The Secret of Life

Spring was a nice time to be a mom in the Buckhead Baseball world, and during what I now know were brief and passing years, it was a big deal for a boy to land an All Star spot. While William loved the whole team thing better than anybody and was glad to hold down his place in the outfield during the regular season, he didn't see the lofty All Star heights. It didn't matter, though; we knew almost everyone else from his league who rose to that realm, and the annual announcement always ensured intriguing parent chitchat for a couple of good weeks. 

Amongst this honored group was an amiable and busy boy called Will. We were fortunate to live on a trail that merged with that of Will and his family for the Atlanta growing up years, starting with preschool and meandering all through church and sports until the day we moved. A boy who never had the time or inclination to entertain a bad day, Will carried himself with easy confidence and a "What, me worry?" demeanor. No one appreciated having fun more than he did, and I always said Will never started mischief but he didn't mind joining in. 

And Will also happened to be a sturdy all around baseball player, bringing with him a daddy who enjoyed dabbling in coaching, a cute little brother and a perpetually stylish and vivacious mom who was a huge part of bleacher good fellowship. They were the perfect family amongst many who became friends in the stands, all courtesy of baseball. 

Will was always ready to play and eager to do his part for team success, but he also balanced it out by being a showcase of leaving it on the field. When we went into the kid-pitch leagues, he was a study in wonder. His strong arm served him well on the mound, and while other boys got flustered with bases loaded, Will could keep on pitching without a worry in the world.

One All Star season fielded an exceptionally strong team who played through the month of June with success. The team was stacked with talent, comprised of strong and intensely competitive players who took winning very seriously. In the regular season, dugout tears were scattered here and there amongst the teams, but during All-Star time they could reach critical mass. 

As June wound down, there was a big game destined to be the crown jewel of post season play and, in the end, the Buckhead team came up short. The boys were inconsolable in loss, heading to the dugout wiping away tears and pulling caps low over their faces. As he packed his equipment and got ready to move on to something else, Will surveyed the gloom and doom surrounding him in the sobbing dugout and brightly said, "Why is everybody crying? Let's go to the snack bar!" 

~~~~~

Will and the All Star boys are now 19 years old, scattered in colleges all over the place, and I still love this little story. I always remember it with a laugh and great affection for Will, his family, and for having this enduring takeaway from one moment in little league days. So many things then were big deals that really were not, and somehow I had the wrong idea about that sweet time in life being endless. 

But lately it dawned on me that this story is a nice metaphor to keep in mind when things don't go exactly the way I wish in life. Disappointments come and go with the seasons, and the temptation to wallow is always beckoning. But I look around and see the same great people who have always been there, new friends who are welcome, and lots of interesting new places joining all the old. The truth is I can be thankful for having way much more than I deserve, and so I really should be at the snack bar, right about now and always. 

The grown up version

The boys from Homa-homa

Highway 27 heading into Dayton, Tennessee is a fast-moving ride, but last Friday afternoon my eyes were drawn to a corner of the road where a big white tent was cast over the tailgate of an old pick-up truck. And in the shade it provided a few people were gathered, inspecting furry bundles in a cage. I quickly worked out in my head this enterprise was the most basic puppy adoption, and I tried to unsee this random and worrisome sight as I moved onwards to my final destination.

~~~~~

William rolled in early that evening after closing out his 2015 summer camp job. Instead of going to ATL for a last hurrah with the Laney boys, he had decided to come on home. We passed each other like the Incline Railway at the door, he coming in and I heading out, and all was well. 15 minutes later, William called to tell me that Smokey, our 12-year-old corgi, had a seizure in the front yard. This came from out of the blue, and it did not occur to me right away that ordinary Friday was the last day of life with our little dog.

And from there, Smokey’s life wound down with another seizure that carried our beloved boy away, leaving no doubt about the outcome. And even after having had prior experience saying goodbye to another fine corgi, two orange cats and a hamster--William and Annabelle’s growing up pets—it was terrible finally leaving the last one behind.

~~~~~

Smokey and Georgie were Cardigan Welsh Corgis who had each flown on Delta jets right into our family from an Oklahoma breeder. (The children always thought the dogs came from a mysterious place called Homa-homa, and I never told them differently). Georgie arrived in 1999 to save three-year-old William from his big fear of dogs (it worked), and Smokey was a gift of companionship for Georgie. It was love at first sight for Smokey; even though we claimed he belonged to us, in the decade they were together he was always resolutely Georgie’s boy. Along the way, the corgis got divided along party lines with Georgie being Annabelle’s official dog, and Smokey was William’s.

Across the years, Smokey had a knack for tricking the Grim Reaper. When he was very little, he ate a rock and had surgery to remove it. Within days of returning home, he marched right back out into the yard and found another rock. The second surgery was bigger, and the vet thought Smokey was going to die. At her recommendation for a last-ditch effort to save him, we brought a lifeless corgi home and placed him on the sofa. With strict instructions to encourage and not let on that we thought he was going to d-i-e, it was all baby talk and rainbows for the sick little guy. And it all worked out fine because that was 11 years ago. 

Smokey and Georgie once collaborated on a daring jailbreak, digging out under the backyard fence, together crossing the busy thoroughfares of Howell Mill and Northside Drive to reach the ever-exciting West Paces Ferry Road several miles away. A morning commuter found them in the street inspecting a squirrel and kindly delivered them to the closest vet office, which also happened to be ours. An Invisible Fence soon usurped any dreams they had about traveling again. 

Smokey and Georgie grew up right along with William and Annabelle, pretty much seeing them through preschool, elementary, middle and high school. Our dogs did the same wonderful things everyone else’s pets do, allowing us to love them and returning the favor. They were smart, good natured and entertaining little creatures, each with his own fascinating and predictable idiosyncrasies. It was also particularly exciting when we had a strong winter because corgis are really cute plowing through the snow.

In 2013, we sadly said goodbye to the great Georgie when he became paralyzed, and Smokey was never really as happy living his life without him.

In June, Smokey took up his old hobby, once again eating something and receiving the Last Rites. At 12 ½ years of age, the vet at first thought the obstruction this time was cancer and recommended Smokey should not awaken from surgery if things looked dire on the inside. William, Annabelle and I were a big mess as we said our pre-op tearful farewells to our little dog lying in a crate with IV in his leg.

Alas, this time it was only a suction cup blocking his intestines, and Smokey lived yet again. Annabelle went with me to pick up Smokey following surgery and, ever the pragmatist, on the way home remarked, “Well, you know what this means. We’ll just have to do this day all over again.” And she was exactly right.

I vowed to make Smokey’s life as splendid as possible for a senior dog whose big joy in life came from sitting at the window or on the front porch, waiting to bark at our next door neighbor coming home from work, a passing runner, or the jackpot of a dog being walked. I thought about getting Smokey a suit of clothes, but William sent me a text, “NO!!!” Smokey despised going for walks, but since all the finer dogs around do that, I borrowed a leash and he refused to move, except right back in the front door to his chair. Benevolence was all around as Annabelle even gave Smokey a bath one day. And I was back to all baby talk and rainbows with him once again. In our gift of additional time, we really did try to upgrade his life, mostly much to his chagrin.

All of it went by so quickly, the children and the dogs growing up together. I am forever thankful we had our two corgis there all along the way with William and Annabelle. I am glad for the richness, the fun and good company they brought to all our lives. I will always miss our boys--most especially the two of them together--their big ears and short legs, and maybe even the early morning barking.

I hope the people up in Dayton who found puppies beside the road last Friday afternoon will have the wonderful lives with their new family members that we did with Smokey and Georgie, the boys from Homa-homa.

Snoozing in The Promised Land

He was a good boy

Old home week

It was sunny and perfect on the first Saturday of May when my hiking path at Lula Lake crossed that of two elderly ladies enjoying their first visit there since way back in 1957. As I was looking at the picturesque waterfall from above, they stopped to cheerfully suggest the new rock trail descending to its base offered a much better view. Looking refined in Miss Jane Hathaway bird-watching chic with hiking sticks, the ladies reported the trail was a piece of cake for them, worth the effort for what one could see at the bottom. I confidently headed in that direction, and ten minutes past thanking them, I fell hard on those rocks and ended up with a shattered iphone and hematoma destined to last forever as souvenirs. But through broken glass I could see a missed call from a 17-years-long-lost flying friend. It was a good news-bad news-good news kind of beautiful day.

~~~~~

In another lifetime, I was a flight attendant on Delta jets to Dublin most every week, traveling with a varying arrangement of mainly the same bunch of crew members. We dropped into Shannon coming and going, every time with the same great feeling about landing in Ireland and also anticipation about which SNN Delta family member would open the jet door. Everyone pretty much knew the basics of everyone else’s life and, for the most part, it all worked out really well. The world was a bigger place without social media and, no matter where you went, going to work always meant getting scoop.

Before 9/11, stargazing and cockpit chit chat worked well in the wee hours on the way over with passengers sleeping, and the pilots were always interesting. There was the Irish-American captain who gave Delta guests their every penny’s worth with a rambling travelogue/monologue every single step of the way. Another provided passenger education with miniature lectures about the flight tracks used by jets flying to and from Europe (“Picture, if you will, a vast system of parallel highways high up in the sky, stretching all the way across the North Atlantic Ocean . . .”). And another boarded the jet wearing a silk scarf and leather aviator hat, always inquiring, “Are you ready for the crossing?”

The crossing eventually led to the 6^th floor of the big and bustling Burlington Hotel, home away from home for many days in the winter, and a tiny 24 hours in summer. Arrival protocol included an affectionate greeting from the hotel manager who just loved Delta flight attendants (and was always available), a greeting from one of the two charming and splendidly uniformed hotel doormen, Tommy and Charlie (a fascinating pair, said to know every good secret in all of Dublin), and upstairs the last order before sleep was a word with hard-working housekeeper Kay, she of nebulous age, forever turning those Delta rooms between crews. (Early on, senior flight attendants advised that Kay always appreciated a little Port tribute to her labor).

For the layover, Dublin was really great—history everywhere, walks with amazing scenery, and ever-congenial people. Dinner activities kicked off around 5:30, meet downstairs and hope the captain was buying. Weather could be paradise or interesting (depending on the hour), so sideways-raining days meant for good fellowship with Delta residents back in the warm and dry Burlington. While trips could serve up weather, mechanicals, delays and unusual people, flying annoyances were always easier with friends in a terrific place. And this was just how everyday living worked.

But in all the days and nights spent on the jets and in the Burlington, I never considered these good times cleverly disguised as work would someday end.

~~~~~

So it was exceptionally nice to sit on Lula Lake rocks, miles and years removed from the old lifestyle, with an invitation to the retirement festivities of one of the finest Dublin-flying pilots ever. It was like a little meteorite from the olden days had landed amongst those rocks on the trail with the beautiful view of the falls.

Time and distance make me forget what it was like to fly, to be in a uniform, to sit on the jumpseat swapping stories during the night, to be part of a crew. I forget about being tired and looking out the window of a bus, taking in the sights and sounds of a Dublin morning. I forget what it’s like to walk around a city 3,937 miles away. Mostly, I forget the flying version of me.

I went to ATL in May to see a great captain retire. I loved the water cannon salute that welcomed his arriving Dublin 777 back for the final time, the speeches, the stories, and the toasts. Flight attendants and pilots reappeared in my eyes after a long time gone. It was nice seeing them, and also good to see the flying me again. Driving back, my mind was full of people, places, sights, sounds and smells from what was just yesterday. I thought about all the SNN folks, the hotel manager, the affable doormen, receptionists, Kay the housekeeper, friends in the shops, assorted pilots and a million other flight attendants. I wondered where they are and what their lives are like now.

So there is a pattern in these return journeys to special places. I have written about going back to our beloved former home, about walking on beautiful streets where I used to be every day, about being back in spots where the kids were little, and now I write about flying. When I was living the life in all these places--sometimes exciting, sometimes mundane and often somewhere in-between--I did not appreciate the significance of being there, and how moments in time pass so quickly. Every now and then it takes a meteorite falling from the sky, inviting me to come back and see how fortunate I have been. 

And there's no cure like travel

To help you unravel 

The worries of living today.

When the poor brain is cracking

There's nothing like packing 

A suitcase and sailing away.

Take a run 'round Vienna,

Granada, Ravenna, Sienna

And then a-'round Rome

Have a high time, a low time, 

And in no time

You'll be singing "Home, Sweet Home!"

                                                   from "Anything Goes" 

                                                                                                                

This Red Envelope

Christmas cards in January are special because they arrive at a time when the mail has returned to being exceedingly dull, and a brightly colored envelope of greetings found in the midst of a monochromatic pile is always a treasure.

And so it was this past January when a large white envelope arrived from our old home in ATL that opened like a gift, presenting a smaller red envelope inside. The soft fusion of cursive and printed handwriting on it was a happy sight I had forgotten. Like magic, my long lost college friend Lisa had dropped in for a visit.

I drew the lucky card back at UT's Morrill Hall, having been in the right place at the right time knowing the right people to meet the lovely and sparkly Lisa. My roommate was friends with Lisa and her roommate--all of them sorority sisters and super smart business majors. And for even more prestige, Lisa dated Phil, a Tennessee football player who was the handsome physical antithesis of her tiny and beautiful self. Everyone in this affable group was fun and interesting--and I was fortunate enough to hang with them. 

After college, Lisa and I stayed in touch as she married her offensive lineman and ended up in Texas while I headed for Atlanta and Delta Air Lines. After I started flying, I got to visit Lisa and Phil in Houston, and I tried to catch up with them on Houston layovers, sometimes hit and sometimes miss. Eventually, two children came their way and mine; we all got really busy as life evolved to its fullest. As time went by, my world became a bit complicated, I became a backsliding correspondent and, with one big move, Lisa’s annual Christmas cards were returned to the sender out in Texas. 

However, in 2014 the Post Office somehow kindly overlooked the fact that we hadn't been at our old Atlanta address in six Christmases, and delivered it anyway. On the receiving end, Whitney, the new homeowner at our old place, had become a dear friend and did me yet another kindness and sent that red envelope up to Tennessee.  

The Christmas card was signature Lisa, with flowing kindness and humility--full of apologies and owning responsibility for losing touch. All pleasant words,“We are doing fine”, and “If you have time, I would love to hear from you”, completed by her long-familiar closing that made me smile, “Love always, Lisa”.

My hasty and happy reply owned my poor correspondent supremacy, and my Reader's Digest version of our last seven or so years was rewarded with a fast email response. The “We are doing fine” in Christmas greetings had left out Lisa's battle with a rare and aggressive cancer, but she balanced that news with confidence that God would provide a cure. 

Mostly, Lisa's message was a symphony of regret for years out of touch, mixed with warmth and a promise for a visit once she was feeling better. It was a brief note packing an understated punch, as always written making me feel I was the most interesting and beloved person she knew--even though I know most everyone with whom Lisa interacted could claim the same honor.


Shortly thereafter, we managed a good one hour catch-up phone call, in spite of talking being difficult for her. With the back story of cancer silently hanging in the air, Lisa only briefly touched on the intricacies of her sickness, preferring instead to focus more on the everyday life stuff. We marveled about how lightning fast our children had grown up, and how much we truly missed having Tom 'n' Jerry in our lives. We commiserated on the trauma of sending our oldest kids off to college this year, and went back over life and good times at UT, enjoying the same stories that never get old. 

In subsequent days, Lisa and I moved on to easier communication in texts here and there, and it seemed I was looking through the keyhole from 800-ish miles away, knowing little about how it was really going out in Texas. Lisa was so gracious, hopeful and resolute in what little information she did offer up about her illness, I deferred to her leading, and prayed for the miracle and our someday happy visit. While it was sublime being back in her orbit, the passing days had a bittersweet feel that made me sad and anxious. 

After three--almost four--weeks of knowing Lisa again, I received a one sentence email saying she had passed away. The lovely and sparkly Lisa was laid to rest on Valentine's Day, which felt like a sweetly appropriate day for one always effortlessly loving and kind. For many many reasons I hate that she is gone, and I deeply wish she was not. 

So, beyond profound sadness, my thankfulness begins at the University of Tennessee for my having been in highly beneficial circumstances to meet such a lovely forever friend. Then my gratitude rockets across time to the Howell Mill Post Office where someone messed up and sent an ordinary Christmas card over to a home where the resident always does kindnesses for me. 

I had almost four irreplaceable weeks, a wonderful gift where I saw courage and grace and felt that wonderful "Love always, Lisa" again in a subtly tremendous way. I suppose all that shouldn't have come around, but it did--through the delivery of one significant red envelope.