys. They played youth and high school sports. I've been there. I just don't remember the "being there" part. The memory is not vivid. Something has changed. That life is one I believe existed but I don't feel it in my memory. For the last few years I felt that I was getting older and the memories were part of my past. Today I feel that the aging has ended and the memories belong to someone else. I've been asked to carry the memories for someone as if I have to deliver them someplace and then my job will be done. I carry a bag of pictures and notes.

I know I was a father of two young boys. The pictures tell me so.

Captain John Peterson

2009-04-09T20:57:00.004-05:00

Madison can be unfriendly cold in winter. Captain John Peterson got an arctic blast hello when he arrived on campus, maybe 15 years ago. He came in from San Diego. A typical spring day, the temp was in the thaw range when John arrived and well below zero when he woke the next day.

Finishing a Naval career, John chose Madison, WI for his final two years as the commander of the Navy Rotc. I didn't understand why--didn't even know we had a Naval command. We have no water big enough to float a ship. What water we have was frozen 12 feet thick on that day. John walked to my Jeep wearing penny loafers and a spring coat. He was a man of optimism back then. I expected John's look at Madison would last part of day with the rest spent waiting for the next jet west. Can't hardly blame a guy who spent his adult life at sea thinking the weather everywhere was mild to balmy.

John returned with his wife Kristen a few months later. He must have told her nothing about the spring. It was on his second visit when John asked me about the "Ruffed Grouse Society" sticker on my rear window. John explained his interest in Wisconsin. Hunting was his passion. Ducks were all he talked about. English was his best companion. I never heard a man talk so fondly of a dog. I learned none of his two legged companion's names. But I knew English intimately and English was long gone dead. John could tell a hunting story and from then on we were hunting buddies.

The end of our hunting days together arrived when John discovered Wisconsin Whitetail hunting. Now, I don't shoot deer, so I don't know if white tail is two words or one...looks like it should be two.

Before climbing tree stands, John taught me everything he knew about the pursuit of ducks. I will never forget his explanation of waiting until the perfect opportunity to "take ducks". With a flock of mallards working our decoys John was carfully explaining how to tell when it is the exact moment to rise and shoot. "OK, see how they are cupping their wings? Their feet are down. And 'take em'." John stood up and immediately saw his exact timing was exactly too soon. "Shi_. Too soon." As John crouched down, the mallards back peddled and gained altitude, rising to live another day. "I got it John. When the look like they are just right, wait a little longer."

Having mastered the pursuit of ducks, John elevated his game to stalking deer. Climbing trees in pitch black night was surely a safer adventure for our ageing friend. I would miss my pal in the boat, but instead of losing a buddy I gained gear. John gave me everything he owned for hunting ducks. From decoys to a jon boat, trailer, and motor, John's gear became mine. Just last year I returned the motor and boat. The trailer I kept, the boat was better suited to be a fish crib, and the motor I didn't want to risk breaking.

I call John every fall and leave him a message or chat and relay the duck hunt updates. "We'll have to get out again" John would always say in his deep voice. I knew the day would be when I would have to wheel him out because as long as he could walk, John would spend every opportunity in a tree stand. He was that hooked. Well, I thank John every fall for passing on his passion for ducks to me. I love the adventure and the excitement as well as the mud.

John and I had one fall ritual for the first few years. When his daughter Meredith and my son Aaron were young we went pheasant hunting on a private farm on the second day of the season.We always came home with wild roosters. In John and Kristen's living room are dozens of photos from their life and travels. I was at the house today. A photo of Meredith and Aaron dressed in blaze orange vests, hats, and roosters is still there as is the picture I took of John, Meredith, and SAM. I cried when I saw the pictures.

Two days ago it occured to me that I needed to call John. Somewhere between the occurance and action I put off making the call. Yesterday I drove into Antigo and remembered John. It was on his first visit to my home town that John pointed out to me that Antigo was a gigantic bowl--a "prehistoric lake", John described Antigo. A career naval pilot, John had a facination with topography and he immediatly saw what I had never noticed, the obvious rim of the lake which held the fertile Antigo Silt Loam, the State soil. Driving in to the Antigo I could see the giant rim and thought of my friend John, and our trip up to hunt those ruffed grouse he was curious about.

My phone rang this morning. I miss my friend John. Mission accomplished Captain.

Grief Speak

2009-04-07T22:31:00.002-05:00

Talking about emotions is one way to participate in the grief process. Not the only way. When I was 16 I chose to not participate in grief work. I had a good reason to be a player, but I didn't know the rules so I stayed out. Self medicating with emotions that weren't sorrow was what I knew best. Those emotions started with "Being strong" (I know that's not an emotion but it is a description of one) and extended as far as anger and its cousin resentment. Self pity was a tool. Jealousy--oh that was one I denied; not the existence of, but the use.

Writing is useful way for me to participate this time around. Not so much with the pen but banging out words with a keypad. Some of the strokes are firmer than others. The tickity tick of the strokes lets me know I'm really into something. Emotions flow out through my finger tips and I don't stop to find better words. My vocabulary is what it is and if I don't have a better word I use what I have. If the words were more than I know the writing would not be me.

Last night I heard another way to participate in grief. A young man of 15 played a guitar and I heard words I wish I wrote. In three years since the death of his father, my young friend excelled at learning guitar. His fingers move over the strings and words transform into music. Key strokes turn into letters on a screen. Words become electrical impulses which travel over lines and are heard by listeners over telephones. Neither has anything over a musician who takes emotions and transfers them through human cells, into a man-made instrument which produces a sound that is unmistakably music of recovery.

Some people did work to help this young man achieve his talent level. Guitar players are heard and watched. I took it all in. It's easy to see a creator's work in my friend. He didn't get here by himself and it took himself letting other people in to be the artist he is today. Evil did not take this talent and squander. Goodness resisted evil. Healing is possible because of the choices of people, including my friend, who had resisted evil and made music.

Watching this young man play reminded me of the note I left for Aaron in September 2004. It read--Play guitar Aaron. The world has enough business people. I had reached the point of understanding in time to let Aaron know that there is more to life than chasing the wind. Playing music, living life, sharing a talent for the enjoyment of other people is worthy.

Never accused of being a saint, Jerry Lee Lewis caught my attention last week. I found a decent CD in the 1/2 priced book store and played it repeatedly for a few days. One song in particular was pure Jerry Lee. Rocking out the Boogie Woogie on a song titled Pee Wee's place, Jerry tells the story about a bar where a four piece band plays too loud. Leading his band through the song, Jerry turns to a member in the band and says in perfect Lousianna drawl "Play that gui-Tar souahn!"

I replayed the song a dozen or more times just to hear Jerry Lee say in his language what I said in mine to my son---"Play that gui-Tar souahn!" I hope my friend hears what he needs to hear. His fingers write and speak what he needs to say. The gui-Tar is his voice.

I Feel Home

2009-04-05T21:32:00.003-05:00

I Feel HOme, O.A.R.
Maybe the link works, maybe not. If not, try YouTube and search for OAR I Feel Home. Aaron might have selected this song for his graduation song in '05. At one time it was in the running.

Last night I saw O.A.R. in Milwaukee. Went to The Rave. Same place Aaron saw them in '05. Part of the experience was being there and part of the experience for me was being THERE four years ago. I wanted to feel the music as Aaron felt it. Feel the vibrations. At times I closed my eyes and felt the music of the songs he would have heard. Old Man Time was one he could have heard. You slipped away, yeah you slipped my grip....Old Man Time.

I felt home in the smoke, the heat, the sound, the lyrics. I felt home. I felt my son's vibrations. I lost it all, yeah I lost it all. That was a crazy game of poker.

Walls and Humble People

2009-04-04T10:51:00.002-05:00

You know I sure hate that wall on Vinburn, the one that killed my son. This is April and the countdown to Aaron's 18th birthday date and the anniversary of his death. Without seeing it coming I woke up yesterday aware of the time ticking away again. How short were the days in '05 between January twenty something when Aaron came home and the collission with the wall. I expected more time and the abrupt ending left with unfinished work. This past week I joined Families Annonymous to do some of the unfinished work.

Yesterday I stopped at the wall. The trucks were back in the yard. Mulch is being moved again. The bins are full. The wall is secure. The fence is mended. I know I'm not put back together as easily. What I don't remember doing is driving onto the shoulder and into the ditch as Aaron's truck traveled that day. Yesterday I did. The route, short as it is, is scary. Walking in Aaron's moccasins I felt a little of what he felt. The angle of the ditch is steep. It feels as if my truck is going to tip over. The high wire post is directly in my face. There is no way to go left because pull of gravity pushes the vehicle down and to the righ. The momentum of the energy keeps the truck going straight. Aaron clearly wanted to miss the pole. It's all he could see. The wall was not his first concern. By the time he missed the pole, the wall was there and the journey was over.

Later in the day I met with a young man--probably 42. He is highly successful, as measured by any business stick, in his endeavors. The time and attention he gave me to the Aaron Foundation and Aaron House was incredible. When I left the meeting I felt better about myself than when I arrived. Tells me a huge amount about this man. Humility was evident. If I only acquire humility of that degree in my life I will leave a happy man.

Organize and Mobilize

2009-03-28T19:16:00.002-05:00

Now that this has happened, what am I going to do about me?

Parents from 33 states sat down for two days of brainstorming ways to change the status quo of adolescent treatment and recovery. In respect to the lives damaged and lost to substance use addiction these parents choked back tears and finished their work today. Looking back at their bewildered minds in the days of trying to find help for their sons and daughters the parents diligently recalled the good, the bad, and the ugly. Looking but not staring allowed the parents to focus on ideas. The results were fueled by mercy not bitterness. Their sons and daughters have died or outgrown adolescents so no change in policy or attitude will affect their families. But it's not for themselves that they go to the dark places. It's for others--- Those who today may not see what's coming at them like a freight train.

Gigantic goodness grows from the tiniest seeds of hope. A visible, vocal national movement is growing in fertile soil. It has a chance because the seed is watered by the tears of loving parents pained by the produce of ambivalence which had it's start in an attitude of resentment. Americans care but the body count has gone unreported. We're killing our young people at rates that should trigger riots in the streets.

In a day when the United States Government is deciding which businesses are "too big to fail", I believe Americans are going to decide addiction treatment and recovery is too important to fail. Misguided national sentiment toward addiction is approaching the end.

Follow www.motherwarriors.blogspot.com

Families of Youth with Substance Use Addiction Second Day

2009-03-27T21:08:00.003-05:00

A study shows alcohol commercials and movie scenes influence drinking

JoinTogether.org provided that link.

We heard today that there are exactly ZERO dollars in the 2009 stimulus bill for substance use addiction treatment. What was the final total $870 BILLION--- A Trillion dollars and not a nickle for substance use addiction? Once again our words say one thing and our actions prove another.

Parents at this conference have impressive attitudes. These are people who raised to believe doing right things... praying, meditating, would help keep their children safe. They trusted our government's promise to care about America's children was real. First they discovered when they needed help there were no resources, no understanding, no compassion. In fact, the best Uncle Sam would do was arrest their child with a charge of some violation of a get tough law. Treatment for addiction is simple--make the addict a criminal. After the government showed its true face, God was next to dissapoint. What parent didn't learn at an early age to pray to God for the well being of loved ones? My prayer went something like: "Dear God, thank you for my children. Please keep them safe through the day and at night. Amen." That should do it. Wrong. Uncle Sam told us he cared and showed us he doesn't. God never promised us freedom from death, but the expectation was reasonable for children, wasn't it?

The landscape in the United States favors the alcohol and pharmacutical industries. Top to bottom these people have friends who vote. Barriers to dumping their wares where we live are eliminated by politicians. Truth in advertising doesn't pertain to producers of intoxicants and pharmacuticals.

A suggestion was made today to fund treatment with dollars raised in taxing the companies who advertise alcohol and drugs. The excited cheers and supportive laughter said plenty. No one is asking for restitution. I think they are in favor of the contributors to their children's darkest days and deaths stepping up to join them in being part of a solution.

There is no possible way these industries can deny their advertising and entertainment marketing has a positive correlation to drinking. But, you know they will try.

Families of Youth with Substance Use Addiction

2009-03-26T21:04:00.002-05:00

Cling to the thought that in God's hands, the dark past is the greatest possession you have--the key to life and happiness for others. With it you can avert death and misery for them. p. 124 of the Big Book.

Five years ago no one would have asked me for my opinion on substance use addiction. Oh, I gave my opinion but no one was asking. I'm humbled to be sitting in a hotel outside of Washington, DC exchanging greatest possessions with people from all over the U.S.A. Moms and Dads are here to collectively put their dark pasts in the hands of a higher power.

I live in Wisconsin. A farming state. We think of farming as crops and cattle. There is a new kind of farming sweeping the country. Farming with a PH as in Pharming--the illegal use of legal drugs, typically obtained illegally. Oxycontin is the crop most commonly pharmed. Every state with medicine cabinets in their home has the fertile ground necessary to raise Oxycontin.

Governments and big business can not move people with their message the way moms, dads, and siblings can. Here's a powerful message from a mom I met at dinner-- www.Momsagainstpharming.com

Compassion of a Mother in pain is powerful. I heard words from her I've heard from other Moms and Dads--I was angry, but that wasn't going to make a difference, so I started telling the story. I don't know the young man who's Mother gave me this brochure-- Legal but Deadly. He looks like every 19 year old boy--young, pleasant, happy sometimes, frustrated sometimes. His pictures show an athletic young man. The grave stone looks cold and final. I don't think his life is final because his Mom lives.

Death and misery will be averted for some people because people in pain share.

Different Life By Choice

2009-03-17T19:45:00.002-05:00

Succumbo. Latin for surrender. I chose to succumb. Quitting was not an option. A door to life opened when I chose succumbo.

Happiness does not exist as a thing which can be held, acquired, attained, pursued, kept. Happiness is fleeting and the instant it fleets, a choice to be replaces the lost happiness.

Should I be quicker to forgive happiness? Should there be an apology for being abrupt before acceptance? Do I set myself up for dissapointment by not resisting happiness longer? Happiness doesn't leave me, I let it go. I'm grateful happiness has the patience of a book and the forgiveness of a saint.

River With No End Has Serenity

2009-03-08T20:22:00.005-05:00

Two years ago a song by John Prine gave me a visual in a song. A river with no end. From my view point back then, the river of grief had no end. Fast flowing currents, sharp rocks, smooth boulders-- all brutally hard. Dangerous undertows, ice cold or just cold, no exit, frightening blind corners, no turning back. I expected to be tossed battered and dead into a serene pool at the rapids' end. Tranquility awaits the unwilling traveler. He will arrive---either dead or alive.

The book Grey Owl, perfectly described the final scene. I don't have the exact words but they depicted a traveler thrown from his canoe, struggling against the current, the rocks, the debris, bashed in the violence of water rushing with a purpose. The purpose was to kill slowly at first then quickly with violence and then toss the corpse into a quiet pool of still water. Freshly dead the body would float with a new calm. The only witnesses to the murder were the trees which toward over the river. They would turn a blind eye toward the details. Having seen everything they stood mute. The violence had no effect on their day. The trees saw it all and understood nothing. Had the man lived they would have cared no more or less. The river has no mercy. Trees have no compassion.

Grief is the river. The world I left towers and sways with the winds. Had I fallen from the canoe or chosen to abandon the safety of the vessel, my arrival at the end would have been without my knowledge. I know the canoe is battered. I survived. There is peace. Serenity is the gift.

Who Owns the View?

2009-03-03T22:40:00.002-06:00

Nine degrees above zero isn't cold weather on a sunny day...out of the wind. I wouldn't wear shorts but with a sweater, jacket, warm socks and shoes, and a hat a walk in the woods in 9 degrees is more pleasant than a walk in a park in 79 degrees and sunny. Sunday morning was one of those perfect March days for a walk. The snow has melted down to patchy white ice on the southwest sides of the hills. Falls flattened sheddings are a damp mat layering the ground. There are no insects buzzing and biting. Somethings about to happen in the woods and these are the final days of calm before the tree and plant people wake up.

Doc and I followed the beaten path until we reached a fork in the woods. The path going up was well worn. To our left going down the hill was a snow crusted trail. I would likely be tresspassing to leave the trail but the road less traveled led to uncertainty. I have to know where I'm not invited to go. Surely there must be something more interesting where no one has gone.

The route having been left unventured through the winter was easier walking. The road more traveled was mostly ice. A treacherous walk but the destination was certain because it was well marked for the snowmobilers. The unmarked trail had the potential of adventure. Doc walks like a good boy now. He stays within 20 yards. Every few minutes he stops to see that I'm still with him, smiles, and runs back to me as if I just returned home a week away. Doc makes sure other four legged people know he's been there. He carries an incredible amount of pee which he deposits after thoroughly inspecting various stops.

Northern Wisconsin has an abundance of evergreen trees. A more aware person would know the difference in species. I call them all pine trees. Southern Wisconsin is not as green as the north woods. When I see a pine in the souther forests I'm drawn to it. How'd it get there? How'd it survive? Where I grew up the lush green and spicy aroma is something I took for granted. Here the pine is less fragrant to me but each tree is a green land mark. Doc and I came around a bend and our virgin trail disappeared. We weren't the first to travel here since the snow fell. Turkey by the dozens used this trail. Their tracks told the story of their journey. The clump of pine trees might have given them protection from the wind. The big oaks were likely roosts.

Doc led the way to the pines. Something with their mass must intrigue him. He had to inspect, snoop, pee, sniff. Standing next to the pines, the view to the north west was spectacular. Eastern Dane County is flat. The glacier leveled the land on its way south, and deposited debris as it retreated. To the west the glacier pushed heaps at its edge and then retreated. What it left us to the western edge of our county is beautiful rolling hills and deep valleys.

I have a walking stick I made from an ash tree. Five years ago I cut the tree and left it to dry in Aaron's room thinking he would carve something out of it. He came home and died before doing anything with the wood. I carved a walking stick for Patrick. It stayed with me. A symbol was carved into the handle. A stick man walking between rain drops, cool and slow. I leaned on the stick and admired the view. Three houses dotted the scene. Some people possess the land. The view is free.

My thoughts were with Thoreau. Is it the farmer who has the land or the land who has the farmer? If I owned the hill and the valley would I appreciate the view? I said a prayer of thanks for all that does not have me.

Proverbs

2009-03-02T18:13:00.002-06:00

Two Wise Men and a student.

Wisdom was handed down to our grandparents by their ancestors and they perfected their knowledge in the great depression. My parents grew up in the households of wisdom. I wonder how often King Solomon's Proverbs were read in living rooms and at kitchen tables across America in the 1930's? Given the choice of the newspapers or Proverbs for starting and ending the day today, I'm choosing the King.

Talk about depression. For how much longer will failure and finger pointing be news worthy? Attitude is the greatest depression. There are stories in the world about Americans who are taking action, keeping businesses open, paying employees fair wages, creating jobs, and making life better for someone. A test of faith is to believe it's happening because you wouldn't know it by what's being reported.

I quit reading the paper and put my TV in the closet. There is no reason to go to madison.com anymore either. I'll watch YouTube and Thirty Rock on-line for entertainment--but not at home, I have no cable.

There are 31 Proverbs. One a day for the month of March. I'm guessing on April 1 my attitude will be better than had I read the paper for a month.

Green Bay Packers Foundation and Aaron Meyer

2009-02-26T20:29:00.002-06:00

Aaron had a way of exclaiming his happy surprise that went something like: NOaoaohwhww! I think that's a reasonably close spelling of what was more a sound than a word. His eyebrows would raise, or at least the left one, and his eyes would smile. Aaron's mouth formed a big "O". NOAOAOHwhww...long and drawn out. The press conference at Lambeau Field where it was announced that the Green Bay Packers Foundation had awared the Aaron Meyer Foundation a grant for the Aaron House project would cause Aaron to break out his signature sound.

John Blaha and I made the trip to receive the check. John, known as FJ around Lambeau, gets the red carpet treatment for giving 20 years of his life to the Packers. The stories he can tell... you'll have to talk to John.

Air-bear, you made it to the Packers. Because you lived the life you lived, and inspired the people you inspired, the Packers cut you a check. You're one of chosen few. True story Air-bear. True story.

Thank you to everyone who gave time, money, expertise, and prayers to the Aaron Meyer Foundation. Your efforts are validated by the organization that sets the standard for excellence.

www.Packers.com

2009-02-25T21:28:00.003-06:00

On Thursday, February 26th the Green Bay Packers Foundation will announce their 2009 awards. They support causes which meet their criteria of responsibility to the community, financially responsible, and organizationally well managed.

The awards will be announced at a luncheon at 11:00 am followed by a press conference at Lambeau Field. Might be something people want to tune in to at www.Packers.com or see if the Green Bay Fox affiliate WLUK will do live coverage. http://www.fox11online.com/

After telling Aaron and Patrick they could grow up to be whatever they want, they asked me: "Why didn't you be a Packer dad?" Left me speachless. Aaron was a little more than irritated that I didn't be a Packer. Patrick was more forgiving. Naturally.

Blessings From Aaron's Friends

2009-02-23T21:51:00.002-06:00

Summer days of 2005 were painful with the sounds of graduation parties in the neighborhood and brutal seeing Aaron's friends going off to school. God those days were torture to my mind and body. My brain would scream to me about the insanity. How could my son be dead? And the tears--oh my there were floods of tears.

The kids went off to school and I know they were there; I've seen Facebook. Well, actually there are no pictures of classes but they were somewhere and their college experience photos look alot like college kid pictures. I've seen some of these friends of Aaron's--they're young adults now. Hardly resemble the little kids and carefree high school students we remember. They're all just a pleasant as ever.

When I hear from any of the friends of Aaron I consider the message they share to be a blessing. Around Christmas I heard from one guy that he had a dream of Aaron. The message Aaron had for him and their friends was "Be Free--Live Free". Aaron is free. I know that. I've heard from messengers who let me know what Aaron needs me to know.

Today an email came from another friend of Aaron. She wrote, and I cherish this message:

Mr. Meyer, I went to school with Aaron and was friends with him while he attended DeForest Middle and High Schools. I believe that Aaron had the best happy go lucky attitude towards everyone and everything. He was always cheery and very easy going. I enjoyed getting to know him as a person and was pleased to have him has a classmate. I remember hearing about the Aaron House a while ago and I came across your website tonight. I think that this whole project is awesome!! It is very needed in the area and across the country!

I can say I remember Aaron was easy going and happy and it sounds like parental pride. For a person who was friends with Aaron to tell me what their impression of Aaron is, I know it's true. Softened in the pain of grief are the rough edges of our existence. However, I know the rough spots. I don't hear enough about the softe side of Aaron and if he was 3D there were two and a three quarters sides of softness to that little edgyness he kept for protection.

My little apartment in Madison is called Walden. Like Thoreau's Walden Pond cabin, this is a place of few luxuries. I like it this way. Dogs and friends are welcome for visits. This is a place of serenity. A place to read and write. There is no dishwasher--except me. No cable. I can vacuum, clean the bathroom, take out the trash, do the dishes, and mop the floor in 10 minutes. If Doc's here add 5 minutes for him dumping the trash and generally getting in the way of every where I go.

Aaron, Patrick, and I share a fondness for ideas well written. Aaron kept a log of quotes he heard. It's on a small yellow pad in his bedroom still. I read a quote he and Patrick would like. It's a Latin verse and the latin I did not remember, but the english translation I kept. Emerson used the quote in his discourse on Compensation. Here it is: "Things don't stay mismanaged long." They sure don't.

Life at Walden is peaceful. I have gratitude for the messages I receive from Aaron's friends--they remind me that he lived so I can for a moment forget that he died.

Thank you Chris and Tessa.
Tom

1988 - 2009

2009-02-21T11:44:00.002-06:00

Cathy called to tell me an MBA friend of Aaron's died this week. Frank McGill She remembers this young man very well. He was one of the first Cathy met, possibly five years ago today, when she made her first visit to MBA to see Aaron. Probably a little further down the road than Aaron at the time, Frank was outgoing, friendly, and eager to talk. I'm sure his eyes were bright--that's the fondest memory I have of my visits to MBA--kids who's eyes would have been dark and full of fear at home were now bright and full of life and hope.

I have no idea what happened. I wonder what last Saturday was like for the McGill family? The last day of life as they knew it, Valentines Day...hmm. My head hung low in the first days. As I thought about this family and their grief my head drooped again. The neck muscles must be the first to surrender to sadness.

The ruins in the family when a young adult child dies is probably not the same in two families. But I doubt it's significantly different in emotional turmoil. A brave face and an attitude of gratitude for what was had buys a person time and enables one to leave the house for small moments. Ignore the grief when it calls and pay the price for ignorance. Emerson wrote in Compensation The gain is aparent;the tax is certain. A latin phrase he quotes says it well too: Res nolunt diu male administrari. Things refuse to be mismanaged long.

What are we mismanaging that so many young adults with compassionate souls die? What's the cause? I know the effect. 1988-2009 is not a lifetime, it's merely a start.

I'll Lose it Anyway

2009-02-08T22:49:00.003-06:00

My health and well being is dependent on a daily reprieve. Anything I place ahead of health and well being doesn't matter because I'll lose it anyway. I heard that insight on this trip to the south and the message is worth contemplating.

I see the clock has struck midnight on the fortys for me--eastern time, but wait I'm a central time baby--I've an hour remaining.

There was a time when everything was ahead of my health. There was also a time when nothing mattered. The days of nothing are more meaningful to me than the days of everything. The days filled with so much of everything impress me as nothing of significance while the days of nothing inspire me to embrace, but not hold-on to life.

From the days when I wanted nothing, I received everything that matters. Recently I have been wanting. My journey has placed me in the presence of wise people who have raised my awareness. I have heard what I needed to hear. My teachers have given me the assessments of my spiritual condition. It is up to me to do the work.
I know where to begin.

Letting Them Go

2009-02-07T20:02:00.004-06:00

Letting them go is hard when they fit so easily in my arms.
One to heaven and one to life.
Letting go.