This Guy...

...I love this guy. Today is his birthday; he would have been 63.



The above picture is from 1976, when he was almost the age I am today. It's so sweet to think we were, at one time, the same age. I know how silly that sounds... but it's been my experience that losing a parent makes the parent more of a person and less of an authority/guardian figure in my mind. When I look at old pictures of him, I don't see the dad who worked his ass off to give us a good life or the dad who was so strict about curfew.

I see a guy, you know, just a young guy who has the exact same chin as me. The steadfast, meticulous Virgo whose interests then were so similar to mine now. Little things like that, things like noticing how similar our jawlines are, were not something I ever took notice of when he was alive. Or if I did notice, it didn't affect me. In this photo, I am amazed to the point of obsessing over how we have the exact same ears. Photos of lost loved ones not only make them more human to me, but also make me more human to myself.

Happy 63rd, Dadders. I love you.

Note: I wrote these words a couple years ago. I felt the need to post them again, as my sentiments have not only not changed, but have grown even stronger.

Happy Birthday, Tim!

Dang, I was lucky to grow up with such an awesome brother. I'm so proud of you and all you do.

Thoughts on Tim Russert's Passing

It's a rare occurrence that I write about my family in a public setting. Tonight, I feel compelled to write about my father as I watch coverage surrounding Tim Russert's unexpected passing earlier today.

I'll get to dad in a moment.

Tim Russert was a great journalist. Political, broadcast or otherwise, he was a class act in what has become a sea of sensationalism and sleaze in broadcast media. Watch any network news channel and you'll be bombarded with pundits posing as journalists who will say anything to get viewers riled up. Why? To increase numbers, amass a fan base, get a book deal, make lots of money... check those ethics at the door. Tim Russert brought a sense of legitimacy and dignity to an otherwise shallow news media; a gentleman in the Don-Henley-Dirty-Laundry industry.

Meet the Press is a program that I have very much enjoyed for some time now. I'm not a religious person, but I do have a little Sunday morning "church service" I draw a lot of peace and inspiration from, and that is watching CBS News Sunday Morning. And, every time Sunday Morning would end, I would flip over to Meet the Press. This Sunday morning ritual has been a part of me for some time. It was a wonderful way to start my own special Sabbath, several hours of televised arts and culture followed by political discussion, all delivered by pleasant personalities. By mid-day, I'd feel that my creative, spiritual and intellectual selves had been re-charged. Sunday morning is going to feel strange this week.

Watching his colleagues speak of him is very touching. It takes me back to the days following the death of my father, reminded of the wonderful things that people would say to us about him. The theme was solid: My dad was remembered as a good man, an honest man, a man dedicated to his faith, his family and his country. A man who, as a high school art teacher, touched lives. At dad's funeral, students from many years back came out to pay their respects. He was only one year away from retiring from the profession he loved and was so skilled at.

Those memories, despite the pain surrounding the event, are heart-warming. Other memories that stem from this coverage are more difficult to re-visit.

Tim Russert passed away the same way my dad did, suddenly... unexpectedly. My dad was 56. It was four days after the 9/11 attacks. Dad kept himself in good health. He was not a drinker, not a smoker, kept himself in check. While watching commentary this evening, it was reported that Tim Russert had a stress test in late April and passed with flying colors. I felt a pang in my own heart as I remembered that being the exact same scenario with my dad. He, too, had a clean bill of health at the last checkup he had... about a month before he died.

Collapsed and died. I've heard that before.

But there's one phrase that I keep hearing that hits me the hardest, and I really need to change the channel to VH-1 or something lame and non-challenging. That phrase is: He could not be revived.

He could not be revived.

I've heard those words. I heard them in a hospital emergency room on a sunny Saturday morning in September, a day that we as a family were planning to spend together helping one of my brothers move.

That is one of the single worst statements a person can hear, I can assure you. And it's something you never forget. Technical, matter-of-fact, yet so loaded with emotion.

I know the pain Tim Russert's family is feeling, as well as anyone who has lost someone they've loved deeply. Whether the inevitable loss lingered or was sudden, the rug is yanked out from under you and all you can do is love them, honor their memory and carry on.

This time of year is always very difficult for me due to all the father's day advertising and so forth. But while the difficulty of the loss varies in intensity depending on the time of year, not a day goes by when I don't think of him and hope that I am making him proud.

If you're still reading this, I want to say one last thing. Love your parents. Love your children. Love your siblings, your grandparents, your significant others, your friends, your pets... be kind to the people you interact with be they stranger or friend. This life is a frenzied one and its easy to lose track of people we care about. But this life is also short, and can end at any moment.

And that's all I have to say about all of this. Thank you for reading.

It's a Boy!

For the second time, I am an auntie. Check out my sweet little nephew, Timothy Beckham:



Born January 16, 2008
1:31 a.m. (Capricorn sun/Taurus moon... earthy!)
19 inches long
6 lbs 01 oz
Healthy.

Testing the Limits of the Human Heart

Because I am pretty much just like every other unmarried, childless, corporate-whoring, consumer-driven, 30something American humanoid, I can get pretty self-centered. My problems become huge to me because, well, they're mine. I only have to worry about me, so everything becomes about me. I care for and love my family and my friends with all my heart, but nobody depends on me. Nobody needs me to nurture and provide for them. So, my world view can easily become The Empire of Coletteistan if I am not careful.

And then I read something like this article, and my heart breaks into a million pieces, and I cry for someone I've never met. And I feel so much love and empathy for this person, because I know how it feels to lose a parent. And I think of my youngest brother being about the same age as the boy in this article, hearing my mom scream for him to help her as my dad slumped to the floor with a thud in the room next door. Just like it was for my family, it was too late for this boy as well. But when I read this article, I was so amazed by his spirit and his pureness of heart... I recognized it in someone I've never seen in my life, because I've seen it in my own family members in moments of unbelievable grief.

As I read this article, the world became dramatically less about me, and more about all of us. I paused to be thankful for everything I have, and more importantly, thankful for everyone I love. I don't take that pause enough. I've been reminded to take that pause more.

Below is both the full text of and a link to the article that stopped me, so quickly, in my tracks.

Creel carries on: ACA player's light shines through while dealing with tragedy
By A. Stacy Long
October 23, 2007

The timeline gnaws at Jordan Creel, who missed his mother by about 15 minutes Wednesday night and woke up early Thursday to a screaming fire alarm and looming smoke.

There were only about 15 minutes between when Creel, tired from a day full of school, football practice and church, went to bed about 9 p.m., and when mom Karen came home from a friend's birthday party.

Creel wishes he had woke up when his mom perhaps kissed him on the forehead -- he isn't sure but is confident she did -- because of what he remembers next.

The fire alarm and smoke that hovered seemingly just above his nose rustled him from bed. He ran into the living room to find a wall of flame separating him from his mother's bedroom, the one from which he heard a faint cry of "help" when he called his mom's name.

There was nothing Jordan could do.

Karen Creel, the 43-year-old proud mother of three, died while huddled in the marble bathtub in her bathroom, sheltering her beloved dog in her lap, as Jordan feverishly ran to neighbors and pounded on their doors for help.

Just a few more minutes Wednesday night and Jordan would have that final memory he wishes had been perfect.

"I tried to stay up for her," Jordan said. "I remember moving her ring and bracelet to the table by the couch and waiting on her to come home, but I went to bed.

"I wish I would have woke up, if she kissed me on the head or not, but I don't remember. I just woke up at 3 to the fire alarm."

Jordan, a sophomore at Alabama Christian, was the only child of Karen's still living at home on Halcyon Downs Drive. But Jordan was there when 21-year-old brother Dale learned of his mother's death and listened as grandparents Patricia and Steve Barrow told his sister. Katelyn is a freshman at the University of Alabama.

"One thing we're so thankful for is that she went peaceful," Jordan said. "There were no burns and she died of smoke inhalation with Missy, the dog she was sure was reincarnated from her pet when she was young."

Jordan found his peace quickly.

Family and friends came to the Barrows' Deer Creek home in droves Thursday, some skittish to interrupt the mourning with their presence. Instead, Jordan was trying to stay relaxed, playing games as he thought of his mother and her new home in heaven.

"He really encouraged me," said senior Joseph Gibbons, who arrived at school to find eerily silent classrooms and halls, checked out after a few hours and went to see Jordan.

"Before I saw him, I was so down, but he encouraged me with how strong he was."

Creel was only getting started.

He pondered late Thursday whether he should play in ACA's game Friday at Daleville and told coach Gregg Baker that he wanted to play. At midday Friday, about 30 minutes before the Eagles were scheduled to leave, a lunch group was leaving the Barrow's home when someone asked Jordan what he was going to do that night. He decided to play.

ACA athletic director Denise Ainsworth, the mother of Creel's girlfriend, drove him to school. Halfway there, Creel realized he'd left his jersey in his car and the two turned around to fetch it. Ainsworth called Baker and told him to wait.

"She said, 'Don't let the bus leave,'" said Baker, who hurriedly started packing Creel's equipment while the rest of the team, unsure whether Creel was joining them, took their bus seats.

"They'd been asking me all day, 'Is he coming?'" Baker said. "We had his stuff ready, so they knew something was up."

His teammates greeted him with applause.

"Everybody was clapping and I was like, 'Why are you clapping?'" Creel said. "But it's a family out here. Almost better than the family at home."

In the pregame locker room, Creel cried while listening to Baker's speech and even gave one of his own. When the players started for the field, Baker lingered behind and cornered Creel for a one-on-one conversation.

"I said, 'I don't care how you play. I want you to enjoy the next two hours,'" Baker said. "'But I want you to play well for your mama because she's watching you right now.'"

Said Creel, "He told me, 'I love you like a son and I know you're going to have the best game of your life. What a way to give her a going-away party.'"

Creel ran for a career-high 232 yards and two touchdowns, made nine tackles and forced a fumble, and led Alabama Christian to a 24-21 upset of Daleville. His teammates lifted him on their shoulders after the final play, and the Alabama Sports Writers Association named him the state player of the week Monday.

On Friday, Creel needed so long to wade through fans and supporters that he joked there was no shampoo left when he reached the locker room. Daleville coach Sam Holland even came over to speak to the Eagles.

"I told him what he did was a tribute to who he was and what high school football is all about," Holland said Monday. "You hear so much negative about sports, but what he did is what it's all about.

"We all knew the situation and I was very touched by his players picking him up. Here I am saying all this and we lost, but it was very emotional on our sideline to see that, too."

Karen Creel was buried Saturday and their church, Landmark Church of Christ, and ACA are accepting donations for a trust fund for Jordan. On Monday, the family started the tedious business of changing the names on bank accounts and bills.

Creel also picked up a new cell phone. He's saving his mom's final message.

It came halfway through church and she told him she'd be home before too late.

"I'm at peace with it," Jordan said. "She's 10 times happier up there than we'll ever be here. She was always a fun-loving, spontaneous person, so I know she's doing something crazy up there. She's shaking her butt or something."

Link to Montgomery Advertiser article

Proof that I Spent My Early Years Wearing Leotards... Exclusively.

I am going to treat cyberspace to some old photos I found whilst putting stuff away last week.

Wake up, it's 1984

First: Halloween party pictures. My mom loved to throw parties. I always had a birthday party, but the big deal party for me was the Halloween slumber party. Mom would seriously go all out, making crafty decorations and snacks and fabulous costumes for me. She wasn't a subdued domestic goddess by any means, she was more about having fun and flexing her creative, free-spirited muscle. We didn't have much money, so she'd go out into vacant fields and pick dried thistles and spray paint them black to make spiders which got hung from the ceiling... stuff like that. She worked it.

Here we are in fourth grade, late 1983. Can you spot me? Trivia: All the pottery on the mantle was created by my dad.



And, the following year: late 1984. Hellcats start young, oh yes.



Now let's ROCKIT into 1984/85. To boost my low self-esteem, mom enrolled me in a local drill team. We were a parade-marching drill team. I remember marching to the theme song from Simon and Simon quite often. We also did holiday performances.

Anyway. The 1984 summer Olympics had gone on in Los Angeles earlier that year. Maybe it was because I was just a kid, but it seems to me they were a really big deal that go-round. I remember desperately wanting to be Mary Lou Retton, but was too tall to be a gymnast. So, I got dance lessons instead. Being that my only other aspiration was to be a Solid Gold Dancer (Darcel was my favorite), I was cool with that.

The Supreme Team was the name of my drill team and we had a standby routine that we'd do in competitions. We also had a Christmas routine, and a backup routine to Yaz's Situation. I still love that song. The standby routine was to a song called Junku by Herbie Hancock. Yes, a bunch of little white girls from suburban SLC were groovin' to Herbie. The song was used as a theme for certain events in the Olympics earlier that year, and is along the same lines of the more commonly-known Rockit (for which the video STILL gives me the creeps). But yeah, Herbie was and still is the man... it just wasn't until much later in life that I realized just HOW COOL he is after getting into Headhunters-era stuff.

But I digress. The photos below are from a Christmas show. Here is some more trivia: The mall we are performing in is the same mall my uncle was shot in last February. I'd never have imagined that 22 years later, someone I loved dearly would be shot, left for dead and paralyzed a mere few yards from where I was trying to concentrate on not screwing up in front of a crowd of Christmas shopping Salt Lakers. It's very heavy to think about how randomly and unexpectedly life can change.

Here, we are dancing to Jingle Bell Rock. I hated that song then, and I hate it to this day. But I did not let that affect my unwavering commitment to fierce jazz hands. I mean, really. Look at all those other lackadaisical, limp-wristed jazz hands. Mine were TIGHT.



And these are from the Herbie Hancock routine, complete with props (a coat hanger bent into a circle and wrapped in tinsel) and buck teeth that could put anyone else's to shame:





Man, I tell you, I lived in those costumes. Like, I would play in the front yard in them. And people would probably drive by and see the skinny, buck-toothed child spinning around on the grass in sequins and ballet slippers and just shake their heads. But I was oblivious... I had a weekly Solid Gold top 10 countdown to pretend to star in!

This glimpse into my past brought to you by an old shoebox and a mind-numbing case of procrastination. Good night.