The Man
Just after a Pacific Northwest dawn on Friday, I was sifting through pages of documentation I had written for software I don't know, with Soledad O'Brien giving me the morning's news in the background. Then her sidekick, Bill Hemmer, came on with his solemn, well-we've-got-breaking-news tone.
A book was on the nightstand next to my hotel-room bed. When Hemmer finished his sentence, I threw the book across the room in genuine anger. The sentence was punctuated by 200 pages of Random House hardcover flying into a hotel-room wall.
I was really hoping for a happy end to the Pat Tillman story. You know, guy gives up promising NFL career to join the Army after Sept. 11. Guy refuses all interviews, gives up his $3 million contract, leaves his new bride behind in Arizona to join the Rangers.
It wasn't just that, though. Pat Tillman was no dumb jock with an uncontrolled aggressive streak. He graduated summa cum laude from Arizona State in 3 1/2 years, while ascending from walk-on to starter on the football team. He was picked in the seventh round by his hometown Cardinals, who were willing to risk a low pick on an undersized defensive back. He had worked his way up to a starting spot, and then to a $5 million free-agent offer from the defending champion St. Louis Rams in 2001. Out of loyalty to the Cardinals, he turned it down and took $3 million from his hapless hometown team.
After Sept. 11, a lot of us were pissed, and wanted to go kick some Taliban butt. Most of us got over it. Tillman didn't. His brother joined the Rangers. Out of loyalty to his brother, he did the same.
Some -- many -- of us might question his decision-making skill. We might question the fact that he didn't capitalize on his status as an NFL player to make a splashy entry into the service, only to take some low-risk duty so he could make a triumphant return to the field in a couple of years. The Army would have been fine with that. Would have been a great morale booster. The NFL, of course, would have been fine with that too, in the age of Terrell Owens and no-names like Joe Horn pulling out cell phones in the end zone.
I had to question myself about why the news of Pat Tillman's death threw me into a book-throwing rage, while the other 700-some deaths have simply made me sigh deeply and say a little prayer for their families. It's selfish, really. I wanted the Pat Tillman story to have a happy ending. And it just makes me angry at the monsters who created this situation in the first place.
Even without the happy ending, though, the Pat Tillman story sure as hell has a beginning and a middle that we can all respect.
Rest in peace, Man.
And that capital "M" is not a typo. It's there for a reason.
Monday, April 26, 2004
Sunday, April 18, 2004
High in the sky
It's about 9 a.m. Saturday. I'm typing because I'm 35,000 feet over the Florida-Georgia border at present, and I have nothing else to do. Lucinda Williams is singing to me in my headphones. A delightful little girl with glasses, probably not quite 5, sits next to me with a book of animal stickers. She's from "Crystal Springs," she tells me. Her mom patiently explains that's the name of their subdivision. "He means, What state do you live in?" Mom said to the little girl. "Pennnnnn ... sylvania!" she said, very pleased with herself for having been able to get past that first syllable. The first syllable is, after all, the hardest part.
The little girl and her family are heading to Disney World, of course. Her name is Lauren. She explains that her little brother, Dominick, "puked all over me when he was, about, I think, 10 months old." Mom gives me an apologetic look. I explain that it's OK; I have three children, and I've been puked on plenty of times myself, and I wish I was cute enough to share that detail with a total stranger without fear of somebody looking at me like I was a candidate for the loony bin.
I've spent a lot of time lately at 35,000 feet, living my life three letters at a time. Last week, it was MCO-to-ATL-to-MCI and back for my grandmother's funeral. This week, it was MCO-to-ATL-to-EWR and back, with a two-hour drive from the gawdawful Newark airport to western Connecticut to lead some software training. I spent most of Friday night trying to get to the gawdawful Newark airport, caught in a traffic jam in the Bronx. It was my first time through New York, a city which clearly is going to require more careful examination in the future.
No time for that right now, though. I'm headed back to my MCO home base, then off tomorrow morning to SEA via IAH. A week in the Pacific Northwest, living life three hours behind the rest of you. A weekend and a couple of office days, then off to DCA for a whirlwind tour of some customer sites in the Washington area.
Half the fun is getting there, of course. "What's your favorite movie?" the delightful little girl asks. "Mine's The Lion King. I've seen it a million hundred times!" Mom smiles at me and says to her, "I think he's trying to read his book right now." That's OK. I can set aside the wild, savage life of Hunter S. Thompson for a delightful little girl. In a short while, I'll be with my delightful little girls -- and delightful little boy, and incredibly delightful wife -- again, for a little while. Half the fun is getting there, but that's only half the fun.
It's about 9 a.m. Saturday. I'm typing because I'm 35,000 feet over the Florida-Georgia border at present, and I have nothing else to do. Lucinda Williams is singing to me in my headphones. A delightful little girl with glasses, probably not quite 5, sits next to me with a book of animal stickers. She's from "Crystal Springs," she tells me. Her mom patiently explains that's the name of their subdivision. "He means, What state do you live in?" Mom said to the little girl. "Pennnnnn ... sylvania!" she said, very pleased with herself for having been able to get past that first syllable. The first syllable is, after all, the hardest part.
The little girl and her family are heading to Disney World, of course. Her name is Lauren. She explains that her little brother, Dominick, "puked all over me when he was, about, I think, 10 months old." Mom gives me an apologetic look. I explain that it's OK; I have three children, and I've been puked on plenty of times myself, and I wish I was cute enough to share that detail with a total stranger without fear of somebody looking at me like I was a candidate for the loony bin.
I've spent a lot of time lately at 35,000 feet, living my life three letters at a time. Last week, it was MCO-to-ATL-to-MCI and back for my grandmother's funeral. This week, it was MCO-to-ATL-to-EWR and back, with a two-hour drive from the gawdawful Newark airport to western Connecticut to lead some software training. I spent most of Friday night trying to get to the gawdawful Newark airport, caught in a traffic jam in the Bronx. It was my first time through New York, a city which clearly is going to require more careful examination in the future.
No time for that right now, though. I'm headed back to my MCO home base, then off tomorrow morning to SEA via IAH. A week in the Pacific Northwest, living life three hours behind the rest of you. A weekend and a couple of office days, then off to DCA for a whirlwind tour of some customer sites in the Washington area.
Half the fun is getting there, of course. "What's your favorite movie?" the delightful little girl asks. "Mine's The Lion King. I've seen it a million hundred times!" Mom smiles at me and says to her, "I think he's trying to read his book right now." That's OK. I can set aside the wild, savage life of Hunter S. Thompson for a delightful little girl. In a short while, I'll be with my delightful little girls -- and delightful little boy, and incredibly delightful wife -- again, for a little while. Half the fun is getting there, but that's only half the fun.
Thursday, April 15, 2004
Grandma, 1921-2004
I have many, many cousins, products of my grandparents' eight children. Most of those cousins have been blessed with some sort of special talent. For a few of them, that talent is a beautiful singing voice.
The story goes that it was the voice of one of those cousins who sang my grandmother to sleep shortly before April 4 became April 5. As 20-year-old Rachel sang "Amazing Grace," a small smile crossed my grandmother's lips, and, while she was tapping along with the time of the song, went to be with her Lord.
My grandmother has earned her rest. She put in 82 pretty hard years on this earth. She was born to migrant-worker parents in a small town in north Texas. They weren't prosperous people even before the stock market crashed, when my grandmother was 7, and the Depression didn't help. My grandmother quit school when she was 11 to help raise her eight siblings. She got married five years later and gave birth to nine children of her own.
Her first child died very young, of some sort of childhood disease that doesn't kill people any more. Shortly thereafter, her oldest brother died in World War II. There are those who say she would have recovered from the death of her son -- childhood diseases were hard to avoid back then -- but that the death of her brother left a void that was never filled.
She went on, however -- "The sun will come up tomorrow," she often told me, "whether you want it to or not" -- and left an impression upon everybody with whom she came into contact. You often hear at funerals, "Nobody had a bad word to say about (the deceased)," but in my grandmother's case, it was true. Testament to the effect she had on members of her family: Four of her sons' ex-wives attended her funeral service. Once you were a member of Grandma's family, you were always a member.
She had a unique ability to view everybody through a totally objective prism. She didn't fail to acknowledge people's faults; she merely accepted them as a part of being human. She knew that many of the people she loved were flawed, and she accepted them just the same -- although she would deliver a scolding when she felt it was appropriate, and when she did, you knew she meant it.
She had a special love for children; it was one of the crowning moments of my life when she picked up my oldest daughter for the first time.
She had been in declining health for several years; I am reminded of this from a couple of years ago.
I wasn't particularly sad when I received the news of her death; I was more relieved that, after many scares, she had finally been allowed to move on. She leaves behind my grandfather, who is 86 and in poor health of his own. She leaves behind a bunch of people who are better people for having been a part of her family.
I wasn't there for the anecdote with which I led; that's the story as it was related to me. I was there, however, for her final trip through Springfield, Mo., the town which she called home for more than 50 years (while secretly and not-so-secretly pining for her beloved Texas).
As she got older, Grandma had a tendency to, shall we say, think out loud. She would say things that she clearly didn't intend to be heard, but because she wasn't hearing anything well -- including herself -- she wasn't aware she was saying them. One time we were sitting in her house, and a white Coupe de Ville pulled up at the house across the street. "That's going to be him sometime," she said of me, "pulling up here to see me in a white Caddy."
As she was driven through Springfield one last time -- in a white Cadillac -- traffic stopped on both sides of every major street in town as her family followed behind, in a procession more than half a mile long.
Had she been an observer of that scene, as my favorite aunt pointed out, she would have said, "That must be some high-falutin dude to stop traffic like that."
And she would have been extremely upset that all these people were making such a fuss over her -- outwardly, at least.
She would have admitted, in an unguarded moment, that it was pretty cool.
A better obit for her can be found here. I'm proud to have known her, and a better person for it. Goodbye, Grandma, and peace to you. Keep an eye on me up there.
I have many, many cousins, products of my grandparents' eight children. Most of those cousins have been blessed with some sort of special talent. For a few of them, that talent is a beautiful singing voice.
The story goes that it was the voice of one of those cousins who sang my grandmother to sleep shortly before April 4 became April 5. As 20-year-old Rachel sang "Amazing Grace," a small smile crossed my grandmother's lips, and, while she was tapping along with the time of the song, went to be with her Lord.
My grandmother has earned her rest. She put in 82 pretty hard years on this earth. She was born to migrant-worker parents in a small town in north Texas. They weren't prosperous people even before the stock market crashed, when my grandmother was 7, and the Depression didn't help. My grandmother quit school when she was 11 to help raise her eight siblings. She got married five years later and gave birth to nine children of her own.
Her first child died very young, of some sort of childhood disease that doesn't kill people any more. Shortly thereafter, her oldest brother died in World War II. There are those who say she would have recovered from the death of her son -- childhood diseases were hard to avoid back then -- but that the death of her brother left a void that was never filled.
She went on, however -- "The sun will come up tomorrow," she often told me, "whether you want it to or not" -- and left an impression upon everybody with whom she came into contact. You often hear at funerals, "Nobody had a bad word to say about (the deceased)," but in my grandmother's case, it was true. Testament to the effect she had on members of her family: Four of her sons' ex-wives attended her funeral service. Once you were a member of Grandma's family, you were always a member.
She had a unique ability to view everybody through a totally objective prism. She didn't fail to acknowledge people's faults; she merely accepted them as a part of being human. She knew that many of the people she loved were flawed, and she accepted them just the same -- although she would deliver a scolding when she felt it was appropriate, and when she did, you knew she meant it.
She had a special love for children; it was one of the crowning moments of my life when she picked up my oldest daughter for the first time.
She had been in declining health for several years; I am reminded of this from a couple of years ago.
I wasn't particularly sad when I received the news of her death; I was more relieved that, after many scares, she had finally been allowed to move on. She leaves behind my grandfather, who is 86 and in poor health of his own. She leaves behind a bunch of people who are better people for having been a part of her family.
I wasn't there for the anecdote with which I led; that's the story as it was related to me. I was there, however, for her final trip through Springfield, Mo., the town which she called home for more than 50 years (while secretly and not-so-secretly pining for her beloved Texas).
As she got older, Grandma had a tendency to, shall we say, think out loud. She would say things that she clearly didn't intend to be heard, but because she wasn't hearing anything well -- including herself -- she wasn't aware she was saying them. One time we were sitting in her house, and a white Coupe de Ville pulled up at the house across the street. "That's going to be him sometime," she said of me, "pulling up here to see me in a white Caddy."
As she was driven through Springfield one last time -- in a white Cadillac -- traffic stopped on both sides of every major street in town as her family followed behind, in a procession more than half a mile long.
Had she been an observer of that scene, as my favorite aunt pointed out, she would have said, "That must be some high-falutin dude to stop traffic like that."
And she would have been extremely upset that all these people were making such a fuss over her -- outwardly, at least.
She would have admitted, in an unguarded moment, that it was pretty cool.
A better obit for her can be found here. I'm proud to have known her, and a better person for it. Goodbye, Grandma, and peace to you. Keep an eye on me up there.