Happy 4th of July 2021, my favorite American girl.
Good.Will.
Last week I went to Goodwill to commune with you. As I stood among the old toasters and coffee makers, Tom Petty played over the speakers: You can stand me up at the gates of Hell, but I won’t back down. That was you, DJ on heaven’s jukebox sending me a song. I looked up at you and smiled.
I go to Goodwill to remember your spiritual strength. With limited funds and failing health, you used Goodwill your last years to create a killer wardrobe, even if you were living out of your Ford Escape. Your body and your spirit were a see-saw within you, one falling down and the other standing up.
My body shares your genetics. I wonder, when my body fails, will my faith deepen like yours did? Life includes suffering: No-body is exempt. Standing in Goodwill, staring at a chipped plate, hearing you whisper through a song, my spirit gets courage.
You kept running down a dream, working on a mystery, your spirit strong even as your life expired. The homeless man found you in the back of your truck. I imagine you peaceful, off Interstate 25 in Colorado, curling into your last cocoon at the foot of the Rockies. You escaped your body with the mountains in view, looking upwards toward heaven. Your body, my ever-wild flower, ran out of gas. Your spirit my sister, still sings, still shows me how to keep swinging.
Not Throwing Away My Shot
Lisa, I wish you were here to celebrate America this year. During Covid, I discovered Hamilton, half a decade after everyone else. It’s a Broadway musical and I’ve listened to the soundtrack a hundred times now. The author reimagines Alexander Hamilton’s life story as a mirror to a modern rapper, how a person, born with nothing, uses their voice to create themself, and founds our country too. You’d love it.
Hey yo I’m just like my country,
I’m young, scrappy and hungry,
and I’m not throwing away my shot
Today is our country’s 245th birthday. This year is my 20th sober birthday Lisa. You gifted me sobriety. You held my hand and guided me to sobriety and taught me to work on my side of the street, to take responsibility for my life. Comparing my life to other people’s lives is not how I live anymore. My job is to compare my own “today” to only my “yesterday” and to make small, quiet improvements.
I’m finding my voice Lisa. I focus on blessings—I see the blessings—The blessings multiply. I look for truth, beauty, goodness and love.
Seek ye first the kingdom of God and His righteousness. And all these things shall be added unto you. Alleluia.
Spring Break 2021. For Spring Break 2021, towards the end (is it the end?) of COVID, my wife Marisa and I rented a mini-van and with our two sons and two puppies, we drove to Texas. After a year of Los Angeles pandemic-living, we were ready for wide open spaces. We needed some home cooking with grandma and grandpa.
You can do that in America. You can get in a car and drive thousands of miles. You can see sunsets and sunrises. You can cross rivers. You can drive across high deserts and see snow-capped mountains on the far horizon. How many people worked how many years in the heat and cold to build those roads? I am grateful for them. Thank you.
You see families. Families on vacation, stair-stepped kids living in brand-new bodies clambering out at rest stops, awkward and excited, gangly and growing. “Last year, my body was smaller. Look at me! How big will I get?” Families are always stretching.
I am not throwing away my shot. After my parents were vaccinated, Marisa realized we could use zoom-school for the boys and have Spring Break and Easter in Texas. This was a special chance. We were not not throwing away our shot. Thank you to the scientists around the world, working together, who developed these vaccines.
Jackson is now taller than I am. During COVID our son Jackson became a teenager. His voice changed as he sprouted to six feet, even taller if you add his mop top of red hair. He starts high school this fall and he wonders about sports and what classes he will take. A year ago he was shorter and next year he’ll be taller still. Stretching.
Christian’s magic carpet ride. For most of the drive, our nine-year-old son Christian lounged on the far-back row of the mini-van, in a cocoon of luxury with pillows and snacks. He’s growing too and the road trip let me see where he is right now, his height, his manners, his personality. This trip is the only time our two boys will be exactly this way; next year they’ll be different.
Being a parent on vacation is a chance to see. Seeing my family, and other people’s families, I’m awed by the fleeting moments I witness. My kids mark time better than any calendar. Don’t blink Dylan, or you’ll miss the wonder.
Eating Across America For the boys, this road trip was one long menu. Jackson fed his growing six-foot metabolism. Christian squirreled away snacks in his kid-cave backseat. I found crumbs and wrappers everywhere when I returned the mini-van.
Flavors of Vacation. McDonald’s, DQ, Sonic–Whataburger, Braum’s, Pappasito’s–both the big national and the medium regional chains. Then the unique places, Slovacek’s and Pisa Lisa and Boomerang’s BBQ. We travel across America for flavors that only exist on vacation, memories made by smells and tastes and being with family.
Soundtrack. AM radio: country songs long-forgotten or ranchero music with accordion flare and gritos. CDs, the music of my generation: Willie Nelson, The Dixie Chicks, The Eagles. On the road again, looking for wide open Winslow, Arizona, our kicks on 66, lyrics about the land we were driving across. In English and in Spanish, we listened to songs inspired by the American West.
Puppies. And we had our puppies Lord Shax and Lady Buttercup, named by the boys. Their crate sat in the middle of the mini-van but the boys took them out a lot. Not quite a year old, our brother/sister COVID puppies made their first trip to Grandma and Grandpa’s home.
Taste the Freedom. Crossing into Texas is like entering another country. The speed limit opens up to 80 miles per hour and I set the cruise control to flow with the big rigs and trucks. I took a picture of the 80 MPH speed limit sign and texted it to my Texas A&M college buddies with the caption, Back in Texas. Taste the Freedom.
West Texas is booming. Everywhere, you see the oil and gas production and the huge windmills. More people working outside in the heat and cold, hustling out here, making energy that I get to use. More people I’ve never met who make the world function. Thank you.
News Alert: COVID is over in west Texas. Driving across Interstate 10 during a pandemic–604 miles from El Paso to Fort Worth–we gassed up twice and noticed that mask-wearing is passé in west Texas.
“Dad, how come no one is wearing masks?” Christian asked after the first pit stop.
“Well, Texas has a better vaccine,” I joked. “COVID is already over here.”
After thirteen months in California’s COVID world view, I was jarred being back Texas. And that’s again the beauty of America: Fifty different approaches, minimum.
FIRST HUGS IN OVER A YEAR
Will we wear masks? About thirty minutes from arriving in Fort Worth, I called my parents: Do you want us to wear masks? I probably should have asked earlier, but here we were. They’ve been vaccinated almost two months. Marisa and I got our second shot four days earlier. Mom and Dad said they were comfortable without masks: We’re going to see if the vaccine works. Thank you scientists, for everything you did last year.
Home again, home again, jiggety-jig. Two days and 1,423 miles away from Los Angeles we pulled into my parents’ driveway, my wife Marisa at the wheel. It was 8:20 p.m. on Friday night, three minutes faster than the GPS predicted. We unfolded ourselves, stretching and smiling, the puppies scampering and circling and sniffing, wagging wildly. The boys suddenly turned shy, but only for a moment.
First hugs in fifteen months. Grandma and grandpa, my mom and dad, greeted us. COVID-worry faded into the first hugs since Christmas of 2019. This was the longest absence in my life, the longest my boys had gone without seeing their grandparents. Misty eyes. Grateful smiles. Hugs all around. The adults are vaccinated. We trust that the kids are impervious without a vaccine. We muck forward through this pandemic-protocol like all families.
Thank you for health. At 78, my parents are healthy and vital. They are not as tall as they used to be but they are blessed with energy. Their eyes were sparkly. Their joy melted off in waves. Who was happier, us or them? We will call it a tie.
In Grandma’s kitchen. Friday night. After 15 months apart. Laughing. Eating. Being together. When I was a kid, we entered my grandma’s home by the back door, coming right into her kitchen. Her small Dallas home smelled like plaster and she would serve my brother and sister and me apple juice and Goldfish crackers. Those smells and tastes still take me back. Fifty years from now, what smells will take my boys back to this Friday night kitchen in Fort Worth, with their grandma and grandpa?
Worth every mile. Sandwiches. Soup. Ice cream. Lovingly, my mom had planned this welcome-home-nosh. This menu was worth every mile. There’s only one Grandma’s kitchen.
WIDE OPEN SPACES: FRIENDS, STARS, COYOTES
To the ranch for Grandpa and Grandson. Saturday morning, Jackson and Grandpa had their own adventure, just the two of them driving together to Grandpa’s ranch, two hours south of Fort Worth. Out in the country, it’s a rustic Texas garden we call SpunkyFlats, after the soil and the terrain. It is my father’s special place, nine miles from the nearest town, off a farm-to-market road.
Pickin’ and grinnin’ with brother Jon. I stayed behind and Saturday afternoon I got to hang out with my brother Jon and his best friend Derek. Jon’s converted his apartment into a music studio with cables and computers, guitars and gear, everywhere. His space makes me want to create. I had a front-row seat to a live performance of original songs by these two Texas song-writers. I imagined Willie or the Chicks back in the day, before they were famous, right here in Texas. I was grateful for my brother’s health and for the power of art to heal.
Christian and I have our own road trip. Sunday morning, the rest of us followed Grandpa and Jackson to the ranch. Christian and I left early in the mini-van. Heading south, I was treated to sunrise through buttermilk clouds with rays fanning out. I texted a photo to my Aggie friends with the caption God says good morning. I looked back to tell Christian to look out the window but he was asleep in his cocoon.
Puppies and ranch dogs. Lord Shax and Lady Buttercup met the two Texas ranch dogs, Smokey and Pumpkin, walk-up strays my dad has adopted. Sniffing and barking and more sniffing and more barking. Ooh ooh, who are you? Yeah whatcha gonna do?
Palm Sunday Croquet. Dear friends Premod and Iskh and their son Eli drove up from Houston for a Sunday visit. We served salad and sandwiches. Jackson and grandpa had mowed a big area for the first croquet match ever played on the ranch. Grandpa bought the croquet set for Christmas 2019, our long-ago last visit, and we had played our first match in the Fort Worth back yard. We don’t know the exact rules of croquet. Grandpa makes them up as we go. For the adults this leads to good banter. But for the kids…
Counselor Christian. But for the kids, croquet is tough. They fall farther behind, unable to advance their balls forward through the wickets as easily as the adults. Premod and Iskh’s son Eli is the same age as Christian. During the game, Eli got frustrated and threw himself on the ground.
“I know exactly what he is feeling. I have felt it a thousand times. Let me talk to him.”
Those words came not from an adult, but from Christian, remembering his own Christmas croquet challenges, fifteen months earlier. He gave Eli a consoling pep talk, his arm around his shoulder.
God’s gift to the village. Some cultures see kids as the responsibility of the whole village, not just the parents’ responsibility. Christian came to us through the miracle of adoption and he blesses the entire village. I’m clear his soul up in heaven–looking down and hearing our prayers–chose us as his family. Moments like Christian consoling Eli, where Christian’s gentle spirit shines forth, those are God-flashes. Those flashes light the way for me to keep believing in the goodness of life.
Aggies Arrive: Dads Go Wild. Later in the week, Thursday, new friends arrived. Brady, Jeff, and Joel are three of my best friends from Texas A&M. All married. All fathers. Two are veterans and all are stand-up men. At A&M, we spent four intense years together in the Corps of Cadets. Jeff and Joel rode together down from Dallas. Brady drove up from Houston after work. Another reunion blessing of this road trip.
Kolaches. Jeff and Joel brought kolaches, three heavy donut-boxes filled with both sweet and savory breakfast treats. In college, Jeff’s mom and dad always brought cookies for Aggie football weekends then treated us all to Tom’s BarBQ Sunday night; Jeff continued their tradition of bringing the good food. Fresh-baked kolaches are flavors I only taste in central Texas. Over a century ago, German and Czech immigrants came to America and some found Texas. Their old-world influence still lives if you look for it. We have kolaches and Shiner Bock beer and the Schlitterbahn in New Braunfels. My dad finds tiny AM radio stations at the end of the dial that play polka music.
Bonfire! When we were at Texas A&M in the late 1980s, the whole Corps of Cadets spent fall semester building the Fightin’ Texas Aggie Bonfire, to light it the night before the rivalry game against the t-sips over in Austin. Honoring that bonfire tradition, Dad set up a large brush pile a safe distance (we hoped!) from the farm house, next to a big cattle pond. As the sun faded in the west, we set it alight, under a very still, very clear sky.
Whoosh went the flames. No lighter fluid needed. The dry brush burning quickly lit the smaller branches and raced to old logs in the middle of the pile. Soon the flames were Texas-tall, pagan, proud and fierce. The smell of burning mesquite surrounded us as the crackles and pops filled the quiet evening air. I can’t have bonfires in Los Angeles. Smell the freedom.
S’mores and Songs. After the flames calmed from a bonfire down to a campfire, we roasted marshmallows for S’mores. The Aggies enjoyed adult beverages. We had Jeff’s portable speaker and he was the DJ all night, playing Jerry Jeff Walker and Garth Brooks and Kenny Rogers, more great country story-tellers. Which is better Mr Bojangles or The Gambler or The Dance? For variety, Jeff mixed in random YouTube comedian clips, so Dave Chappelle and Louis C.K. made a visit to the country with us too. Modern miracles. Couldn’t do any of this when I was a kid. More thanks.
The stars are big and bright. Orion looked down at us the first few hours before setting to the west. The Big Dipper was brightly dominant to the point of making the Little Dipper hard to see. Deep in the heart of Texas, the stars are alive and well.
Answer to a life-long question. Cattle ponds in central Texas are called “tanks” and I always wondered why. Christian attends bilingual elementary school here in Los Angeles, and this year helping him with his zoom-school homework I learned that “estanque” is the Spanish word for pond. “Tank” is the English-shortened-translation of “estanque” and joins ranch, rodeo, bronco, mustang and all the other cowboy-words we inherited from Spanish. We spoke Spanish in Texas for 150 years before we spoke English.
The Aggies found an echo. Feeding the fire and watching the stars march across the night sky, we Aggies discovered an echo. I’m not sure who heard it first, but from the edge of the tank, on a very still night, if you yell loudly, you are rewarded with a three-point echo in return. The land slowly slopes down to Big Creek, and there is enough of a valley that our voices traveled across and bounced back in three distinct pings.
“Hey!” comes back as “Hey…hey…hey…”
We woke up the critters. Starting about midnight, we yelled every word we thought might make a good echo. The good-son part of me worried that we would wake my dad or Jackson who were sleeping in the farm house. We didn’t wake the humans, but our echo-location-yells roused the coyotes. From the dark distance, our racket triggered two different choruses of yelping coyotes roaming Big Creek. And we woke up the cattle. We heard irritated lowing from dad’s herd and other herds beyond.
One big bullfrog. From the tank, one big bullfrog serenaded us throughout the evening. On his own schedule, he chose to harrumph-harrumph at us, independent of our yelling. I could spotlight him floating in the reeds, about six feet from the shoreline. He was a big frog, close to a foot long, and he was content to sing the night away with us.
Our final visitor. About 2:00 am, we were rewarded with our final visitor. Glowing through the still-bare trees, the moon rose and lit the night. It was only half full but still bright enough that we could see our shadows dimly.
Cowboy hotel. Due to COVID, and our farm house being small, we were going to sleep outside. In true Aggie fashion, we had not set up tents. “We’ll do it later” had been the general consensus as the Aggies arrived that day. And now, at 3:00 a.m., it was time to deal with the consequences. It was too dark and we were too tired to pitch tents. Brady is one of four brothers, a former fighter pilot, and a Texan. In three minutes, Brady transformed his truck bed into a cowboy hotel, no problem.
Frost under the stars. Jeff, Joel and I stumbled around and set up three cots with sleeping bags on the front porch. My dad added the porch a few years ago. It is 16′ x 16′ and big enough. Everyone wore as many layers as they had available. It was the end of winter, right before Easter on a star-lit night. The temperature had dropped. By the fire we had been fine, but after we doused it, the night was cold. There was frost on the sleeping bags in the morning. But that was part of the adventure.
FISHING and DRONES on GOOD FRIDAY
Have to make the coffee… Three hours of cold sleep is plenty when you are with old friends. The east sky began to lighten and the birds greeted our still sleeping bodies with their oh-so-cheerful morning calls. I crawled out of my cot and went inside the house to get the coffee brewing. People woke up casually, on vacation, and soon the warmed-up kolaches came out, adding their savory and sweet deliciousness to the country morning. More modern miracles.
Sunrise Spirit. At 7:00 a.m. I stepped away to log on to a zoom twelve-step meeting. I’ve zoomed into this meeting almost every day of COVID–it saved my sobriety and my sanity. Hosted in Fort Worth, this meeting has been my 5:00 a.m. California-time wakeup since March of 2020. I’ve only missed a few meetings all year. While my friends enjoyed kolaches, I got my spirit right for the day.
Are there fish in that tank? Spring is coming to Texas and the day warmed up. Brady asked if there were any fish in the tank. Brady grew up in Pearland, south of Houston and close to Galveston. He knows water better than any of us. He’s a master fisherman. Borrowing rods from grandpa’s closet and tackle boxes that are older than I am, Brady spent the morning pulling out bass after bass.
“Fish on!” Brady would yell as he caught another one. “Fish on!” we would echo. There’s a smile a fisherman makes when the fish are biting that you don’t see anywhere else on anyone else. Brady wore that smile all day.
Jackson’s grin. My son Jackson joined in the fishing. By the end of the day, Brady’s tally was 21 fish and Jackson had landed 11–by far the most fish Jackson had ever caught. I spent the day removing fish hooks and tossing Jackson’s bass back into the tank. Jackson’s grin was a close echo of Brady’s smile. Men are made, not born. Boys have to be taught how to be quality men, by quality men. I remember this ranch with my grandfather and my dad and my uncle. Jackson will too.
Fish relocation project. Mid-morning, Grandpa got the idea that we could move some of the bass to other tanks on the ranch. This launched a firemen-style-bass-relay. Brady and Jackson caught the fish; Grandpa put them into five gallon buckets half-filled with water; my brother Jon and I hauled the buckets by motorcycle and four-wheeler across the ranch to other tanks.
Necessary? Probably not.
Entertaining? Incredibly so.
Aggie engineering? 100%.
Will this even work? Were we moving boy fish? Girl fish? The right fish-mix to populate the other tanks? I can’t tell a male bass from a female bass, but it was so much fun that no one cared. And we were fast. We didn’t lose a fish. We got them out of the tank, into the buckets, and across the ranch to the other tanks with speed and purpose. They all wiggled away in their new homes.
Drone footage. And this being 2021, we made movies. Joel had brought his drone, a seriously capable aircraft with a high-definition camera. While Brady, Jackson, Grandpa, Dylan and Jon worked the relay-buckets and the bass, Jeff and Joel took turns flying the drone and making aerial movies of the ranch and our effort.
A new pair of glasses. I’ve gone to this ranch my whole life, for over 50 years, but I have never seen it from the vantage that the drone offers. Central Texas is rugged and rough, with fire ants and mesquite and honey locust everything wants to bite or poke or cut you. But watching the drone-images from high in the air, the ranch is beautiful. In twelve-step work, there is a common theme of seeing with new eyes, finding beauty in life that was always present but that required a spiritual awakening to witness.
Fishing with friends. At one point, Brady and I were each reeling in a bass at the same time. “Fish on!” Brady yelled. “Fish on!” Dylan yelled. Joel was flying the drone in front of us, filming. It’s great to catch a fish at the same time as one of your best friends. It’s even better to have another best friend record the dual catch. I had my fisherman-grin going too. These guys got me through college. And here we were, thirty years later, Easter weekend, still being friends, with my Dad and brother and son.
Grandpa’s Smile: 30 years in the making My dad’s mom passed in 1991, my grandma, the same grandma who served apple juice and crackers. That is when dad inherited the ranch. It’s been his special place ever since. He has meticulously cultivated it into a rough and rugged Texas oasis. Hosting his legacy, his children and grandchildren and their families and friends, my dad wore a gentle smile the whole visit. It wasn’t the giddy grin of youth, but rather the calm smile of the elders, all those who look down from heaven content that we live in the grace of the sacrifices they made, whether we realize it or not.
Best of Wives and Best of Women. This Spring Break trip only happened because my wife Marisa saw the possibility. When my parents learned they were getting vaccinated, she realized that with zoom-school for our boys we could drive to Texas. I looked forward to this Texas visit for two months. I texted the Aggies to see who was up for a country reunion. Joel and Jeff and Brady rearranged their work schedules. And here we were, full grown men with families and big responsibilities, sleeping under the stars and eating kolaches and catching bass on a perfect winter/spring day. Being married is the best. Marisa is a blessing. We are not throwing away our shot at making family memories. Thank you my love.
FAMILY CEMETERY
The Aggies couldn’t stay forever. Jeff and Joel and Brady had their three families waiting to celebrate Easter. We had stuffed as many memories as we could into 48 hours: Thursday night, Good Friday, and Saturday morning. Then it was over and they were gone, Jeff and Joel back up to Dallas, Brady down to New Braunfels.
Back to Fort Worth. And we had our family waiting too. Marisa and Christian and my mom were up in Fort Worth, planning Easter dinner for Sunday and waiting for us to return. Marisa had worked remotely all week, trying to land a new client, and she was ready to cook and celebrate Easter. She needed us to bring our appetites.
But first Sonic. I drove the mini-van with Jackson, while grandpa stayed behind to close up the ranch and then follow. Sonic was next on Jackson’s Eating Across America itinerary. We set the GPS on a Sonic in Waco off Interstate 35, very close to Baylor University. After the swirl of the Aggies’ visit, I had a chance to be with Jackson and listen to his reflections from the week at the ranch. His deeper voice still catches me off guard, “Who’s this adult in the front seat with me?”
We could visit my sister Lisa. Sitting at Sonic, waiting for our lunch, I realized we were not far from my sister Lisa. Oakwood Cemetery in Waco is the final resting place of my sister Lisa, in the family plot with our Stafford grandparents and great-grandparents. With our burgers in a bag we drove to Oakwood. My cemetery-memory was good enough to find the family plot. Two large pecan trees stand watch over my family. The pecans were still bare from winter, but majestic even so. Texas is hard on trees. When you stand under a giant, you know it is a survivor.
Hallowed be Thy name. I bowed my head, placed my hand on Jackson’s shoulder, and said the Lord’s Prayer.
“Love you sister Lisa. We miss you,” I said.
Her passing is still fresh to me. It will be five years this May since she died.
BACKYARD SOBRIETY
Back on the road. Jackson and I didn’t stay at the cemetery for long. I was ready to see Marisa and Christian; I was missing my Mom. Straight up Interstate 35 and soon we were back in Fort Worth. Christian was in good spirits, having had Mommy and Grandma all to himself all week. Grandma had spoiled him with a trip to the zoo and the library. She bought him a new Dallas Cowboy hoody. They had eaten out. Grandma and grandson had a special time together while they gave Mommy space to do her work.
Twenty years sober. Another milestone passed in COVID was my 20-year anniversary of being sober, which I celebrated on February 28, 2021. We never get to hear the eulogies at our own funeral, but in twelve-step life, on our sobriety-birthday, we come close. This year, turning 20, I heard kind words like that. In twelve-step tradition, we celebrate our sobriety birthday more than our real birthday. It is a big deal. Addiction leads to jail, institutions, or death, but a power greater than ourselves gifted us.
A second chance. In recovery we are gifted with a second chance. Our old life, destroyed by alcohol, had to die before we could be reborn. “Unless the grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it bears much fruit.” (John 12:24) I’ve heard that quote my whole life and never understood it until sobriety. My drinking life died twenty years ago and from its ashes my new, sober life arises, baring much fruit.
Lisa’s gift. It was my sister Lisa, now resting in Oakwood Cemetery, who led me to sobriety. She gently intervened in my life back in late 2000–Dylan, do you think you might have a problem with drinking? Her guidance gave me sobriety on February 28, 2001. Her gift to me gave my wife and my sons a sober husband and father. One solace I take from Lisa’s life is living sober. That is how I pay-her-life-forward. It doesn’t give my mom and dad their daughter back, but it tells me her life counted.
Thank you Fort Worth. My sobriety journey began in Fort Worth, going with Lisa to open twelve-step meetings. One of the old-timers from those first days with Lisa, a gentle spiritual giant named Mark, called me in March of 2020, at the outset of COVID.
“Hey Dylan. I don’t know if you’re interested, but due to COVID we are going online with Zoom. If you’d like to join, the 7:00 a.m. meeting is going to be seven days a week,” Mark told me then.
And join I did. For all of COVID, for over a year now, I have gotten up about 4:45 a.m. in Los Angeles, to log on to zoom at 5:00 a.m. with the friends in Fort Worth. It has saved my life.
More better. Before COVID, I went to two in-person twelve-step meetings a week, Tuesday and Thursday evenings here in Culver City. Since COVID, I now go to over seven meetings a week. I start each day at 5:00 a.m. with prayer and meditation and laughter and learning, logged on to Fort Worth. My twelve-step zoom quilt is how I hear God: Good Orderly Direction from a Group Of Drunks. Fort Worth started my sobriety in 2001, and Fort Worth kept me going during COVID twenty years later. Modern miracle.
Backyard sobriety. Now, the Saturday afternoon before Easter, driving up I-35 with my son, having visited my dead sister Lisa’s grave, I was heading to see some of those same sobriety friends, Mark and others, at a small backyard meeting. Back at Mom’s house, I showered and shaved and washed away the country. It was date-night, sober style, as Marisa and I left Jackson and Christian with my mom and dad and took the mini-van to a backyard twelve-step meeting.
Invited into a garden. Our hostess Jan is a woman I have seen every morning on zoom for over a year, but never met her in person. When she heard I was coming to Texas, she invited me her backyard twelve-step meeting. She hosts a socially-distant, small circle of chairs meeting. Another gift of sober living is being invited into people’s gardens, and being a respectful visitor, not the tornado I was before.
God under the post oaks. The setting was peaceful, outdoor holy. Marisa and I walked around the side of the home to the back yard. There, with magnificent post oaks standing sentinel, was the circle. Marisa and I took the last two chairs. I held her hand the entire hour, on this Saturday night before Easter. Many of the faces I knew from the 5:00 a.m. zoom. I was seeing some in person for the first time, like Jan and Sherry that I’ve only known on zoom. Some I have known my entire twenty years, like Mark, people who were there in 2001, and who are still there now.
“For where two or three are gathered in my name, there am I in the midst of them.” (Matthew 18:20)
EASTER SUNDAY
Second Easter of COVID. Here we were, in my parent’s home, on the second Sunday of Easter. Remember last year, when there had been hope that maybe we’d be past COVID by Easter of 2020? Well it is 2021. We’re still not past it, but we’re making progress.
Looking down. Looking up. There is a critique of modern life, that we have lost our ability to be awed, that we take it all for granted. Father Richard Rohr suggests our access to awe, to be able to look up in wonder, is to remember how to look down, to purposefully peer into our brokenness. He talks about the spirituality of the second half of life. He guides people to do shadow work through the Enneagram and twelve-step work. His lessons came to me around these campfires under the stars.
Circles of gratitude. Looking down and dreaming a campfire, then looking up into the heavens to see Orion and the Big Dipper and the rising moon. In twelve-step meetings, looking down into my human brokenness and then after coming back to family and friends and looking up, to see with new eyes the blessings that a sober life yields. When the bounty is seen newly, the unmerited, undeserved grace of life in its awe-full majesty, there is nothing to do but say Thank You, and to pay it forward.
Zoom church and Easter resurrection. Sunday morning, we gathered in the living room and attended Mom’s online church service beamed from First Presbyterian in Fort Worth. The organ music was bold and bright, with trumpets and flairs, the triumphant Protestant proclamation of arrival. The sermon was a careful reflection on the difference between resuscitation and resurrection, with awe at the possibility of resurrection. Jesus came back: What’d I miss? His followers did not recognize him. He had to walk with them and talk with them and dine with them, and remind them.
We get it and we lose it. Father Rohr suggests the Bible is a text in travail. Just like life. We take three steps forward and two steps backward. We find the path and we lose the path. In twelve-step living we say Progress not Perfection. We don’t strive for perfection. We don’t get it all handled. We let our old, selfish life die away. We pray for guidance to live newly. We listen for direction. We are gifted with lives beyond our wildest dreams, lives that look nothing like what we would have wished for back in our addiction, like road trips to family and friends and faith.
COVID CODA: DON’T LET A GOOD PANDEMIC GO TO WASTE
There’s more. We had more moments. Christian too had a best-ever fishing day. We drove all the way back to Los Angeles, taking the northern route. We saw Cadillac Ranch in Amarillo. We saw the snow-capped peaks in New Mexico. We got a speeding ticket. I took home poison ivy that took three weeks to heal. I hadn’t had poison ivy in over 35 years. We drove through Winslow and spent two nights in Sedona. We saw friends in Phoenix, Nancy generously baking a German chocolate cake for my 52nd birthday. More miracle moments. But that’s enough for now.
What we focus on matters. I don’t want to suggest rose-colored glasses nor minimize the suffering COVID has caused. But the same number of people died this year from tuberculosis that died from COVID*. I’ve heard a lot about COVID. I’ve heard nothing about tuberculosis. What we focus on is important.
Life always kicks us. COVID is only one way to die, of an infinite number of ways to die. COVID tried to kill me this year; Alcoholism will try to kill me the rest of my life. Life is always trying to kill us. Big shocks from nature, like wildfires and droughts, earthquakes and freezes. And little shocks like addiction and despair and hopelessness. We humans, we naked apes, we group together to get through it all. We have family and friends, fellowship and faith, to survive.
Everyone is going to die. It’s no victory to die. It’s an automatic outcome that awaits each of us. The victory arises from choosing to live.
I can be respectful of the suffering COVID caused. And, I can say thank you to the good things that happened this year too. It’s hard to be hateful when I’m grateful. I choose to be grateful.
Don’t let a good pandemic go to waste. That’s been one of my mantras during COVID. Along with Don’t be the same person coming out of COVID who went into COVID.
I am not throwing away my shot. The soundtrack to Hamilton has been the soundtrack of COVID for me. I play Hamilton and exercise. I play Hamilton in the shower.
Hey yo, I’m just like my country, I’m young scrappy and hungry And I’m not throwing away my shot.
What am I going to do with the second half of my life? I’m going to invest in this American experiment. I am doubling down on love and tolerance, on friends and family and what we have in common. We all have grey brains and red hearts. We are more alike than different. Democracy is the worst form of government, except for all the others, is the quote we get from Churchill. Our democracy got us through 2020. Thank you democracy.
And thank you for reading. Art is where living happens for each of us. Thanks for helping me practice my art.
Who lives, who dies, who tells your story? You do. I do. We each do.
This is my fifth letter to you since you died. Wow that was quick. Five years ago today, on the 4th of July 2015, we were together in Colorado. Now you’re in heaven.
How are you?
We miss you down here.
Big-picture update in 2020:
We have a pandemic. People are upset about justice, and the lack of justice. We’re going to have an election this year, and we will have to agree on the result. There’s a lot happening this year in society. I wish you were here to help me digest it.
Small-picture update:
We have puppies!
Last weekend we drove from Los Angeles to Phoenix, Marisa and the boys and me. We made the trip to get two beautiful little puppies. We’ve expanded our family.
I thought about you a lot because you ALWAYS loved dogs. And I thought about you a lot because of our family memories from childhood, of visiting grandma and grandpa in Arizona.
During the puppy weekend, I made a side trip over to see grandpa and grandma’s grave site. On the drive to the cemetery, I called Mom in Ft. Worth. She and I talked all the way through my visit to Double Buttes Cemetery.
The olive trees have all been removed at the site. Everything sits in the full Phoenix sun, Arizona-dry desert. Mom heard my shock as I realized all the olive trees were cut away. The olive tree over grandma and grandpa’s plot was always special to me. I texted pictures to Mom, and she could see what I saw.
Mom and I said a prayer together, the serenity prayer, Mom in Texas and me in front of her parents kneeling at their grave. I was thinking of you and family last weekend.
And I think of you daily because of sobriety; You are still gifting me Lisa.
You guiding me into sobriety is still paying dividends to life here on earth Lisa: Your sister-in-law has a sober husband; Your nephews have a sober daddy; The gift of your guidance still pays itself forward in the lives of Marisa and Jackson and Christian.
I wouldn’t be sober these last 19 years without you Lisa–Your life made a difference.
We have a global pandemic in 2020. You’ve probably met a lot of new souls coming to heaven right now with news of a virus. It has sent about 125,000 people from the US and a lot more globally.
One of the many impacts of the pandemic is that sobriety and recovery, twelve-step meetings, have gone online; No in-person meetings for the last three months.
Remember Harbor, the 7:00 am recovery meeting you took me to in Ft. Worth during the first year of my sobriety? Well in this pandemic, I get to go to the 7:00 am Harbor meeting online.
Except 7:00 am in Ft. Worth is 5:00 am here in Los Angeles.
I’ve attended almost daily for the last six weeks.
Every day, my alarm goes off at 4:45 am. I find my glasses and my slippers. I shuffle to the kitchen and brew my coffee. I heat up half a glass of milk and boot up the computer while I wait for my cuppa Joe.
And from 5:00 – 6:00 am I’m on “zoom”, a video conference, sitting with my hot homemade latte, looking at fifty faces of friends in the fellowship. And you know many of the faces Lisa. Many of the old-timers were there 19 years ago.
When I get called on to share, I very often reflect on you and the old-timers know who I’m talking about because they remember you too. It is a gift, to get to share about you with people who talked to you and walked with you and hugged you and mourned your passing when you died.
I told them that I was going to write my fifth letter to you. I told them that I was going to honor my word to myself to write you every 4th of July weekend for the first twelve years after your passing. Writing you helps me grieve the loss of you.
Everyone dies eventually, there’s no big victory in dying since we all will do it once. But do we live? That’s the game, to live. You lived and you mattered, and that is why I write you, to honor your life.
More about puppies.
It’a been over a year since we lost our first dog, Koko Buddy, on Easter Sunday of 2019.
We felt it was time to get a new dog and Marisa started working her magic, seeing what we could find. She and Jackson were always looking at websites, searching around. I’d boot up the computer to find multiple browser tabs about dogs and rescues.
But we found these puppies the old-fashioned way, through a friend. Marisa’s girlfriend in Phoenix had a friend with a litter of cockapoos, little puppies born in early April.
“What do you think Dylan?” Marisa asked. “We could get either a boy or a girl. They haven’t found homes for all of them yet,” she told me.
“What if we got two?” I asked.
“Two?” Marisa looked me in the eye. “Really?”
“Well they could keep each other company,” I replied. “That could be good.”
We started talking about two instead of one.
That was six weeks ago. We have been puppy-prepping ever since. We are fixing the backyard fence. We got their sleeping quarters set up. We placed a toddler-gate by the kitchen so they won’t run throughout the house. It was like getting ready for a baby again!
The puppies’ names?
Oh you’ll love this.
Remember the names of our two dogs back in Denison when we were kids? Duffy and King Tut?
Well it’s kind of like that.
“Buttercup” is the girl puppy.
That’s a normal doggy name, like Duffy was. We watched “The Princess Bride” during the COVID quarantine for family movie night, so we had recently heard about Princess Buttercup.
“Lord Shax” is the boy puppy.
That’s more the cool name, like back in the 70s when we were kids and King Tut was a reference to Steve Martin’s comedy routine. “Lord Shax” is the name of a gaming character in one of the video games that Jackson plays. Every time we tell people their names, “Buttercup” gets no questions, but “Lord Shax” requires an explanation.
So our family has grown, from four to six. There are two new souls sharing the home, with all their wagging and wiggling, their licking and loving. I’m not sure if the kids are happier than me, or me than the kids, but I know it’s the highlight of the summer.
I hope that Koko Buddy hangs out with you up in heaven. I hope that you two are looking down at us with Buttercup and Lord Shax, and that you’re smiling.
You always loved animals. You were so magnetic with dogs. You always could befriend any four-legged furry with your high-pitched voice and your long delicate fingers. Dogs loved you. And dogs were always so important to you. I think how happy you would have been as a little girl if you had gotten two puppies at once.
They wrestle, these two. They growl and tumble and sound like a little hurricane when they go at it.
Christian wakes up before Marisa and Jackson, so he lets the puppies out each morning. We were out with them today. I can hear them now beyond the kitchen. It’s still and quiet as I’m writing you.
It makes me happy that we got to keep two puppies together.
You, Jon and I were puppies together once.
I’m grateful to have a sister and a brother, to be one of three puppies.
Usually, puppies get moved to different families. All the warmth of snuggling-together as babies, all that safety of being in a group, all that fades away. That’s the normal path to grow up.
I watch Buttercup and Shax continue being connected to each other. It makes me happy that they are still together.
When we were kids, Saturday morning cartoons were the highlight of the week. I remember you and Jon and me all tumbled together on a couch, under blankets and pillows, watching Scooby Doo, warm and secure.
Those are special memories Lisa. Those are the comforts of childhood. That was the start of my life and you were there.
Now it’s the middle of my life. You are still here Lisa, even though you’re gone. You are still a warm blanket around me. I still see you in the clouds. I still hear you during twelve-step meetings. Mom and Dad and Jon, we all still talk about you.
Your life matters Lisa.
Thank you for being you. Enjoy heaven today. Enjoy the view of the fireworks from up there. Let Koko Buddy sit next to you, so he won’t get scared from the sound of the fireworks.
thanks for reading