JohnCr8on’s Snapshots

It would be nice if there was an easy way to share our personal setbacks with our children so they could benefit from our experience.  Heck, I’d settle for a not so easy way if it was effective.

The reality is that the only way for our children to learn how to pick themselves up, dust themselves off and get back in the game is to get knocked down in the first place.

Last night, I told my daughter Emma about a setback I had my freshman year at the University of Kansas.

I won a Summerfield Scholarship from KU – awarded to “top graduates from Kansas high schools” – based mostly on my ACT scores.  I received few letters from colleges or universities prior to taking the ACT.  Once I received my scores, the letters arrived soon after.

I never seriously considered attending any school except KU.  It was where I wanted to go.  It was a family tradition.

My parents, both graduates of KU, were thrilled when I was invited to interview for the Summerfield Scholarship.  They were more excited when I was named a Scholar.  I was one of the few Atwood graduates to earn the award.  I think Harry Wigner did before me.  There may have been more Atwood grads to earn the award since, but I must confess I don’t know.

At the time, I did not understand or appreciate the significance of the award.

As happens to many college freshmen, I did not focus on my studies as I should.  I was having too much fun being away from home, having the freedom to go out with friends when I chose.  I spent too many Thursday nights and Wednesday nights at places like Louise’s and The Hawk.

My first semester grades reflected my lack of focus.  Thirteen hours of B and three hours of A.  Not bad, but not good enough for a Summerfield Scholar.

What’s more, five hours of B were a complete act of charity.

I went to see my calculus professor about my final exam.  As she pointed out my errors, she noticed an error of her own.  She had made an addition mistake when calculating my scores from the three part exam.  I hadn’t earned a B.  My test score was 76% not the 86% she marked on the paper.  My overall grade was just over the cusp of 80%.  A final exam score of C would knock my overall grade to C, too.

My professor sat at her desk in silence for well over a minute contemplating what to do.  Finally, she said, “If you wouldn’t have come to see me, I would not have found my grading error.  I’ll let you keep the B.”

I was grateful at the time.  I didn’t realize how lucky I was until later.

Shortly after the semester came to a close, I received a letter notifying me that I would not receive the Summerfield Scholarship the next semester due to a low GPA.  Losing the $500 dollars was a blow.  (A semester’s tuition in those days was $496.  The first time I paid, I received four dollars change.)  Even tougher was breaking the news to my parents.

It’s not always fun having parents with high expectations.

My parents, perhaps not surprisingly, were supportive and encouraging.  Dad made a typical, short and to the point comment.  “Earn it back,” he said lightheartedly as if he had complete confidence that I would.

That’s what I did.  It took two full semesters but I finally elevated my overall GPA to just over 3.5 – the mandatory minimum for a Summerfield Scholar (it’s even tougher today, the minimum is 3.65).  That’s when I fully realized the generosity of my first semester calculus professor.  If she had given me a C as I deserved, I would not have raised my GPA over 3.5.  I would not have been eligible to be reinstated.

These are the types of lucky breaks and acts of kindness that can change lives.

I told Emma this story because she failed a Language Arts test this week.  Her teacher, too, is giving her a second chance.  She has the opportunity to take the test again next week.  This exam was her first major setback as a student.  Sure, there have been times she could have done better.  But, on balance, she is a very good student.

It was hard for Emma to ask Joni to sign the letter from her teacher informing us of the failed exam.  It was even harder for her to tell me.

It’s not always fun having parents with high expectations.

In a few weeks and certainly months, we all will have forgotten about this one exam.  I have complete confidence Emma will do fine on her “redo.”  My hope is that Emma’s lasting lesson will be learning to deal with setbacks in school.

As parents, we want to protect our children from heartaches and even minor setbacks.  We know what it’s like to fail and we don’t want our children to endure the pain.

But, we can’t always protect our children nor should we try.  Our kids can’t learn what they need to know by hearing stories of our skinned knees.  The important lessons come from skinning their own.

It’s the last place we want to be.  It’s the only place we want to be… At the bedside of a dying loved one.

I have a friend who is preparing to say goodbye to his mother.  It could be a few days or many weeks.  It’s difficult to know.  She’s lived a long life.  But, at every age, it’s hard to say goodbye to your mom.

The bedside is a mixed blessing.  If you’re there, it probably means that the person you love is suffering, perhaps not spiritually, but certainly physically.  That’s never fun.

But, if you’re at the bedside, it also means the person you love has the opportunity to give you comfort before they go.  That is truly something to treasure.

That was my experience with both my parents.  I thought I was going to be with them so they would be comforted, loved in their final hours.  But, it really was the other way round.  I went to my parents’ beside to say, “I love you,” to be sure.  I also was there so I wouldn’t be alone when it was time for them to go.

Both my parents, while physically helpless, were completely in control of their final hours on earth.  They knew how much time they had.  We followed their lead.

*             *             *

Only a few friends had the opportunity to say goodbye to Mom.  She was stuck in a hospital bed in Denver.  Doctors talked about months.  Mom knew it was only a matter of days.  So did the nurses (including Joni) who were charged with her care.  They let us know.

Joni and the kids stopped by Mom’s room early in the morning on Emma’s fifth birthday.  They would go on to Atwood that day to celebrate Emma’s day with the Mickeys.  “We’re coming to say goodbye because we may not see you again,” Emma announced to Mom as she walked up to her bed.  We shifted uncomfortably the way one does when a child speaks out loud the truth everyone knows.

Several visitors stopped by that day – Lisa Reuber from Atwood and extended family who lived in the Denver area.  We laughed with Dad’s cousin Jeanne who lives within miles but we seldom see when she quoted her own father, “You can count on Creightons to be at weddings and funerals but you won’t see them much in between.”  We had just been to Jeanne’s wedding a few months before.

There was a moment in the afternoon when there were no visitors.  Alec and I sat in the room watching M*A*S*H.  We bought videos of the first few seasons to pass the time.  Mom was “resting her eyes” as she liked to say.  Dad was in the hall.

“Get your father,” Mom said unexpectedly and with urgency.  He came into the room.  We all stood at her side.  She squeezed his hand and nodded her head.  She fell into a half-sleep from which she never really returned.

Early in the morning, just after dawn, we heard Mom speak.  “Love so much,” she called out three times.  “We love you,” we said in return.

“Morning paper,” she said faintly.  I ran to the nurse’s station and found a copy of the Rocky Mountain News.  We read her the day’s headlines as she had read books to us so many morning’s in our youth.  Reading together was the appropriate goodbye.

*             *             *

Dad’s illness – pulmonary fibrosis – was long.  Anyone else might have succumbed long ago.  But, Dad was the model of health.  More fit than people half his age – except for his lungs.

Like Mom, Dad and his nurse knew when the end was near.  Dad spent his last days at home just as he wished.  He spent his days downstairs and continued to sleep upstairs at night.  He wanted to do things the way he always had.

The stairs become more than he could do.  An electric chair was installed to move him up and down.  Karol Ruda, his hospice nurse, stopped by to help us move Dad upstairs.  For a moment at the top of the stairs it was more than he could bear.  He left us but only for a moment.  I walked Karol to her car and she told me matter of fact, “It won’t be long.”  She knew Dad was ready.  She wanted to make sure we were, too.

A hospital bed was installed downstairs the next morning.  We helped Dad move and that’s where he’d stay.

Karol stopped by again the next night.  Dad was having a difficult time but his spirit was the same: confident.  Life and death is what it is from his point of view.  Karol, as a hospice nurse, felt the same.  As Karol prepared to leave Dad mustered, “Thanks a lot, Karol.”

“You’re welcome, Bob.”

“I probably won’t see you again,” Dad said.

“I think you’re right, Bob. It’s been a real pleasure to know you.”

“It’s been a pleasure to know you, too.  I really appreciate it, Karol.”

They talked in a manner as if the entire situation was completely routine.

Dad asked me to call Alec and have him drive to Atwood that night.  It was eleven p.m. but Dad did not want Alec to wait.  He did not think he would make it through the night.

But Dad rallied.  His strength, such that it was, returned.  We had a good day.  Lavina, Alec and I each had our turns to talk.  Dad told us he loved us more times that day than he had his entire life combined.  “That gets easier to say the more you say it,” he observed in a curious sort of way.  ”I’ve had a good life,” he said with genuine conviction to ease our fears.

Together, we watched several episodes of the West Wing.  Dad checked the news, his heart rate and pulse-ox several times, too.  He was fully engaged and keeping stats to the end.

My support network was gone.  The Mickeys, Joni and Emma were in Kentucky for Coy Mickey’s funeral.  He passed suddenly and unexpectedly that same week.  The Mickeys did not have our good fortune to say proper goodbyes.  Joe, Ada Grace and I were together in Atwood – with Dad, Lavina and Alec.

Dad still felt strong, in a relative sort of way, at eleven this night.  Alec and I went upstairs to sleep, exhausted from our previous night’s vigil.  Lavina stayed with Dad, pulling the couch to the bed.

I heard the seven o’clock whistle and climbed out of bed, doing my best not to disturb Joe and Ada Grace.  Alec heard the whistle, too.  We both made our way downstairs.

Dad loved the Atwood whistle.  It sounds off at seven a.m., noon, one o’clock and six p.m.  It helped Dad keep his much loved daily routine.

There was a time, when Dad was the Atwood mayor, that the town council considered shutting the whistle down.  The mayor is a non-voting member of the council, except to break ties.  The vote on the whistle was deadlocked three to three.  Dad cast his sole vote as mayor to, “Let the whistle blow.”

Many years later, “the whistle returned the favor,” as Irv Hayden said at Dad’s funeral.  It roused Alec and I out of our slumber just in time to join Lavina at Dad’s side.  He squeezed our hands.  We squeezed his.  We said goodbye.

*             *             *

Saying goodbye to a parent is difficult to describe to someone who’s never had the experience.  There is little to say to someone who has.  They know.  I can imagine this is how women feel about childbirth.

I can only say I feel fortunate to have had the opportunity to be at Mom’s and Dad’s bedside.  They were my parents to the very end.  They gave me comfort and strength at their most vulnerable moment.  It is a strength I cherish and which helps me embrace death as a normal part of life.

“Some people say heaven is a place where everyone gets along all the time.  That sounds really boring to me.”

My Dad said this to me in the last days of his life.  Dad enjoyed life on earth very much.  He liked the messiness just as much as when things were smooth.  If it was interesting, he was interested.

That’s one reason my Dad enjoyed politics so much.  He enjoyed the give and take.  He found conflicting points of view to be more interesting than when everyone agreed.

Bob Dole was one of his favorite politicians.  He admired Dole’s service to Kansas.  But, he also enjoyed Dole’s acerbic sense of humor.

My Dad enjoyed cutting humor in general.  He didn’t enjoy in your face trash talk.  But he did enjoy pointed critiques and satire.  I don’t know that he enjoyed Don Rickles very much.  But, he found Bob Newhart very entertaining.

One of his favorite authors was Joseph Heller.  He would laugh and laugh when he read Catch-22.  He was one of the few people who read Heller’s other books, too.

He enjoyed the company of people whose sense of humor was prickly and off-color, people who pointed out hypocrisies in society – his brother John, Bob Day and KU and lifelong friend Al Frame.  He enjoyed getting these friends riled up.  There’s nothing he enjoyed more than when Al got on roll.  Dad was a wonderful audience laughing as Al beat the proverbial horse senseless.

As Dad entered the last weeks of his life, we had the inevitable conversations.  “Who would you like to speak at your funeral,” we eventually asked.

Among his responses he said, “And, Al Frame if he promises to offend someone.  I wouldn’t want some boring talk.”

Al did not offend at Dad’s memorial service.  Instead, he talked about “Small town friendships. The only kind I know.  In small towns,” Al explained, “We see each other every day.  So we form friendships based on real familiarity.”

Al went on to say, “It does not matter what religious beliefs we may have or what political beliefs we may have.  In a small town, what matters most is the friendship itself.”

Al took the occasion of my Dad’s memorial service to remind us all where we should focus our attention.  We should focus on the care and affection we have for one another rather than our disagreements.  It is this attitude and these types of friendships that enable people like my Dad and Al to say, “I’ve had a good life.”

In an effort to not completely disappoint our family, and honor my Dad’s request to offend, the night before Dad’s memorial service, Al’s son Mark sent us an email.  The email contained the text of John Cleese’s eulogy for Graham Chapman.  Mark attached a note, “Dad (Al) plans to say something like this.”

I laughed thinking of the many late night conversations among Creightons and Frames.  My Dad would have laughed, too.

The following video contains much love and affection and, please be warned, a few curse words.

Our family did not do a lot together day-to-day.  We had our family vacations and many shared memories.  But, day-to-day, we did not share similar interests.

Running was Dad’s passion.  He ran in the mornings before breakfast.  He ran at night.  Between runs and work, he updated his training records.  He spent hours comparing his times to runners across the nation.  Running and work every day, except Friday nights.  He loved high school sports.  He was willing to drive for hours to see a game.

Mom cared little for high school games and did not exercise.  She tolerated sweaty clothes in her closet because of her marriage.  She went to ballgames when her sons played.

Mom was a reader.  She read and reread English novels.  Her paperback copies of Angela Thirkell, P.G. Wodehouse and Agatha Christie were worn thin.  Television consisted of Master Piece Theater on public television.   She was born to live in the English countryside near a large city.  She never quite found herself in the small town.

I don’t remember what Alec did day-to-day.  We didn’t play together much after age eight or ten.  He enjoyed music.  He practiced piano and trumpet every day.  He was good.  He drove me crazy.  The piano was just below my room.  He played the same songs again and again trying to get them just right.

My days were spent with friends, television and from April through October the radio, listening to baseball games.

Outside the house I had countless friends.  There always was someone I could find to hang out or play games.  Inside the house I did things on my own.

My passion was the Kansas City Royals.  I didn’t miss a game from grades five through nine.  I saved lawn mowing money to buy a radio headset.  One of the first.  It was big and bulky.  I took it everywhere.

When Denny and Fred (the Royals’ announcers) weren’t calling a game, I kept to myself in my room, listening to 8-tracks – Beach Boys, Meat Loaf and Queen.  I played Nerf basketball or read comic books.  The door was almost always closed.

Individual interests pursued individually.

We gathered together twice a day without fail.  Lunch and supper at precisely prescribed times depending on Dad’s training schedule.  The expectations were clear.  No discussion. No reminders.  Don’t be absent.  Don’t be late.  Families eat together.

At this table, we recounted daily events.  We laughed.  We argued.  We had spirited debates.  We talked about the world.  We found our common ground.

It was my favorite place in the house.

We were a family.

This video clip sounds just like my Dad – without the expletives.  You may have already seen it.  It’s being circulated quite a lot.  It’s worth a watch.

My Dad had an insatiable fascination with air travel.

We talked most Sundays at precisely 11 a.m. Central Time (he liked having a schedule) when we lived in Maryland.  I traveled ten to twelve days per month for work in those days.  Each Sunday, our conversation would begin the same.

“Where did you go this week,” he’d ask, sometimes without even saying hello.

“California (or Michigan, North Dakota, Georgia),” I’d reply.

“When did you leave?”

“Monday.”

“What time on Monday,” the questions kept coming with increasing anticipation.

“About 10 a.m.”

“When did you arrive in California?”

“I don’t know.  Maybe one or two p.m. at the latest.”  Then I’d add in an effort to save a question, “Local time.”

Bam. He’d finished his cross examination as the lawyer that he was. He was ready to make his point to the jury.

“Do you realize,” he’d say with great animation, “It took you less time to cross the country than it takes for your mother and me to cross the state by car?”

“It’s amazing Dad,” doing my best to feign an appropriate amount of awe.

Sometimes when I felt ornery, I would initiate our Sunday call with, “Dad, it’s John.” Then, without taking a breath I’d add, “Did you realize that in the time it takes you to drive to Denver I flew from Washington, DC to Detroit.”

He never picked up that he was being teased.  Instead, he jumped on the “amazement bandwagon” and piped in, “Isn’t that something.  I bet you could cross three time zones in less time than it takes to drive one quarter of a time zone in a car.”

Every Sunday, the same routine.  You could count on it just like you could count on George Burns saying, “Say goodnight Gracie.”  Except that Dad unwittingly played Gracie in this routine.

The changes in our lives are astonishing we pause a moment to reflect.  My Dad was right to be amazed.  It’s amazing how our perspectives have changed, too.

We complain now that there’s “nothing to watch” on our 100 channels of cable or satellite T.V.  Nothing to watch was once, literally, true.  Who remembers watching the Flag wave while the National Anthem played at the end of the television broadcasting day?  Or, staring at a test pattern waiting for cartoons to begin?

We complain that we aren’t able to get enough “bars” to make a call – while vacationing in the mountains.  When did we become so needy of contact?  How many of us really wanted our parents to be able to call on a Saturday night?

We are frustrated when we aren’t able to buy a product at the moment that we want it.   Who remembers ordering something from J.C. Penny’s or Sears and then racing home every day after school to see if it had arrived in the mail (U.S. Postal Service of course)?  What are our children missing out on in a world without anticipation?  What would Carly  Simon sing about today?

It’s fun to think about.  It would have been so much more fodder for my Sunday calls with my Dad.

Parenting today is not more difficult than a generation ago.  It’s just different.

Children today are far safer than when I was a child (knock wood).  I can’t imagine being a parent with all the safety risks that were tolerated when I was young.  Some people say that’s a bad thing.  I agree and disagree.

I’ve watched the video “5 dangerous things you should let your kids do” (which is a little too long).  To save you some time, the list is: (1) Play with fire, (2) Use a pocket knife, (3) Throw a spear, (4) Deconstruct appliances, (5a) Break the digital copyright act, and (5b) Drive a car.

My kids – 11, 9 and 7 – have done all those things.  Okay, we let them drive a go-cart not a car.  And, the seven year old has not yet been the driver.  The others, check, check, check, check, check.

But, there are many things I did – and enjoyed – as a kid that I would never knowingly let my kids do.  It was just dumb luck that I wasn’t seriously hurt.

Just a few things on my “too dangerous to do list” include:

-          BB gun wars.  I’m okay with the kids learning to shoot guns (Joe got a BB gun for Christmas).  But I will discourage them from shooting at their friends.  I lucked out when, on a fourth consecutive day of BB gun fights, we decided to wear sunglasses.  That’s the day I got hit in the eye.

-          Ride bikes without a helmet.  I hated bicycle helmets.  I rode hundreds of miles with Brad Lewis and Tim Yount and seldom wore a helmet.  When we lived in Washington, DC Joni insisted I wear one.  I finally agreed.  I lucked out again.  My first time wearing the helmet I crashed, broke my collar bone and hit my head so hard I was knocked momentarily unconscious.  Without a helmet?

-          Shoot firecrackers (including bottle rockets) at other people.  Loved it.  Like to tell stories about it.  I’ll even write about it tomorrow.  But, it’s probably not a great idea.

-          Pull an inner-tube behind a pickup.  Again, a lot of fun.  It was the best part of a snow day when we were in high school.  But, this activity did lead to serious injury when an inner-tube full of boys slid off the road and slammed into a light pole.

-          Ride in the back of a pickup, standing up, and throw rotten garden vegetables at the “jousting” pick-up going the other direction.  A favorite Halloween pastime.  It also cost me a few hundred dollars when I broke the McMillan’s windshield with a not-yet-rotten pumpkin.

-          Get in a vehicle driven by Glenn Frame.  If you know Glenn, this needs no further explanation. (Just want to give Glenn a hard time. My eyes still get big as saucers when I think about riding with him on country roads.)

I could make a much longer list but you get the point.

I’m sure my parents weren’t keen on a lot of these activities.  I’m sure they were nervous and scared about the possible consequences of an accident.  But the social norms at the time said, “Don’t be a prude.  Let the kids play.”  I’m comfortable with social norms that call for more restraint and greater safety for young people.

There is one challenge we face as parents today that our parents did not have to manage.  How to teach our children discipline in an era of 24/7 access to everything.

My kids are amazed, and disbelieving, when I tell them that cartoons were only on Saturday mornings and from 4 to 5 p.m. (Does anyone remember Major Astro?)  The idea of a new fall schedule of cartoons is a foreign concept to my kids.  We used to plan sleepovers weeks in advance around this major event.

The entertainment list goes on and on: 3 channels of television compared to unlimited choices on cable and the internet; no VCRs (let alone Tivo) until I was in junior high; no home video games, you had to go to restaurants such as John’s Dew Drop Inn, and no DVD players built into cars – horror.

Twenty-four seven access exists beyond entertainment.  You can get food 24/7, too.  Could that be part of the obesity problem?

When I was a kid, my Mom always checked the refrigerator and cupboards on Saturdays to make sure we had what we needed on Saturday night and Sunday.  “Closed stores” is a concept my kids have never encountered.

Our kids have to learn a kind of discipline that we never did.  It’s possible to buy things whenever we want – if not in a physical store then in a virtual one.  It’s possible to be distracted all the time.  Who among us has spent more time on Facebook or some other website longer than we intended.

When there is 24/7 access, our kids must learn 24/7 discipline.  My parents could set limits more easily because the access didn’t exist.

I’m excited about all the things my children are able to do.  I think access is, on balance, a very good thing.  But I do get tired saying, “just 5 more minutes…” or “not today.”

I have known my father-in-law John Mickey (we call him Johnson) a good five to ten years longer than I’ve known my wife, Joni.

Johnson was an active scout leader when I was a boy.  My first clear memory of him was at a scout campout at Crystal Springs.  It was October 11, 1975.  I remember the date because it was my birthday.

Johnson cooked a pineable upside down cake in an old dutch oven.  He is and was a good cook, even on a campfire.  I was given the first piece in honor of my day.

I took a bite, which included lots of pineapple.  I said thanks and headed back toward my tent to let the other boys know the cake was ready.  I walked right past the door of the tent and ducked behind the back.  That’s where I dumped the remains of the cake.  Yuck.  I have never had pineapple upside down cake again.

Johnson was great to have on campouts even if I didn’t appreciate his confections.  He laughed.  He joked.  He was loud.  All the things that young boys enjoy.

When I started dating Joni, he was just as I had remembered him from Scouts.  Enthusiastic.  Jovial.  And, of course, loud.  We got along great even though we had very little in common.  Johnson was and is a passionate outdoorsman.  Let’s just say, I’m not.

Joni and I were very young when we decided to get engaged.  I was 24, midway through my first year of graduate school.  Joni was a junior at Kansas State and not yet 21.  Matt Cunningham helped me plan a romantic dinner on the Plaza in Kansas City of which I remember very little, except that I ate my meal in less than 2 minutes.

Joni and I were nervous to tell our parents our news.  We weren’t sure how they would respond.

We called ahead from a payphone on our way home from eastern Kansas.  We asked my parents to join us at the Mickey’s.  My parents clearly knew something was up because my Dad arrived with champagne.  Betty was surprised to see the bottle and became nervous with anticipation.

We made our announcement.  My Dad popped the cork.  Betty was surprised.  Johnson was silent.

Later that night, Johnson and I settled on the couch in the living room to watch a little TV.  Joni and her mom were in the kitchen.  My parents had gone home.  It was just the two of us.

I had never, in all my years before or since, experienced an uncomfortable silence with Johnson.  That night the tension was thick as molasses.  Johnson didn’t speak for 10, 15, nearly 30 minutes.  He just sat there looking straight ahead at the television.

I was getting nervous.  Was he mad?  Was he disappointed?  Did he disapprove?

At long last, he turned his head in my direction and asked the rhetorical question I’ll never forget.  “You don’t fish much do you?”

Stephanie Reed, a woman I’ve neither met nor spoken to, gave my family a great gift in 2004 when her book Across the Wide River was published.  I recently ordered her second book, The Light across the River.  These are fictional stories of the Reverend John Rankin family and the role they played in the Underground Railroad.

Reverend John Rankin is my 4xgreat –grandfather on my mother’s side.

My mother had a keen interest in genealogy.  She struck up a correspondence friendship with Mrs. Reed while doing research on the Rankin family.  My mom was recognized by Mrs. Reed in the acknowledgements of Across the Wide River.  I got goose-bumps when I saw her name in the book.

As a child I did not pay enough attention to the stories my mom told about our family history.  These stories take on greater importance, I realize now, when you have your own children.  The desire to explain “who we are,” “where we came from,” and “what we stand for,” takes on new meaning.

Across the Wide River came at an important time in my life.  My mother died of breast cancer in 2002 the day after my daughter Emma’s fifth birthday.  My children will have virtually no memories of my mom.  She won’t be able to pass on to my children the stories of her – our – family.  The responsibility falls to me and I was less than an attentive student.

Then came Across the Wide River.  This book provided me an opportunity I could not have created on my own.  Mrs. Reed handed me a strand of our family narrative that I could use to engage my children in learning about family and, more importantly, to provide my children with ancestral roles models.

We have direct descendents who had the courage to stand up against prevailing public sentiment in defense of a greater moral value: Freedom.

Across the Wide River is symbolic of the great power of family stories.  As we read and discussed the book together, I could feel my own children gaining confidence to strive to do the right thing.  They are developing a sense of responsibility to continue a family legacy of standing up for social justice.

I have never done anything even marginally similar to the heroic efforts made by those who were part of the Underground Railroad.  I don’t begin to expect that my own children should or will one day do things that make them historic figures.

But there is a strange sort of comfort, a reservoir of courage somewhere deep within, that springs from the knowledge that someone in your family – even family members who lived more than 170 years ago – successfully confronted more difficult challenges than we will ever encounter.

My daughter Emma talks about an inner voice she hears on the few occasions she’s had to confront a bully in the school yard.  She says it’s as if Lowry or one of her 4xgreat uncles is saying, “You can do this.”

Every family has stories of making it through difficult and challenging times.  My wife Joni’s parents managed the stress of little income without their daughters knowing the difference and became role models of public service.

Many families are descendents of combat veterans who had to face up to the untold horrors of the battlefield – men and women who returned to their families and communities to build a future.

These types of family stories are of critical importance to next generation and the generation after that.  Through our family stories we learn that courage, cooperation and perseverance are not qualities limited to fairy tale heroes.  These are qualities that reside within us all to be called on when needed.

Our family stories help us learn that even in the darkest hours there is light ahead.

Thank you to Stephanie Reed for sharing these family stories.

As Martin Luther King Day and Inaugaration Day draw near, it seems an appropriate time to post an essay I wrote last year. It was published in the Longmont Daily Times-Call.

Our country is filled with hope and angst as our first African-American president prepares to take office. I would love to have one afternoon to talk about this historic time with my father.  I am reminded of him as Inaugaration Day draws near. I am always reminded of him when MLK Day approaches (see below).

My father was politically astute.  He predicted the election turmoil of 2000 (except he thought the situation would be reversed – Bush winning popular vote and Gore the election).  He is a man who voted for Richard Nixon three times.  Yet, in March 2007, he said about Barack Obama, “He’s the real deal.”

Here’s what I wrote this week last year…

This week, I took out my set of cassette tapes, A Knock at Midnight: Inspiration from the Great Sermons of Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr.  These recordings are a collection of Dr. King’s sermons delivered from his pulpit at Ebenezer Baptist Church in Atlanta (and other churches).  I like to re-listen each January, typically while walking on the treadmill in the loft of our garage.

My tradition takes on new meaning this year.  I think of my father now when I pick up the box of tapes. 

I had the joy of spending long days with my father the last week of his life.  While recounting memorable experiences, he remarked, “I shed a tear the day Martin Luther King was shot.  You might think it odd that a white man from an all white town in the middle of the country would cry for a black man from the South.”

“Why did you cry?” I asked.

My father was a man of facts, not reflections.  “I’ve never thought about it much,” he said.  After a silence, he added, “He gave his life to make our country better.  Maybe that’s why.”

King certainly made great contributions to our country. He deserves to be honored with a national holiday.  But, I value King’s sermons for a personal reason.  His words inspire me to do better.  I listen in January not to celebrate the holiday but to kick-start my resolutions.

My favorite King sermon is “Loving Your Enemies.”  King tells his congregation that Jesus knowingly asked us to do something very difficult.  But, King explains, in fact love and compassion are practical responses to life’s challenges.  Hate and anger are impractical, even counterproductive.

An example King gives in his sermon is about a time he and his brother were traveling at night on a highway.  Car after approaching car failed to dim their lights, making it hard for King’s brother, who was driving, to see.  In frustration, Kings’ brother declared that the next passing car that left the lights on high beam would receive the same treatment in return (how many of us have done this?).

King chided his brother, asking what good that would do except put passengers in both cars at greater risk of an accident.

American politics, these past 16 years, has been blinded by the high beams of anger and spite.  In the 1990s, Republicans were consumed by their loathing of the Clintons.  This decade, Democrats can barely see beyond their visceral distaste for the Bush Administration.

Both sides devote countless hours to belittling one another.  A book and talk show industry are built on these practices.  Imagine what might have been accomplished, if the creativity devoted toward proclaiming how much we loath one another had been directed toward a constructive purpose.

Indeed, over these past 16 years, the vineyards of public policy have produced little fruit.  Our hate-induced paralysis stymies efforts to deal with matters such as health care and entitlement reform.  The articles written today about problems and solutions are essentially the same as they were two decades ago.  For all intents and purposes we have wasted a generation of public life.

We witness hatefulness in our own communities, too.  I hear people declare distaste for the overtly religious.  I see hatefulness toward people from Mexico, in particular those who enter our country without proper documents.

How do we get past the hate?  Dr. King offers suggestions.  In character, he says we must start with ourselves.  What is the source of hate we feel in our own hearts?

King suggests that hate toward others bubbles up when we sense weakness in ourselves.  For instance, why are some of us turned off by the overtly religious?  Is it because we lack spirituality in our own lives?  And, why do some of us feel such hostility toward people who risk their lives to sneak into our country in search of a better life for their family?  Perhaps, born in America, we don’t feel deserving of the abundant opportunities granted to us by virtue of birth rather than effort.

I don’t pretend to know the answers to these questions.  I also know people’s anger sometimes derives from reasonable concerns.  The overtly religious sometimes go too far, injecting piety into public life.  And, illegal immigration undermines the rule of law that is a basis of our nation’s prosperity.

But doesn’t it seem that the revulsion for one another we hear expressed over the airwaves, in print and at times in our inner circles far exceeds what is reasonable?

Many of us will spend this Martin Luther King Day in individual pursuits.  The notion of a holiday worthy of a celebration may never cross our minds.  I don’t imagine Dr. King would expend much energy worrying about all that.  But, I can imagine what Dr. King might suggest as a fitting holiday tribute.

Perhaps, Dr. King would tell us that on this day we don’t need to attend public celebrations. Instead, he might call on each of us to stay home, look in the mirror and ask, “How will I demonstrate love for my enemies?”