Stabbing Northwestward! Or: How We Kicked The Midwest Cyclone’s Ass.

We cannot tell the precise moment when friendship is formed. As in filling a vessel drop by drop, there is at last a drop which makes it run over. So in a series of kindness there is, at last, one which makes the heart run over.

~ James Boswell (1740 – 1795)

I’m sitting inside the friendly, warm, confines of the Cyber Cafe sipping a $2.00 hot chocolate. And the lady with the really swooshy hair on KSAX just informed me that yesterday’s storm set a record for the lowest barometric pressure of any storm – ever – in the good ‘ole U. S. of A.

Yeah.

We drove through that shit you’re seeing on the news today. Fortunately, the twisters touched down in our wake, but we didn’t miss the snow. It hit quickly, and hard. I put the pedal to the metal for most of the 750+ miles, keeping the speedometer comfortably nestled between five to seven MPH over the posted speed limit. And then I had to pee. Waaaay too much coffee. So I pulled over at a gas station in Motley, Minnesota, about twenty-five miles short of our destination, and the snow that had been an unexpected yet minor nuisance started to stick. Pile up. And my front tires? Not exactly new.

We never topped thirty MPH for the remainder of the trip.

I even managed to put the van’s ass in a ditch just outside Verndale. After everyone stopped screaming and started breathing again, I dropped her into low gear, asked the pale and nauseated wife and daughter to rock back and forth violently yet in perfect rhythm with my engine revs, and we got out.

Amazing.

I almost ditched it a couple more times. I never knew I could turn a steering wheel back and forth so quickly. Despite having gripped the steering wheel with a determined ferocity for most of the trip due to the high winds, I found new ways to squeeze the damn thing tighter. My neck and back protested with every swerve. We hit Wadena, and I almost pulled over. Got a room. Something I could have done.

Thanks to you.

In response to my last post, you came through. And in the words of that grandmaster of hyperbole, Dave Matthews . . .

My mind is blown!

To those who gave . . . To all of you, who kept us in your thoughts and prayers . . . I extend my sincerest gratitude.

This blog thing. Some write it off as a distraction. An ineffective method of building a caring community. To them, I proclaim a hearty . . .

STICK IT IN YOUR EAR!!!

Not very original, I know. I’m all out of original at present. We are here. We are sifting through the boxes and closets that hold remnants of a life now ended. We are still crying. Finding fresh reservoirs of tears, deeper than we ever imagined possible. And yet, we are laughing as well. Such paradox. Yin and yang. The balance of this delicate life.

We are living.

We are thankful.

And we are longing for home. Where there is no snow . . .

[Flickr photo is by Hryck and is protected]

A Plea for Benevolence

When I give, I give myself.

~ Walt Whitman

This post will change everything between you and I. Or, it might not. It depends on the perspective.

You visit here and expect certain things: a whimsical tale; a well-researched and thoughtful polemic; a charming anecdote featuring one of my kids; an update about this or that life circumstance. When I beg, it’s generally for forgiveness.

Today, I’m begging for your financial assistance.

I have nothing to sell. No book to peddle, no beaded headbands, no homemade peanut brittle. This is not like that.

Here’s the deal:

As you may know, I spent the better part of last year laid off. I did my best to make ends meet and relied on some forms of assistance to help in critical areas. When I returned to work for a new company this past March, those forms of assistance ceased. I have therefore worked hard this year getting back on my financial feet, making severe adjustments in the way our money is used for the expenses that come with providing for a large family. It hasn’t been easy. We live paycheck to paycheck and have very little left over to set aside for emergencies.

As you may also know, we have had our share of emergencies this month. In addition to some unexpected car repairs, we have been dealing with my father-in-law’s cancer diagnosis. Most trips one can save for, but the recent rushed trip to Fargo so everyone could see him one last time and be with family broke the proverbial bank. If it hadn’t been for the generosity of several relatives and one dear friend of my wife’s, that trip would not have happened. And now that my father-in-law has passed, I need to get my wife back to Minnesota for the funeral. My most recent paycheck is gone, and I have no way to pay for this trip.

And here you are. Gathered among those who read The Cheek of God. You may know me personally, either as a relative or as a friend. You may come here because we met via our blogs, or Twitter, and think of me as either a significant or relatively small member of your digital social network. There are degrees to relationships. And through this venue, I’ve tried to make a few good friends. I’ve always been honest, even as I’ve held the most important cards to my chest. We’ve become “close” in ways both intriguing and familiar. I’ve given you the best, and sometimes worst, parts of me, and many of you have responded. As a result, some of us have chatted outside these digital walls, and some of you have privately expressed a desire to help during this difficult time.

This is your chance.

Since this has come up unexpectedly, I have had no time to consider all the ways one can make donations that are both quick and anonymous. After an evening of contemplation, PayPal seems to be the most effective and safest way to accomplish this digital passing of the hat. So I offer these two ways to give:

1) Click HERE. This will take you to a web page that will allow you to make a donation to The Cheek of God using your PayPal account. However, there are a couple things you should know about using this method:

• There will be a fee deducted on my end for receiving your donation. Not a big deal. I just want you to realize that I won’t be receiving the full amount that you choose to donate. If that’s cool with you, then it’s cool with me.
• I will be given your physical mailing address as part of the payment details. So, while this method of donating is perhaps the easiest, it may not be the best option for you.

2) Make a Personal Gift Payment. To do this:

• Sign in to your PayPal account.
• Click on the <Send Money> tab.
• Enter my email address (piscine@frontier.com)
• Enter the amount of your gift.
• Click the <Personal> tab.
• Select <Gift>.
• Click <Continue>.

Using this method, I will not be charged a fee for receiving your donation, and I will only be given your name and email address, not your physical address.

There are, of course, other ways to send money. There is Western Union or MoneyGram. If you prefer to make a donation using one of those services, simply contact me at the above email address and we can go from there.

If you’ve made it this far, know that I am aware of how asking for money can affect any relationship. Some of you will not consider what we have here in Blogworld a “relationship.” You may find my gall in asking for help both rude and inappropriate. I can understand that. If you never visit my blog again, I wish you peace as you go. Others of you will think differently about me. I have let the cat out of the bag, so to speak, and you will think less of me. You will question my discipline. That too is understandable. Know that what I present here is me, pure and simple, and I am evolving. I will not be the same person tomorrow that I am today. This blog has helped me realize that change can happen, and I’ll be here for as long as you’ll have me, working toward becoming a different, and better, me. But perhaps most of you will understand where I’m coming from. You get it. And you’ll stick around. The decision is yours alone.

I will not be able to pay you back. Not with money anyway. And I promise that any money you give will be used for this trip. I will not squander it or use it frivolously.

So there you have it. My plea. What good are friends if you can’t ask them for help on occasion. Know that I am grateful for you. You take the time to come here. You offer your time and thought. And from my perspective, whether you choose to give or not will not change a thing between you and I. I know you care. And for that, I thank you . . .

[Flickr photo is by Artotem and is protected]

Goodbye, Dad

Do not fear death so much, but rather the inadequate life.

~ Bertolt Brecht (1898 – 1956)

It’s like he saw it coming and didn’t want to go without one final whopper of a shindig, one everyone would enjoy. So he loaded up the car with grandkids and a cooler and met us at Six Flags in Chicago. He had a cough that gave him trouble most mornings, or if he walked too much, but he didn’t seem worried about it. He swam in the pool at the motel, rode a few rides at the theme park, and ate pizza with typical gusto.

July 24^th, 2010.

We sat on the hotel bed and chatted after a long day. It came up that I had quit smoking, and he gave me the most intriguing look. Not a smile, so much, but an acknowledgment of sorts. Where one looks at another and changes ever so slightly their estimation of them. Then he reached over and patted me on the back.

Today, the wait is over.

My father-in-law Gary passed away this afternoon, just minutes after a family/doctor conference call where we decided to let him go. We agreed that his life had been too large to have it now squandered away tethered to wires and tubes in a too-small hospital room. His cancer had ravaged him quickly, and he went with no hesitation. His ashes will be spread among the giant redwoods of California, his own heaven on earth. I’ve never been there, and I will meet him there one day.

Before we left his side this past Monday, I paid him one last visit. I gave him a hat sporting the logo of the place where I work. You see, for as long as I’ve known him, he made sure that each time I visited, I got a new Lund hat. The latest model. We often looked like the goofiest and most unlikely pair of twins when we went out on the town. We’d sit at the Eagles café, drink coffee, and tip our matching hats to the waitresses. I wore each hat with pride, and still have a few here and there. But there in the hospital, he had no hat. So I left him one of mine. A gift for when he decided to wake up.

He never did.

But I like to think that he knew I left it for him. I sat it beside him, leaned in to kiss his cheek, and told him I loved him. I thanked him for the gift of his daughter, and for that pat on the back. Such a casual thing, yet it meant something between us. More than I will probably ever be able to express.

It has been an honor to call him dad . . .

Gary Lee Harper
March 3, 1946 – October 21, 2010

[Flickr photo is by Tim Pearce and is protected]

Vigil

It is not death, but dying, which is terrible.

~ Henry Fielding (1707-54)

Lately, she cries even when she is sleeping.

I slip between unfamiliar sheets in a room carpeted with children, mine and those belonging to relatives, and gently roll her toward me. She hasn’t moved in hours, sleep having finally, thankfully, overtaken her.

I hold her. Let her dampen my chest. Tell her that it is all right to hurt. To be here and helpless.

We are in Fargo, North Dakota. On a trip we cannot afford to make. We are not sure how we will get home.

And he is here. Since Friday morning. He wasn’t supposed to make it through that day. So we came. Sixteen hours bookended – flooded – with uncertainty.

We sit. Occasionally, we wander through the big doors at the end of the hall and stand at his side. Hold his hand. Brush the stubble on his chin with our hands. Talk to him. Wonder if he hears. Hope he does.

Two weeks ago, the doctors said he had cancer in his lungs. We fretted, even when he told us in his simple way not to. Then pneumonia settled in. Dug in its bloody talons. Somehow he made the ninety minute trip here.

When asked, he said he wanted to live, so he is now adorned with tubes and induced by drugs into a healing slumber.

He is fighting as he sleeps.

And we are waiting . . .

[Flickr photo is by Brittany G and is protected]