My January Ritual
It's late January, 2016. It's a day of ritual. It's time to step-away from my ordinary routine and pause. It's time for a drink, some memories, and reflection.
I'm wearing black and sitting in an English-style pub. I'm ordering a double Jameson Irish Whiskey - Neat. It was her drink, so it's special. It's an important part of this January ritual.
Annette. It's now been over a dozen years since she passed - mid January 2004. If I want, I can still see her in the hospice bed, struggling for her last painful breathes. I can still hear that nasty death-rattle. I can still watch her pass from pain to peace. I can still feel her fingers go from warm to cold. Every day, I try not to allow my mind to go to these memories. Most days I succeed. Today I need to remember.
It's been even longer since my dad, Chet, passed in Asheville, NC. That's near 15 years ago already and the topic still comes up occasionally. And, it's approaching 30 years since Lois, my mom, left so suddenly.
The time does fly by. But, the memories and hurts linger, perhaps forever. The smiles and happy feelings remain as well, but sometimes it takes a special effort to bring them forward. I sip my whiskey and silently toast, wishing they were here with me just one more time. I tip my glass to the heavens and say "Thank You for Everything".
A small tear forms in my eye. I take another sip but accept the painful sting as the memories and visions flood in. I need the Jameson's to help - 'cause I don't want to remember them as they died, cold and ravished. I need to remember them as they lived and as they loved me. As they smiled, and spoke, and laughed, and went through this world on their life-adventures.
I've now crossed some strange tipping-point of age. My tribe is shrinking. I can now count far more loved ones who have passed from my life then loved ones now in my life. And, I know deep within me, I'm far closer to my finish line than I could have ever imagined. I'm now an elder - one of the next to go.
Statistical data shows world population at nearly 7.4 billion people. I cannot fathom that number. It's just too big to comprehend. Same for the 321 million estimated to live here in my United States of America. Those same statistics show that every day, an average of 59,000 die - about 6,700 in the US. My mind must work with much smaller numbers - each with a face and a spirit. The totals mean little, until the people they represent are up-close and personal. Most days the numbers don't touch us. They are like hearing about a traffic accident that occurs in a distant city or state. However, every once in awhile, usually by surprise, an accident occurs right in your neighborhood or directly in your path. That's when things turn REAL - really fast!
Last month, it was my step-mom, Ilona. Yesterday it was the shocking surprise of a family friend I called "Uncle Eddie". Every bit-of-news takes another piece of me. Someday there will be nothing left to take.
Nearly 2 years ago it was Kenny, my river-sensei and dear friend. There is still a hole in my soul from that. He was my age and had a beautiful family. One day healthy, a few days later, gone. I'd have gladly gone in his place, but life doesn't give us these options.
I order another Jameson's and lean-back on my bar stool. I can see Kenny and me, standing together on huge boulders, with a torrent of clean-green water racing through rocky channels directly underneath us. We compare ideas and plot our courses thru the raging whitewater of a class IV rapid. Then we hop into our boats, run ourselves to the peak of excitement, and meet at the bottom with a wink and a smile.
My mind drifts back to Annette. Our wedding was in Butte, Montana in July of 1987. Sure, I was partly hung-over and partly still-drunk when I stood at the alter and spoke my vows. It was embarrassing. Butte, Montana will do that to you - especially if you are care-free and well-funded for a night. But despite my haziness, I seriously loved Annette as well as my folks and family who attended.
My friends Roy and Ricky and Gary could not attend cause they were already gone. Already Gone - before 35. Good friends and good men, taken far too soon. And, at that wedding, I could have never known that my beautiful momma, Lois, would be gone within 12 months. The Gods and the Fates can be so cruel! The news of my mom's accident came by phone - across 2500 miles from New Jersey to Montana. Darn it, I need another sip of whiskey. I can still feel myself in agony, screaming to the Gods from the top of Rogers Pass, then again at Lookout Pass. Tears are starting to flow. I need another sip. I need my handkerchief.
Annette is gone. Her Mom and Dad are gone. My Mom and Dad and Step-Mom are gone. So many others, too. I'm the last man standing and I could have never guessed that's how it would all turn out. I want to see them all again. I want to laugh with them again - tell stories late into the night and exaggerate our adventures and importance and wisdom.
I want to know I've done OK by their spirit. From being a decent son and husband to running 200+ miles of the Colorado River through Grand Canyon, 4 times. From being a decent grandpa-model for the little kids to standing on my own 2 feet and being self-reliant since I turned 18. For being a caring "uncle" and helping others, especially family. I want to say "Thank You" to them for what they gave me. I want to say "I'm Sorry" for my mistakes and screw-ups. I am so flawed and imperfect - I know that. I am not a hypocrite. I am just a thankful, hurting soul, trying to get by.
There is a hole in my soul. It must be honored. It can never be filled no matter how much I drink, or eat, or otherwise try to escape. I need to get some food, because this Jameson's sure does go down smooth and easy. Good thing I only do this once a year.
The real world is calling. The transition will be startling - like reaching Diamond Creek or Seligman, AZ after 18 days inside the Grand Canyon. I need to take a few more minutes to reflect and remember.
So, here I sit alone in an English-style Pub, wearing black and sipping the last drops of Irish whiskey. Holding back my tears and honoring my pain, as I try to let all their faces appear in my memory.
These people I have loved and lost.
These people who have so deeply influenced who I've become.
These people who's spirit I carry within my heart.
These people who's shoulders I stand upon.
These people who now know the mystery of the universe and also know that my drinking is foolish but my pain is real.
These people who appreciate my tears, as I raise a shot glass of Irish whiskey and toast their memory, and speak their names one more time. And say "Thank You".
~ tom
I'm wearing black and sitting in an English-style pub. I'm ordering a double Jameson Irish Whiskey - Neat. It was her drink, so it's special. It's an important part of this January ritual.
Annette. It's now been over a dozen years since she passed - mid January 2004. If I want, I can still see her in the hospice bed, struggling for her last painful breathes. I can still hear that nasty death-rattle. I can still watch her pass from pain to peace. I can still feel her fingers go from warm to cold. Every day, I try not to allow my mind to go to these memories. Most days I succeed. Today I need to remember.
It's been even longer since my dad, Chet, passed in Asheville, NC. That's near 15 years ago already and the topic still comes up occasionally. And, it's approaching 30 years since Lois, my mom, left so suddenly.
The time does fly by. But, the memories and hurts linger, perhaps forever. The smiles and happy feelings remain as well, but sometimes it takes a special effort to bring them forward. I sip my whiskey and silently toast, wishing they were here with me just one more time. I tip my glass to the heavens and say "Thank You for Everything".
A small tear forms in my eye. I take another sip but accept the painful sting as the memories and visions flood in. I need the Jameson's to help - 'cause I don't want to remember them as they died, cold and ravished. I need to remember them as they lived and as they loved me. As they smiled, and spoke, and laughed, and went through this world on their life-adventures.
I've now crossed some strange tipping-point of age. My tribe is shrinking. I can now count far more loved ones who have passed from my life then loved ones now in my life. And, I know deep within me, I'm far closer to my finish line than I could have ever imagined. I'm now an elder - one of the next to go.
Statistical data shows world population at nearly 7.4 billion people. I cannot fathom that number. It's just too big to comprehend. Same for the 321 million estimated to live here in my United States of America. Those same statistics show that every day, an average of 59,000 die - about 6,700 in the US. My mind must work with much smaller numbers - each with a face and a spirit. The totals mean little, until the people they represent are up-close and personal. Most days the numbers don't touch us. They are like hearing about a traffic accident that occurs in a distant city or state. However, every once in awhile, usually by surprise, an accident occurs right in your neighborhood or directly in your path. That's when things turn REAL - really fast!
Last month, it was my step-mom, Ilona. Yesterday it was the shocking surprise of a family friend I called "Uncle Eddie". Every bit-of-news takes another piece of me. Someday there will be nothing left to take.
Nearly 2 years ago it was Kenny, my river-sensei and dear friend. There is still a hole in my soul from that. He was my age and had a beautiful family. One day healthy, a few days later, gone. I'd have gladly gone in his place, but life doesn't give us these options.
I order another Jameson's and lean-back on my bar stool. I can see Kenny and me, standing together on huge boulders, with a torrent of clean-green water racing through rocky channels directly underneath us. We compare ideas and plot our courses thru the raging whitewater of a class IV rapid. Then we hop into our boats, run ourselves to the peak of excitement, and meet at the bottom with a wink and a smile.
My mind drifts back to Annette. Our wedding was in Butte, Montana in July of 1987. Sure, I was partly hung-over and partly still-drunk when I stood at the alter and spoke my vows. It was embarrassing. Butte, Montana will do that to you - especially if you are care-free and well-funded for a night. But despite my haziness, I seriously loved Annette as well as my folks and family who attended.
My friends Roy and Ricky and Gary could not attend cause they were already gone. Already Gone - before 35. Good friends and good men, taken far too soon. And, at that wedding, I could have never known that my beautiful momma, Lois, would be gone within 12 months. The Gods and the Fates can be so cruel! The news of my mom's accident came by phone - across 2500 miles from New Jersey to Montana. Darn it, I need another sip of whiskey. I can still feel myself in agony, screaming to the Gods from the top of Rogers Pass, then again at Lookout Pass. Tears are starting to flow. I need another sip. I need my handkerchief.
Annette is gone. Her Mom and Dad are gone. My Mom and Dad and Step-Mom are gone. So many others, too. I'm the last man standing and I could have never guessed that's how it would all turn out. I want to see them all again. I want to laugh with them again - tell stories late into the night and exaggerate our adventures and importance and wisdom.
I want to know I've done OK by their spirit. From being a decent son and husband to running 200+ miles of the Colorado River through Grand Canyon, 4 times. From being a decent grandpa-model for the little kids to standing on my own 2 feet and being self-reliant since I turned 18. For being a caring "uncle" and helping others, especially family. I want to say "Thank You" to them for what they gave me. I want to say "I'm Sorry" for my mistakes and screw-ups. I am so flawed and imperfect - I know that. I am not a hypocrite. I am just a thankful, hurting soul, trying to get by.
There is a hole in my soul. It must be honored. It can never be filled no matter how much I drink, or eat, or otherwise try to escape. I need to get some food, because this Jameson's sure does go down smooth and easy. Good thing I only do this once a year.
The real world is calling. The transition will be startling - like reaching Diamond Creek or Seligman, AZ after 18 days inside the Grand Canyon. I need to take a few more minutes to reflect and remember.
So, here I sit alone in an English-style Pub, wearing black and sipping the last drops of Irish whiskey. Holding back my tears and honoring my pain, as I try to let all their faces appear in my memory.
These people I have loved and lost.
These people who have so deeply influenced who I've become.
These people who's spirit I carry within my heart.
These people who's shoulders I stand upon.
These people who now know the mystery of the universe and also know that my drinking is foolish but my pain is real.
These people who appreciate my tears, as I raise a shot glass of Irish whiskey and toast their memory, and speak their names one more time. And say "Thank You".
~ tom
posted by Tom | 10:42 AM
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