Uncle John’s Log & Co.

Jeanne e-cast the good news yesterday— Hayley has scored her sought-after “full ride” to Campbellsville University. The Advocate published an interview today, and I always get a kick out of these stories about Belle, because she’s been so quiet around me, and then seems so verbally expressive in the journalistic context. Her mom reports: “She worked hard and overcame obstacles to realize her dream to play college ball and have her education paid for. She has visited several times, really likes the coaches, spent time with the girls (has scrimmaged with them, too) and most of all, likes the “feel” of the campus. Her next dream/goal is to be a school counselor and coach girls basketball. You should see the look on her face… it’s priceless.”

I remember writing in my journal about the first time I attended a Chamber of Commerce banquet in Danville, and finding it a powerfully positive experience, as I acclimated to a new community. Cliff and Jeanne were there, and the keynote speaker was a newspaper columnist from Louisville. It seemed as though everybody present knew him, except for me. Another thing I remember is how perceptive and funny he was. Here was a nice guy who had grown up along the Hanging Fork, who had gone to the big city, and who had made it big. I now believe that the perspective he shared that evening influenced how I would come to perceive the people of my newly adopted state. If I was wondering, “Just who are these Kentuckians?”—and surely I must have been—I could have done a lot worse than listen to the keen observations of Mr. Byron Crawford.

He called me yesterday for a phone interview, as he prepared to write a bike-to-work piece for his column in the Courier-Journal. On the eve of my annual conclave with the Kentucky Bicycle and Bikeway Commission, it’s interesting to think that my desire to make a mark on the quality of life in this Commonwealth might in no small way trace back to that night nearly twenty years ago when Byron came to town.

I rode my mountain bike out to the cabin this morning for Shared Silence again. Dan W and I put in some saddle time afterwards, and it was a good workout. So now I’ve ridden almost 90 miles on knobby tires this spring in preparation for the road-bike season. I know, way behind schedule, but I’ve been convinced it was prudent this year to make sure my conditioning and balance were in better shape before I clipped into the pedals on “Teeka-Hindoh,” my Peugeot racer.

We had our Mother’s Day follow-up After Silence. I forgot to bring a picture of Mombo, probably because I was getting ready to leave on my bicycle. Obviously, when this idea of talking about our mothers came up, it never occurred to me that she might be in the hospital. When it was my turn, it was a bit difficult to get started, and I was nervous, but I didn’t choke up. It seemed like everyone else has extraordinary mothers, too—not perfect—but special. Not surprising, since these are some of the best people I’ve met in my life. Exceptional people usually have exceptional mothers.

I’m not in the business of comparing my siblings to each other, but more than once in recent years I’ve had the realization that the one person who reminds me most of my mom is my sister Jeanne. That, in combination with a recent conversation (about how much Jeanne has taken the lead in being there for Mombo over the past ten days), got me to thinking more about my kid sister—our “Pinkie.”

Growing up, “Little Jinny” was a kid sister, too. Both have keen perceptions and a deep faith. Jeanne almost matched her mom’s family of seven children. Like our mother, Jeanne is shy about her feelings when among others, reluctant to be critical, but quick with laughter, and nobody’s fool. She has devoted her life to her husband and family.

But Jeanne reminds me of our father, too. She carries many aspects of Dadbo’s temperament. Like him—and I’ll be brutally honest—she hasn’t always chosen the best way to manage her stress. She’s not alone in that. With Mombo’s heart condition, the evidence is now abundantly clear. Cardiovascular disease runs on both sides of our immediate heritage. Dadbo gave away so much of his magnanimous heart that, in the end, there weren’t enough beats left for himself. “Generous to a fault” is the expression. My little sis is similarly self-sacrificing, and it makes me love her so—but it worries me.

I’m also like that man I was named after. I worry about things.

Start riding a bike, too, Pinkie. I promise I’ll be there.

Memorial Day weekend is cranking up. Marty and I finally began our driveway project this morning, and Ned is sagging under the weight of ancient blacktop. As America prepares to kick off another summer of fun and God knows what, let’s keep in mind the true reason we commemorate this weekend— all those who fell in service to our nation, and, by their sacrifice, earned for the rest of us the freedom to pursue our happiness. This wire photo helps keep my head in the right place. I also find myself thinking about Dadbo and his war service.

How many fallen buddies did my father mourn and never tell us about? How many friends came out of his first flight-school class, and what feelings filled his young heart when a sports injury prevented him from joining them as they shipped off? How many ended up in Europe as bomber pilots and never came back from those perilous missions? How much did that experience play in my Dad’s drive to see action in the Pacific, and how many friends did he lose in that theater… friends he also chose never to talk about?

Well, I’d best move on to the other reason for today’s entry. The latest message from Joan says that Mombo is doing well. I’ve decided to take the easy road today and post her news in this log. Why shouldn’t I just provide a direct report? Her current role in providing constant companionship for Mombo (with Jeanne, Rachel, and Glenda) has taken her away from blogging—

“A lot has happened since my last note to you all. Mombo has made some great improvements. The breathing treatments that she gets every 8 hours seem to be helping her, and she is now up to 850 on her ‘hookah.’ She has been taking some really good walks ‘around the block.’ Her appetite has returned, so she is eating much more and actually said that her lunch tasted ‘really good’ today. Her spirits are high, and you can tell that she is putting her will into getting well so that she can go home. They haven’t given us a firm day yet, but they have mentioned a possibility of Sunday. It would be nice to get her home on the Lord’s Day. She is so grateful for the beautiful cards and the phone calls from so many of you. Rachel and Glenda have been real troopers in helping Jeanne and me provide Mom with round-the-clock company. She really perks up when she gets a visitor. Today she said her rosary and read several daily readings from the Mass. She also got to see most of DAYS OF OUR LIVES. The case manager here at Central Baptist was in today and is arranging for home health care to come in after she gets back to the Valley. We are very pleased with the care she has had here. Most of her nurses and nursing assistants have been wonderful. Respiratory and physical therapists have also been supportive and helpful. She was so busy today that she did not even get a nap in, so now she is tired out, but, all in all, she is moving down the road to recovery.”

Thanks, Joannie, for keeping us all informed. You are a good daughter and an exceptional sister, too. But, most of all, you are a great mother, like Jeanne, and we all know who taught you how.

Get well soon, Mombo, and come back to the Land!

Dana took Bruce to St. Joseph on Monday for surgery on his arm that would facilitate extended dialysis. Unfortunately, his potassium level was too high, so he stayed until the following day. He had two dialysis treatments (Monday/Tuesday), and then he was in shape to get the procedure. It was a blessing that the surgeon found a way to work on the problematic left side. Bruce had been very reluctant to condone any vascular manipulation of his good right arm.

We broke away from Danville to be with Bruce after his surgery, and then got the good news that he was being discharged. It was complicated for me, because I was trying to remotely handle authorization for necessary revisions to the Band Festival poster, and also make sure the proof got back to Louisville. After we left St. Joe, it was time to pay a visit to Mombo over at Central Baptist. Both Jeanne and Joan were there.

Joan had already told us about the setback on Monday when Mombo’s heart rhythm became erratic. Dr. Martin said it happens in 25% of cases. They put her back on an IV and stabilized with medication. According to Joan, “She got a pretty African violet plant from the Gels Family. Many friends and family members have been by to see her, and she has had some welcome phone calls. She has been pretty wheezy, so they took x-rays,” which indicated fluid in her left lung. My mom told Joan she can feel the power of the prayers on her behalf.

We had a nice visit, but this is the part of the saga when my awe of modern surgical technique collapses into misgivings about extended stays in the hospital environment. Having just read Gladwell’s chapter on the powerful influence of context, from The Tipping Point, didn’t calm my apprehension. She doesn’t seen to have any appetite for hospital food, and she’s struggling with the motivation to get out of bed and walk. Mombo needs adequate care in recovery, but I can’t help but wonder how much the simple fact of just being in a hospital room can adversely affect a patient’s sense of well-being and resistance to potential complications.

I want Mombo out of that place as soon as possible…

The time was almost 9 pm when we got to visit Mombo on Saturday. It was so satisfying to see her in her own private room, with a minimum of medical apparatus. She was quite talkative and tried to sort out all the occurrences in what had been an incredibly long day that began when she woke up in the Care Unit. When she asked, “Was that today?” I had to say, “Must have been, since yesterday was your surgery, and you were knocked out until this morning.” Her look of astonishment told me that she was living in the middle of a whirlwind recovery, and I knew it was time for us to leave and for her to get some needed rest. Jeanne took a dinner break while we were there and was preparing to spend the night. As we were leaving, Mombo was having the nurse explain each of the medications she was being asked to swallow—precisely the kind of perpetual skepticism so essential in the hospital environment. I thought I might be able to rest easier. I figured she was in the clear.

On the way home we saw the awesome proximity of Venus with a crescent moon. This had to be the celestial image that inspired the Turkish national flag. What’s the story behind that? Dana saw her first “shooting star” as we crossed the Kentucky River. For some reason it made me think of when they were taking Mombo into pre-op. She had said, “I’m in good hands,” and I asked, “Do you mean with Truly?” She didn’t understand my question, so I whispered the answer in her ear. ”Your guardian angel.” She laughed, but I wasn’t sure if she remembered the name of her life-long protector.

Perhaps that meteor was in actuality a heavenly body. Truly was telling us my mother was “in the clear.”

I’m chest deep in deadline mode, plugging toward a Monday presentation, but I have to stop for a moment and muse a bit about the wonderful womenfolk in my Clan.

My sister Jeanne stopped by yesterday and made a gesture of astonishing generosity that I won’t describe here, but that warmed my heart. A week ago, my sister Joannie gave a gift of her time and helped us make progress on our remodeled conference room with “galley kitchen” project. I have amazing sisters and I try to convince myself that I deserve them.

Yesterday, my niece Jerusha had her third baby—this time a girl—named Torrance Rylee. She has long fingers and is sweet to behold. Dana and I stopped by the hospital for a spell before heading out to the high school to watch my niece Hayley lead her team to a decisive win over a good team that defeated them earlier in the season. It was a 28-pointer for our Belle, by my count, and that missed her season high by a point. I was really rooting for another basket, but she kept feeding her teammates instead, helping them in achieving their own season highs. Magnanimous… like her mother and father, and like her Grandy-bo, too. I also thought about the other grandfather she never knew—Len. He might have been even more proud than any of us last night.

Susan and James came to watch, and I found out that my niece Rita will be studying in Europe this summer—traveling, writing, and making photographs. I can’t wait to enjoy the results of that creative adventure. And, speaking of adventures, my niece Caitlan has added competitive rowing to her extraordinary schedule at Oxford, England. Unreal. Keep it up, KK!

They’re all so awesome, and I could go on with more, but I’ve already rambled for too long. It’s time to return to the drawing board, and I’ll be thinking about my Uncle Bob’s noteworthy proposition that the story of our family is a story of strong women. Indeed it is.

My sis is meeting her chum Deb at Centre tonight for a MoLM performance. I taped the Lithgow made-for-TV version a while back, but never watched it. Joan says it’s worth viewing. Dana made a delicious chicken dinner for Joan and me before the show. We were planning to stay home and watched the SoTU on television, but Jeanne stopped by earlier with some Planet-made Rebel sweatshirts, and now I want to go watch Belle play ball. I’ll catch the C-SPAN re-air later.

I still regard the president as a genuine leader, but only one of three Americans is still following him, which isn’t a major problem, unless, of course, he turns out to be wrong. Anybody who talks as though his legacy is settled, or offers foregone outcomes about what he’s set in motion, is merely engaging in ideological speculation. The history of our era is far from having been written. None of us knows how this will turn out, and I can’t be convinced otherwise…

There are flaws in all events, and the time will come soon enough for our annual “post-mortem” evaluation, but overall, The Salvation Army Appreciation Dinner was a great success. I can’t describe the sense of relief and satisfaction that today brings, other than to state that those are the feelings dominating my mood. I sense perfect timing for the new cycle that arrives tomorrow—a cycle of change and new projects.

It was good to see my sister Jeanne at the dinner, representing the 10th Planet, one of the new “Business Partners in HOPE.” Cliff was torn between being there and attending Hayley’s Boyle-Danville softball matchup, and he decided to wear the Dad cap. That’s just fine—there will be more Salvation Army goings-on for the rest of our lives, but children have fleeting intervals that are quickly gone forever.

I missed my chance to personally invite Seth at Easter, but there he was with his mentor, Mr. Durham! A superb opportunity for him to learn more about the Army and solidify his sense of achievement in Liberty last Christmas season. I also heard the good news that he’ll be attending the Governor’s Scholars Program this summer.

David and Lee were there, plus all the great friends of the Army’s mission in our five-county area. Divisional Commander Major Howell was a fantastic guest speaker and his address was a tough act for me to follow, since, as Vice Chair of the Advisory Board, I was to give the closing remarks and prayer. The Spirit was right there to boost my delivery, and I did as well as I think I’ve ever done in front of a large group. I’d gone with my intuition when I developed my speech, but wasn’t entirely confident of its appropriateness until Major Howell spoke, and then I knew that everything dovetailed with precision. Divine design? Amazing…

I laugh to myself every time I think about it, and I’m not sure if I should, or whether a bit of angst is the more logical response—as if angst ever had a thing to do with logic. When I was finishing my last stint as a 2005 Red Kettle bell ringer, Jeanne saw me at the Wal-Mart grocery entrance. She told me she was thinking of Grandy-bo because I was wearing the Hudson Bay coat that originally belonged to William Breidenbach, and she remembered that Dadbo wore it for a few years after Dana gave it to him. She didn’t realize it was me at first. We were having a sweet brother-sister moment when my Rotarian replacement arrived, a lady who’s a top employee at one of our client businesses. Jeanne put her arms around me and gave me a kiss. I said, “See you tomorrow night.” It wasn’t until later that I recalled the odd look on the woman’s face when I handed her the bell and wished her a Merry Christmas…

Here we go; these painful losses seem to come in clusters.

First my Aunt Alma, then my good friend Mack, and now my pal Bob D, one of the outstanding Bobs in my life.