The Wanderer's Final Walk

The Wanderer’s Final Walk
My twin brother of a different mother is gone. 3 weeks after his diagnosis of inoperable lung cancer, Wes the Wanderer took the journey. The Ol’ Abbot is a selfish sort, so I miss him terribly. Fast, man, way too fast, although he’d been in poor health for a few years. It came as no huge surprise that his time was gone, but as my pal Jim says “You can be completely prepared, but you can never be completely ready.” Yeah, it’s just like you, bro: now that you can breathe all you want, you don’t have to anymore.

Wes chose hospice rather than chemical assault. His doctor was frank & compassionate enough to tell him it might prolong his life a few months, but he would be sick all the time. Although I wanted him around longer (see “selfish” above), I respect his decision. Hospice was wonderful, providing all the physical comfort they could manage. In the end he passed in his mother’s house w/Ma & his sister by his side.
Earlier in the week, the Father gifted us with a great blessing. Wes was well enough to sit up for a meal w/family & friend, after which his sister spotted his beloved wild raccoon Lucy in the yard, w/5 babies! Wes actually found the strength to walk out into the yard, sit cross-legged on the ground & call her. The Raccoon Platoon ambled on over to visit with him for the final time. Two days later he crossed over. Now he can REALLY call “Luuuuuucy, I’m Hooo-ome!”

The week prior to his departure, I lay awake about 3am, as I often do. Into my consciousness sprang a song, as they often do. A few hours later my darlin’ wife found me scribbling furiously to capture the lyrics before they faded. A few days stewing over one line & I had it. “Problem is,” I told her, “I can only sing this after he’s gone.” God gave me my cue shortly thereafter. I have promised it to Mother Ruth: since I have not yet delivered it, I will not post it until she has it in hand & heart.
We had a wonderfully informal wake at his sister’s & her partner’s home. Friends known & unknown came & went. Dear friends we introduced to Wes & Co. a few years ago at our annual Boar’s Head Feastival spent the day as we loved each other & his memory.
Last weekend we visited to help Mom go thru his stuff. Wonderful memories & fellowship, mixed with melancholy (see “selfish” above). His passing is a burden, but his care is a burden lifted. (Insert comforting clichés here). We all now have keepsakes with which to honor our brother. His last words to me were “I love you, bro!” I don’t have last words for him, as I speak to him every day.

"Unkis kiksuye utikawa wacignuni mitiblo ki oiha ke wanil" - We remember our Wandering Brother forever

MUMBLE, BUMBLE, FAST FOOD FUMBLE

To quote the infamous Pee Wee Herman, “All I wanted was a lousy samwich!”

Unfortunately for my health, I usually blaze thru an Austin fast-food joint for lunch on workdays. I’m a cheap ol’ abbot, so a sit-down meal is out of the question (unless it’s sitting in my truck.) Now, this truck is not a diesel, does not have cherry bombs or dual cannonball exhausts: runs fairly quietly, thank you. As for me, I have been speaking American English w/varying levels of fluency for over ½ of a century. Still, I seem to be increasingly unable to get my order filled properly. I have visions of Steve Martin’s Clouseau trying to order “de behrgehr!” in my voice. (Shudder).
Case in point: (or should that be dans le point?) I roll up to the Jack Inna Box, having decided to brave their Alleged Sirloin Concoction. I order a combo via the Shouting Order Taking Lady. Foolish me, I expect to get it. Off I go back to the office, where I gleefully (OOOOO, the anticipAAAAtion! ) unwrap my fancy fast food fare, only to discover that the Jack Inna Box translation of the phrase “Sirloin Steak & Cheddar Combo” happens to be “Double Bacon Cheeseburger with refrigerated fries & tea w/free Slime Mold flavoring!” Silly me. The Ol’ Abbot has not eaten pork in any form for many years. There’s 6 bucks I’ll never see again!!
It’s my own fault, I guess. About 2 months ago I visited the same spot & ordered tacos. In the words of Chief Engineer Montgomery Scott, “Ye canna’ break the laws of physics, Abbot!” Not so, Scotty, not so. These tacos astoundingly managed to be simultaneously stale but soggy, flat but lumpy. The fries were also appropriately refrigerated, & mirrored the staleness of the tacos exceptionally well. My heartfelt outcry via their website has produced nothing..
At the busy-because-of-the-overflow-from-Sandy’s Whataburger on S. 1st, the food is good; you just have to put up with the 90-decibel order takers. My wife helped me retain what’s left of my hearing by suggesting that I open the passenger-side window before I roll up so that the blast deafens folks in Westlake as opposed to just me. Sort of an audiocidal venturi effect, as it were. I heard that last week it got so bad that the water in Barton Springs Pool started flowing back upstream! I think they keep it loud so that the folks at Sandy’s know that somebody is eating next door, too. Nya-Nyaa-na-naaa-naa!!
Wendy’s works quickly, you just have to repeat yourself a few times & perform a CSI-level inspection of your drink. Funny how many times Iced Tea morphs into Hi-C. Or Sprite. Hmmm… The cashier also finds it inordinately humorous to withhold the largest bill from your change & await your reaction. Hilarious!!
At a mid-commute drive-thru coffee joint, I’ve tried a couple of scones, which were as cold as Jack Inna IceBox fries. Their cappuccino has made me ill the last 2 times. Now, I’ve never been to Seattle, but I don’t think cappuccino is supposed to be bitter. So, I try a cinnamon roll, which arrived hot, dripping an overabundance of sizzling glaze, & artfully constructed of incompletely baked dough. Paging Mr. $5 Bill: please report to the landfill at immediately!
Bill Miller’s on Ben White does a good job – Shouting Order Taking Lady has a lunch shift there, but she listens & gets it right. Riverside Sonic is efficient, friendly, & Slime-Mold-free. Arby’s on Wm. Cannon belts it out w/the best of them. (“Them” being hearing-impaired opera bellowers.)

Cartwright’s BBQ & Chicken Express in Bastrop are balms to my shattered Suppertime Psyche. I roll up, they say, in mellifluous, soothing tones, “Insert name of restaurant here”, order when you’re ready!” Aaaahhhhhh… I can take a bit o’ time & focus my failing peepers on their menu, make a quick executive decision, & proceed to procure my proper comestibles. That’s the way it is done in Abbot’s World!
I guess this is the Father’s way of telling me “Heeeeey Abbooooooooot! Brown bag it. “ If only there was room in our office fridge…

Well, toss me in the lions' den & call me Daniel!

Well, toss me in the lions' den & call me Daniel!
They say change is good - I say folding money is better! 2006 is shaping up as "The Year Of Changing Everything". Not only have we sold the Ol' Homestead, but I am about to take on a new job assignment after 5+ years. Same employer, different division. As I enter a 2-week transitional period, I am faced with a classic "Here Come Da Poo!" moment, when I ask myself whether I've made the right decision. I said to myself I said "Self," I said, "What have you gotten yourself into??"
There is no doubt that my current position will no longer support me in the fashion to which I have become accustomed. Anyone who knows The Ol' Abbot knows I'm not very fashionable, but there are limits to what I can afford not to make. I have stretched this job way beyond what it was intended to be, & now the rubber band is contracting to the New Normal. I have to move on before it stings me. The last time I was earning at the New Normal rate, I did not have a mortgage.
Also, there is the concern that I will not be successful in the new role. It is humbling to contemplate the deterioration of mental acuity attributable to age & stress. In High School many of my teachers told me not to show up for classes because nobody else would raise their hands, just waited for me to answer. "Show up next Tuesday", they'd say, "there's a test." So off I'd go to the La Coste Cafe to eat pecan pie, & my senior year I set all time records for yearbook advertising sales. I had regular Calulator Races w/my boss at HEB: he would fly across that 10-key like Jethro Bodine pickin' cotton, while I added the same columns of numbers in my head. Undefeated, that was me. Also undefeated Wonderland Mall Trivial Pursuit champion 2 years running, thank you! Those days are long gone. Still, I will give it the old never-been-to-college try, & trust the Father to provide as he always has done.
Couple that anxiety with the unhappy fact that my new digs put me squarely amidst some folks whose ethics I have oft challenged, & I start looking for fuzzy manes & sparkly fangs. I hear my Pop's old drinking buddy Hank Williams drawling "Jonah got along in the belly of a whale, Daniel in the lions' den". Maybe I should be more like Alf, chanting "Here, kitty, kitty, kitty..." while smacking my lips. I suspect that reality will lie somewhere in between. There are some wonderful follks over there by the windows: hopefully they will welcome a battle-scarred ol' abbot. Pray me luck. Anybody priced Lion Chow recently?

The Bus Towed My Volvo Home

Holy Hometown Hoo-raw! My Steelers did it – they finally got their 5th Super Bowl win! They got it with all the efficiency & reliability of my 1966 Volvo 122S with that bad clutch. I liked that car, even though I had to start it with a screwdriver. The Steelers’ screwdriver was the officiating crew. I expected them to simultaneously sprout goatees like Evil Spock used to do, so you knew which was which. These guys were as bad as the crew at the Colts game, it’s just that the bad calls went the Steelers’ way this time.
It seemed that each time that sleek Seahawk offense got started, their clutch slipped too: Hasselbeck had recurrent “Doo-dee-doo-dee-doo” moments late in each half, whiling away precious seconds with audibles. His dithering could have been a great ploy, as it made it impossible for the defense to set up their reads. Unfortunately, it also made it impossible for his offense to execute.
My Volvo had leather seats, but they were ripped & ragged. The Seahawks have Shaun Alexander, the MVP, but he looked worn & his seams were coming apart. The Bus was a non-factor, & his body is as faded & dented as my poor Volvo’s fenders. He did the right thing by retiring – too bad he didn’t get a touchdown yesterday.
It was cool to see so many SB firsts: Randal El’s TD pass, Willie Parker’s record run, etc. However, I had the feeling that the Steelers weren’t so much winning the game as not losing it. The expected standouts were standing out there not doing much at all. Joey Porter was a non-factor, & we were treated to an episode of ‘Where In The World Is Carmen Polamalu?’ Those 2 early false start penalties have become a staple of the Iron City offense. Neither team played up to potential; at least it wasn’t a One-Quarter Wonder.
Don’t even get me started on Mick Jagger…

An Open Letter To My Father

Dear Sir,
Remember me? I am your second son. Yes, it has been a long time, all my life, actually. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to write, but who among us doesn’t have a Santa sack full of regrets, right? What I most regret is the forcible lack of choice in regards to you. I have been denied the option of making my own decision to like, dislike, love, despise, or dismiss you. I cannot say definitively that “My Dad is a jerk.” “My Dad is cool.” “My Dad’s a good fisherman, but he can’t hammer a nail in straight no matter what. It’s hilarious!” Or even, “My Dad passed away last year.” All these, & so many other statements are just empty prose, just shots in the dark. The dark of a hidden past, & an unused future.
Strangely enough, while growing up I do not recall anyone ever bragging about their father. I find this quite odd now, but in our era & area, we were not permitted the luxury of affection. When leaving Mum’s house to run a short errand, I kissed my wife goodbye as I always do. After I left, Mum called my wife into the dining room to admonish her - “We do not appreciate public displays of affection.” A peck on the cheek was too demonstrative, too risqué, too…loving. What would your thoughts have been, I wonder.
You surely recall the environment in our enclave of admonition: violence, drinking & drama, constant anger with occasional sprinkles of rage. Would it have surprised you to see our grandfather chasing us with a board w/a rusted nail in the end? Would you have been horrified when he stuck a red hot poker thru Grandma’s hand? Or when she poured hot oil over my head? Twice? I wonder, would you have defended or commended?
Did you know that Grandma blamed me for your disappearance? “He took one look at you,” she’d snarl, “& said, ‘I don’t want to raise no god-damned crippled kid’” So for 50 years it’s been on my head & my heart. Several years ago, Mum told my darling wife that you showed up drunk w/another woman, & she threw you out. What we have here is a failure to authenticate. Mum refuses to discuss you with me, or with my brother. Any rebuttal, or confirmation?
Your firstborn daughter passed away at 29. Your Marine brother sent us a card every Christmas, same line each time: “Dear Marge & the kids, still alive & kicking!” Did you get the same card? In those few words lay the entirety of our connection to our paternal heritage. We were told that you had a newer family with 5 or 6 children, our half-siblings. We assume you loved them instead of us.
Do you know that my brother & I have been looking for you for years? Searching databases, public records, placing ads, praying for some tenuous lead, all negative: as far as all our digging goes, you never existed. Why have we been so singularly unsuccessful? Two years ago, as I prayed anew for success in my quest, God told me, “But I am your Father.” At that point, my focus shifted to more of a passive pursuit. However, being human, the pain is still there. Being fatherless created a huge void in our lives, & empty space may well be the heaviest burden in the universe.
I do not fault you for your choices: I just want some of my own.

The Process of Family

It may seem otherwise to those who are blessed enough to know all their relations – warts & all – but to me, family is an ever-changing, dynamic thing, more of a process than an entity. My perception of family is a lake into which souls flow, stay varying lengths of time, then flow out again. Some float atop the waves, riding the tempests & foundering in the calms, others dive deep, & most flow out the other end. Some evaporate, a few sink into the depths. And all the while, we are floating in others’ lakes, an unending overlapping sea of transitory human experience.
At the headwaters of my particular stream, (back home, we called ‘em “cricks”), I had 2 siblings, a Mother, an aunt, 2 Grandparents. & asst. drunks. I have searched for years to find my Father, & my 5-6 half-siblings, to no avail. As no trace of this purported parent has ever surfaced, and knowing that my Mum was definitely not a candidate for ’Immaculate Conception II, the Sequel’, I have to accept that I have been misled. Funny that, as Grandma was overly fond of reminding us that the County Orphan’s Home was just down the road & that yes, the “Vacancy” sign was indeed lit! Woo-hoo! One would think that she would be itching to find our lost Pater Familias to rid herself of us. Our sister crossed the pond to Egypt, where she sank. Add her 3 kids & widower to the list of the evaporated ones.
So, how do you build a family when the fish refuse to swim together? You try to become a transitional generation. My son knows the meaning of both love & affection. Other swimmers have joined our little armada, & are closer to us than are our bio-relatives. Here is another incarnation of the Process of Family. The woman I refer to as Mother I met just 10 yrs. ago. Her son – my twin-brother-of-a-different-mother swims deeper in my heart than my sibling bro. It turns out that this Familial Process is the goal, after all. Gather in friends, acquaintances, blood relatives if you must; swim together, & watch carefully for the sharks of dysfunction.