A Nest

Spring is coming.  It’s just around the corner.  As soon as I utter that old cliche’, tomorrow we’ll all probably get snowed thirty feet under.  But I am remaining hopeful about the coming spring.  The tulips and daffodils are poking their green heads out of the earth and birds are building nests.

Unfortunately the owner of this particular dwelling will have to rebuild.  I stole this bird’s nest from a tree out at “our place” for two reasons.  1) I found it fascinating and wanted to show somebody, and 2) I could reach it.

In my nearly 36 years, I’ve never studied a bird’s nest, and in my shallow storybook mind, I thought they were only made from twigs and sticks.  But just look at this.  (I only wish my photography skills would enable you to see this better, but I take pictures almost as good as I write my name in the snow, if you know what I mean.)

  This bird has a heaping helpin’ hodgepodge of nesting materials.  Including but not limited to: carpet strands, cotton from a nearby field, weed stems, grass, and sticks.

At a closer study, you’ll see:

Seeds from a cotton plant,

A long strand of something plastic,

A possible wad of toilet paper, but optimistically, a paper towel,

Perhaps pieces from a Clorox wipe,

A hair from a horse’s mane or tail,

and a dadgum lollipop stick!

Unbelievable!

To think the places this bird flew to gather her supplies is beyond my understanding.

My first reaction to this bird’s nest was amazement and fascination.  Even still, when I gaze upon on, I’m in awe.  I want to share it with everyone I know, so I took it to my classroom, naturally thinking that my student’s would feel the same way as I, holding it and examining it with a child-like wonder and disbelief.  Instead, to my utter disappointment, most of them were grossed out.  Several “eeewwww’s” went up from the crowd, others wouldn’t hold it, and the ones that did squirted their hands with hand sanitizer afterwards.  It caused me to pause and reflect, “What is this world coming to?”  that the first reaction of 8 year old’s is repulsiveness instead of curiosity.

While being married to a man who sticks his arm inside a cow’s booty,

who organizes a birthday party contest for cow-chip throwing,

who lances bovine abscesses to drain bucketfuls of puss,

I can’t fathom being grossed out by a bird’s nest.

A sweet little bird who used her resourcefulness and hard work to build a nest in which to start her family.  

Suddenly as I think of what I’ve done, thieving the home of one of God’s creatures for educational purposes, I feel like a wretch.

I’m going to put it back.  I know she won’t accept it, after being touched by so many (germ-sanitized) human hands, but I’m going to put it back anyway.

I’ll be able to sleep better at night.

Luck is a Ladybug

On Sunday we drove up to Tahlequah, Oklahoma for a sad occasion.  A traveling companion joined us.  No, it wasn’t my aunt or sister although they were both in the car. 

 

It was this little spotted ladybug.  We discovered her on the passenger window almost as soon as we left town.  My first instinct was to let her go free, but I couldn’t roll down the window and allow her to escape for fear that the wind at its magnitude would kill her.  Killing a ladybug is believed to be bad luck.  I don’t really know if the wind whipping a ladybug out of a cracked window at 70 mph is considered murder, but I wasn’t risking it.  So she stayed put and occasionally would fly from one side of my vehicle to the other.

Ladybugs are reported to be good fortune.  Almost every culture in the world believes in the luck of the ladybug. 

The legend of the ladybug from around the world:

  • In France, if a Ladybug landed on you, whatever ailment
        you had would fly away with the Ladybug.
  •  If the spots on the wings of a Ladybug are more than seven,
        it’s a sign of coming famine.  If less than seven, it means 
        you will have a good harvest.
  • In Brussels, the black spots on the back of a Ladybug indicate to the
        person holding it how many children he/she will have.
  • In some Asian cultures, it is believed that the Ladybug understands
        human language, and has been blessed by God, Himself.
  • During the Pioneer days, if a family found a Ladybug in their log cabin
        during the winter, it was considered a “Good Omen”.
  • Folklore suggests if you catch a Ladybug in your home, count the number
        of spots and that’s how many dollars you’ll soon find.

I hate to admit that I’m a tad bit superstitious.  We let this ladybug ride with us for the duration of the trip.  I figure if a ladybug brings a little luck, the longer she’s with you, the more luck you might receive. 

*********

I have a memory of being a little girl when my sister and I discovered a lot of ladybugs.  What is the proper term for a lot of ladybugs?  A gaggle, a herd, a flock? 

 My sister and I loved the ladybugs and wanted to keep them, so we ripped off their little black wings from under their polka-dotted shell so they couldn’t fly away.  We didn’t do it out of a mean spirit, just out of a desire to keep them.  We wanted to love them, and hold them, and pet them.  It’s a bit like Lenny in Of Mice and Men, who squeezed that puppy so much, he killed it out of love.

When we told my mom what we had done, she was appalled.  I’ll never forget it.  “How would you feel if someone pulled off your legs and you couldn’t go anywhere,” she guilted us.  It worked.  I feel bad about it to this day.

********

This particular ladybug  journeyed with us 6 1/2 hours to a new land.   

I hope she’s made new friends there.

And maybe she left a little luck behind for us.

 ‘Cause who couldn’t use a little luck?

Home Before Dark: A story written by my dad

 

The benches were damp that morning along the hike ‘n bike trail there in Clearwater, Texas.  Remnants of an early morning storm lingered and kept away the usual occupants of the park.  No kids, no squirrels, no homeless people.  Just me and the thin morning light kept each other company that day.

I was recovering from a small stroke if there is such a thing and was following my doctors orders to try to exercise a little bit.  Tired and worn out from the mile or so I had walked, I sat on a park bench to blow and catch my breath.  That was when I saw the old man approaching.

I watched him coming up the slight incline from the old folk’s home, he was swinging his head side to side as if expecting someone to appear out of the fog.  His face was wrinkled and was lit by a ray of sunshine that quickly peeked out and hid itself behind a cloud.  It would be a bright day as soon as the sun burned off the mist.

“Have you seen Bill?”  He asked in a quavery voice.

I guessed his age at around eighty.  He was sweatered under a heavy Carhart coat, the kind that construction workers wear.  A cap with loosened ear flaps met the old gray tattered muffler ’round his skinny neck, black buckled overshoes completed his ensemble.  A checkerboard wrapped tightly in plastic was cradled under one arm.

I told the old gentleman that I guessed I had not seen Bill.

“He’s a big fellow, kind of stooped and he wears a cap just like mine.  Sort of our trademark.”

No, I had not seen him.

The checker player started to sit down beside me and then changed his mind and kept looking up and down the bike trail. 

“Bill hasn’t been feeling good.”  The old man continued.  “He said he might go on up to Kansas to visit his son.  Wouldn’t you know, it’s a damn poor time for him to go traipsing off.”  Over on main street I could hear the honking of horns, but they were invisible to the elderly checker player and myself.

“If you see ol’ Bill, tell him his partner is lookin’ for ’em.” 
I assured him that I would, and the old man shuffled off up the gentle incline.  He was wavering a little and the pigeons scuttled off to either side of the trail.  The sun was beginning to come out now and thirty yards away the old man sat down in the sunlight with the checkerboard resting on one knee.

A young couple, obviously in love, strolled by without a second glance.  Then another pedestrian, this one a middle-aged man with an umbrella came walking by.  The elderly checker player stood and watched him approach and when he drew even, stopped him.  They held a conversation there in the middle of the trail.  The checker player lifted one hand, no doubt to show the middle-aged man his partner’s height.  After the middle-aged man started on, the old man started back to where I sat.

“You see I don’t know his whole name, ‘ol Amos knowed ’em, but he died.  Ol’ Ray mighta knowed what it was, but he’s gone too.  Yeah, they wouldof knowed how to get aholt of ’em.”  The sunlight looked small and puny through the early April foliage.

“You see Bill didn’t show up Monday or Wednesday and now he ain’t showin’ up today.  I’m ‘fraid somethings happened.”

I said he would probably show up soon, trying to put a ray of hope in the old man’s existence.

“No, I don’t think so,”  the old man said before rising to his feet and starting back towards Restful Pines nursing home.

I remember standing under the long shadow of a street light, one handing a baseball into the air, trying to decide…..was it really best to be the last one home before dark?

Bob Briggs 1943-2011

written January 27, 2001

Pruning

A few days back when the sun was shining and all was right with the world, I decided to sit my plants outside.  I only have 4, but they’ve been lighting up my world for several years now.  I placed them in the sun, gave them a big drink of water from the hose, and allowed them some fresh air.  Then I went in the house. 

Three days later, after 3 nights of freezing temperatures, I remembered them.  No longer green, they’d taken on a color of ash, and sat wilted and lifeless in the backyard.  I was so upset with myself.  One of those stupid, forgetful acts that I find myself doing more and more often.

I managed to kill them all.  But with a closer examination, I noticed a touch of green life remaining in each of them.  A shimmer of hope in the base of a  leaf.  Could they be revived?  I reached for my scissors and began cutting out all the dead with a faint hopefulness in my task.  My friend Pam (who my dad called Mrs. Demonic, not meaning anything bad, simply because it rhymed with her last name) told me it’s very scriptural to prune the dead.

John Chapter 15, verse 1:  words of Jesus:  I am the true grapevine and my Father is the gardener.  He cuts off every branch of mine that doesn’t produce fruit, and he prunes the branches that do bear fruit so they will produce even more.  You have already been pruned and purified by the message I have given you.  Remain in me, and I will remain in you.  For a branch cannot produce fruit if it is severed from the vine, and you cannot be fruitful unless you remain in me.  Yes, I am the vine; you are the branches.  Those who remain in me, and I in them, will produce much fruit.

So taking this literally,  I hope my plants survive the brutal cold they endured.  Spiritually translated, I hope the pruning of which I am presently experiencing may allow me to produce much fruit. 

Fruit of the spirit:  love, joy, peace, patience,  kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control.

And I wish the same for you.  May the pruning of today, produce fruit for tomorrow.

Ashy loves this song.  Can you believe I have it on my iPod?

Somebody help.

Ketchup is to Icecream as I am to skiing

A small van loaded with church youth kids is on a ski trip to New Mexico as I write this.  Probably sitting in the front, the smallest and youngest of the bunch, sits my sweet niece Ashy (as my dad called her).  She’s never been skiing before.  I don’t know how she’s feeling right now, but I’ve chewed my fingernails to the quick.  I took her roller skating a couple of weekends back and it’s a wonder she didn’t end up in the ER with a broken tailbone.  What the child possesses in energy, she lacks in coordination.  So please, send good vibes and prayers her way.

skiing pinup

I remember my first time skiing.  And my last.  They happen to be one and the same.  My memory of that ski experience is quite foggy, as it is with all bad memories after we’ve blocked them out, not wishing to recall such trauma and suffering.  I was 100% convinced that I would be good skier, which only added to my humiliation when it was proven I wasn’t.  I was young, in my twenties, and fit.  I’d been eating healthy foods like cottage cheese and tuna, and my cabin mates laughed at me because I packed my “diet food” for the weekend get-away.   I was prepared mentally as well.  I had read up on the internet how to “snow plow”.  I had interviewed others and they all said skiing was easy, a piece of cake, I had nothing to worry about. 

 Me and skiing went together like bean dip and a long car ride.

To begin with, the ski weekend fell on a holiday, like President’s Day or something.  I enrolled in a free ski lesson with about 200 other skiers.  With a large student/teacher ration,  I didn’t get a lot of practice or one on one attention.

Added to my lack of instruction was the whole issue of snow.  Me and snow go together like mini-skirts and cellulite.  Yes, one would imagine that I would be aware that in order to snow ski, there must be snow.  But it was snowing on me, and I was cold and miserable.  Then the sun would come out and I would get hot and sweaty.   

 After about 1 hour of waiting my turn to go down a small hill that was strictly a training mountain, my face was cold, my hands were sweaty, and my abductor muscles were screaming.

I’d like to tell you I couldn’t ski because my boots were too small, or my skis were too long, or my pants were too tight, but the fact of the matter is I just sucked.  My husband came back to find me.  Oh yes, he was there.  He had deserted me at the ski lesson and gone up the mountain with his friend.  I told him I was not having fun.  He suggested we go up the bunny slope and try it out.  Maybe having a longer distance might help. 

The bunny slope was littered with people.  We started off and I didn’t know how to steer.  I had only learned how to snowplow, and everytime I turned my feet inward to slow down, my hip muscles cried out in pain.  I was having so much difficulty, my frustration was at an all time high.  The only sensible thing left for me to do was to take off my skis and walk down the bunny slope, expletives flying.  I was glad to go and the three skiers I had taken out were too.  I was miserable and crying and I vowed I would never ski again. 

And I haven’t, nor will I. 

Ashlynn, however,  is cut from a different cloth than I.

She’s got fortitude.  And determination.

And we’re hoping strong bones.

The Funeral

This morning I opened my eyes and the world was still turning.  It still is, and more likely than not, it will continue to do so.  Everything is real.  Nothing has been a dream.  Although it seems surreal, we laid my dad to rest yesterday in a beautiful service.  A service I hope he would’ve been proud of.  My sweet husband J-Dub said even though funerals aren’t cool, that was the coolest funeral he’s ever attended.

My dad’s nephew, Kevin,  delivered the message and told stories that  reflected his life.  Although many weren’t told, or couldn’t be, I hope they are being told somewhere.  Remember stories only happen to those who can tell them.  Tell your stories.

My dad had a t-shirt  he loved to wear and wore often.  It read, “Being Bob is my Job.”   Everyday was Saturday to him, and all he had to work at was just Being Bob, and he did it like no other.  His nephew spoke about him being Bob the Parent, Bob the Patriot, and Bob the Provider, providing us with an abundance of laughter, joy and memories.   A beautiful slide show remembered his life.  Bob Seger sang, “Like A Rock” and that’s what he was.  As strong as he could be.  My brother Stan said he was a Superman, and that’s true, nothing could get to him.

The Patriot Riders, a group of veterans, honored him by lining the walkways and leading the procession of cars to the graveside.  A very long procession of cars, I might add.  His sister Jeanne said Bob would’ve enjoyed knowing he stopped all that traffic. 

His pall bearers donned Hawaiian shirts in his honor, I know he would’ve gotten a kick out of that. 

The Marines played Taps and presented the flag.  It was a proud moment.

At the conclusion a white dove was released. 

It lifted itself to the heavens, I watched it as long as I could, and then it was gone.  Just like him.

His friends have made a facebook page in his remembrance, and it is a comfort to read the stories and see the love people had for him.  One friend wrote it perfectly, “It is clear that Bob was well-loved, and has loved well.”  How true, how true.

The tears that pour down my cheeks and fall on this keyboard aren’t tears for my dad.  Why cry for him? His struggles are over.  My tears are selfish tears.  Tears of hurt.  Tears of loneliness and sorrow.  Tears of missed opportunities and dashed plans.  I am grateful to have had nearly 36 years with this man. 

This man who held me, laughed with me, encouraged me, danced with me, who never judged me, never spanked me, who gave me horsey rides and sloppy kisses and insisted I was rubbing them in instead of rubbing them off, who prayed for me, who believed in me, who taught me the important things without knowing it, who loved me bigger than Hog Eyes and Sauerkraut, Alabama.  (I’ll have to tell you the meaning of that someday). 

I know I’ll see him soon, but I can’t see him today.  I’ll have to wait and press onward.  He would want me to.

The prayers of friends and loved ones have reached the ears of God, and He has carried me and my family past this hurdle.  But as I gaze down the road I’m traveling today, all I see is a path of hurdles ahead.  tomorrow, next week, next month, next year.  Today.  Right now.  We still need your prayers, please.

When hanging up the phone or in emails to him, he would tell us, “Love you back.”  I hope he knew how deep my love was for him, and still is. 

Love you back, dad.

P.S.  The pics of the funeral are from the Patriot Riders, https://picasaweb.google.com/Proudnamvet/BobBriggsUSMCVietnamTahlequahOK3211?feat=directlink#5579597761663225378

In Memory of My Dad #3

Hello friends,

Here’s a second story from my dad.  This was dated January 27, 1996.  It is called Marking One’s Progress Through the Ages on the Doorjamb of Life.  He had celebrated a birthday 11 days prior.

As I write this I reflect back to the 16th of January.  That was the day that I turned 53 years old. 

For lunch I had a fine piece of catfish, cornbread and fried potatoes, and a mess of turnip greens.  A slice of key lime pie completed the repast, what more could one ask for his birthday meal?

Remember how you loved birthdays as a child?  The presents and the birthday cake.  The thrill of having one day that belonged to you alone.  All this helped to make a wonderful anniversary.

Perhaps the most thrilling was the fact that you were a whole year older.  You had the inch to prove it too.  You stood there proudly, at attention, while your mother marked your progress on the door jamb.  You were inching up on your older sister every year.

Ice cream was the “piece de resistance”.  It was made from real hen eggs and cow’s cream.  They don’t make ice cream like that anymore.  It sat there in a big wooden freezer packed with ice and salt.  A huge layer cake waited there in the background, the multi-colored candles just waiting to be lit and blown out therefore making your wish a cinch on coming true.

But what happens to that pride in growth as we add 40, 50, or even sixty years?  We still lap up the kudos and cards from our friends and relatives, but we make as little fuss as possible over the number of years.

Birthdays are really very traumatic experiences.  Today’s accent is on the young.  Looking, acting and dressing the part make more than a few of us older than our years.  After a fine bite of catfish and cornbread I can almost pull it off too.  So instead of trying to submerge the past, there are those of us that try to preserve and respect it.

It is said that the most catastrophic birthday that we have is the one on the day we are born.  Up until now no one has recorded the innermost workings of a newborn babe’s mind, and that is something that will have to wait a few years before being documented.  They also say that the 40th is the big bombshell for women.  I wouldn’t know about that, but even now on my 53rd, I’m not yet ready to throw in the towel.

So today I feel good about turning 53—despite the sad state the world we are living.  Each new birthday becomes an achievement for me. 

I wonder if our lack of pride for middle-aged birthdays is because we have forgotten that we are still growing.  As each new season passes we have a new set of memories that make us more tolerant and sympathetic toward our fellow-man, and surely we should be for adding another inch of spiritual growth, it is the most important of all.

On my most recent birthday I’ve had a year’s worth of memories, ordinary, yet beautiful to me.  I’ve also had unhappiness, but part of my growing process is learning that no one can grow without his own fair share of unpleasantness.  The lessons I have learned go a long way toward that old saying, “when the going gets tough, the tough get going.” 

Each birthday adds to my ability not to worry about mistakes that I might have made during the past year.  next year I’ll try to remedy them, and if they can’t be fixed, so what?  I won’t dwell on them. 

The only birthday that I won’t be proud of, is the one where I back up to that spiritual door jamb and find that I haven’t grown an inch. 

In Memory of My Dad #2

My family and I are in the midst of burying my dad.  It’s hard.  But tonight we sat around my grannie’s kitchen table and told our stories.  And we laughed.  And laughed.  And laughed.  It’s good medicine.  It’s what my dad would’ve wanted. 

My dad was a writer.  He spent some time writing sports and commentary for the Tahlequah Times Journal.  While we were rummaging through 2 drawers of my dad’s belongings searching for a compass to lead us towards his final wishes, we discovered a couple old newspapers.  Inside were stories from my dad. 

This one is dated December 9, 1995. 

The thin morning sunlight cuts through the nearly bare trees warming my body as it shows up at work as it has for countless number os years.  I can hear the dried leaves skitter by as I sit here and try to draw strength for my upcoming trip to Texas for the holidays. 

Some people pray or actually go to church before going on an extended trip.  Others break out their good luck charms or their religious medals (such as St. Christopher, the patron Saint of travelers)–and that ain’t a bad idea, seeing as there’s an outside chance that God is a Catholic.

I meditate.  I sit quietly, as it were, commune with nature.  After an hour of this my whole state of mind rearranges itself into a more harmonious state, and I’m comfortable with myself once more. 

I don’t know how this miracle happens.  But in sitting here alone, the pathway ahead becomes more clear, my cares become lighter and that elusive feeling of happiness is not so hard to attain. 

“Quiet sitting”, as I call it, begins early in life.  All children have a need to sit quietly and reflect on the happenings of the day.  Every one of us can remember such a spot:  an attic or cellar, a fence row or the spreading branches of a mimosa tree (just right for sitting).

My own personal quiet place was a huge blackjack oak tree.  I could sit there in that fork near the top and watch the eagles and red-tailed hawks soaring on the uplifting thermals many hundreds of feet above me as the wisps of cloud tendrils weaved themselves in and out of the tree branches.  On a clear day you could see forever from my tree.

These  were our private retreats where oldsters were never welcome.  An escape hatch where we could lick our wounds, real or imagined, after a solid bout of sparring in the real world.  In those early years we didn’t know grown-ups needed their own little corner of the world, a place to sit down and go through their own little confusions and sort out their own problems that sometimes seemed insurmountable.

I have a rough-hewn bench since the climbing days of my youth.  I call it mine although I am not the deeded owner.  It sits between two giant sycamore trees  This hard psychiatric bench is just right for sitting, and the sun nearly always finds it.

In the month of February it is a warm spot in a cold world.  I can see the first green shoots as they nose their way sunward during these days when winter holds the world hostage in its icy grip. 

My bench sits near a busy back country road, but I seem to be in a wilderness where time waits on you rather than the pressure cooker that we call the world today.  April builds a new world here, the sun lingers and early spring flowers push their heads above ground for their first peek at this brave new world they are about to become part of.

On a July when there are no floaters out, the bench is a quiet place, shaded and silent.  It’s not much, but you can live quiet there.  If I am really quiet, perhaps a few birds will come along and serenade me with their warblings.  Perhaps old man squirrel will whisk by and stop for a while questioning my sitting–so still.

I have sat on this bench in the fall when the rich autumn colors are reflected in the waters that babble below my bench.  And now there is a melancholy note to my bench sitting as I try to store up enough peace to last me the entire winter. 

In this hurried pace that we call modern living, I highly recommend that you find you a quiet place to just sit.  It’s therapy and inexpensive and even the busiest person can steal away for an hour or so.  Try it and you will enjoy a little of the miracle.

Till you’re better paid.

Reblog: In Memory of my dad #1

Today, I’m remembering my dad. I hope that’s alright with you.
It’s been 2 years, probably about this time exactly, that he died.
I miss him. A lot. Some days it hurts, and other days are just days like every other one  that has come before.
There’s a lot of good in this world, we shouldn’t dwell in sadness, so on a sad day,  I’m reposting this blog from a couple of years ago. It makes me smile. Hope you do too.

This is a repost.  It’s about my dad.  It’s bits and pieces from his emails, all compiled into one.

Ignore the punctuation and spelling, because he does too.

Even though you may not have known him, he was good at his job, so listen to him.

About Exercise:

“i’m really enjoying it, although i’m sooo tired by the end of the week. hope i can stay focused and motivated. i kno i’m never going to be small again, but, who wants to be a little old man, then everyone in town would be beating me up.”

On Learning How to Use Email/computer

“hey ang, got your email earlier and just found out how to get back to you.  how ya’all doin’. can’t find the question mark.”

On grandchildren:

“i’m getting awful anxious for little hannah to make her appearance soon, aren’t you?  That little ashlynn is such a little apple dumplin’ aint she?  this grandpaing is getting to be quite a kick.  think i’ll just live forever.”

On pictures he doesn’t want posted on facebook:

“my gosh, angel, lets get rid of that pic of me and you sitting outside your house. it looks like i forgot to p-ut my teeth in or sompin.”

When my brother lost his artificial leg floating on a raft in the Illinois river:

“i’m so sorry that stan lost his leg. at least he has another one
at home,”

On gangsta talk:

“hey ang, what up, homes?”

On poker

“hey girls, i played in a million dollar freeroll tournament yesterday, and
only made one bad play, and it cost me. i was about 2, 800 in chips and we
were down to about 1100 players. i was dealt pocket nines, and bet out for
about 800 bucks. the guy smooth called, and i put him on A-big, or a pretty
good hand like that. over the next two cards we got all our money in the
middle, i turned over the nines and he had aces in the hole. i say i made a
bad play because i led out bettin on the turn and river. i let him trap me,
i should have been checkin on the 4th card, and if he bet big, i could lay
the nines down. but, i wassn’t thinkin. i find a lot of people doin this in
a game with over 5,000 people in it. also people playin, 9-2 off suit, or
5-3 suited and suckin outon people. people that really have no idea what
they’re doin.”

I actually have no idea what you’re talking about, dad.  I take it you didn’t win me an inheritance?

On pets:

“so, you have a new dog…well, y’all be good to him and make sure he earns his keep. it sounds like he has more training then i could ever give him if he knows what “whoa” means. our stupid dog thought it meant “go at a high speed away from here” because that’s what he did when the gate was opened. i still miss him tho.”

On coming for a visit:

“I’m just going to drive all the way out to gray county, then i may get a room if i am
so tired i can’t continue. Once my truck gets a whiff of Pampa, it’s awful
hard to shut down, so i’ll be coming in at a high lope. Hope that your old
General Moters product don’t shake its self to death on that one stretch of
hi-way. Angel if you can put me up (with out me having to do anything)(and
for free) lemmee know, ok?…………………..love you’ns, ”

On Whining:

“i’m so lonely. noone ever emails me. i wonder what my kids are doing. probably eating icecream.
 
no body ever comes to see me. the neighbors won’t speak to me. my dog ran away. woe is me.”
On Advice:
“my best advice i can give is this: DON’T GET FAT.PERIOD.”
On Falling:
              “the thing is you’ve got to know how to fall.  Forwards, not backwards, and preferably into something soft, like a fat lady at       Walmart.”
On Love:
“remember i love you both. so love me back…..dad”
I love you back, forever.

love, love, love, love, love

This won’t be eloquent.  I don’t have the energy to make it sound pretty. 

My dad is gone, and my heart is broken.  A million shards. 

People say cherish the memories.  And I do, and I will.  But what about our plans? 

You may think I’m stupid, but I wanted him to see my chickens.  They’re coming in 2 weeks you know.  I wanted him to read my blog everyday and leave me snarky comments about how it has no plot.  I wanted him to enjoy my new place with me.  Even if it is a trailer house.  I wanted him to dribble his coffee on my carpet as he staggers down the hallway with his unsteady gait.

I had so much more to share with him. 

I will write about my dad today, and I will write about him tomorrow, and the day after that.  I may write about him for the next 19 years. 

So please be patient.

 Bob Briggs

January 16, 1943-February 26, 2011.

I love you, Dad.