The Haasienda on Shroyer…

MIAGD: make it a great day

I replaced a latch on the front storm door all by myself. The fact I knew what to order was a complete amazement of myself.

The hardware store, to me, is a fascinating place filled with all sorts of interesting items that go way beyond my love for PVC. I can literally spend hours in Lowe's, or Menards. I actually find it exciting to learn about things I had never considered.

Until I moved to The Haasienda on Shroyer Road, I was always blast with maintenance man who came to fix each and every little thing. Once we were moved into the house, I was determined to learn how to do things for myself, and to teach my sons: they needed to learn these things, too.

I am, by no means, a skilled carpenter, but I certainly know how to build shelving, and other items as needed. My grandfather, Leroy Barmes, and his father, Virgil, were skilled carpenters. I have no aspirations of acquiring their expertise, but I can hold my own for what is needed around the house.

When we moved to 3159, the latch portion of the storm door never worked. The door wouldn't close, but never latch. I finally decided that this was something I could accomplish – after 14 years.

And, I did.

I examined the handle on the storm door, matched it up to what I found on Amazon.com, placed the order, received the package, took off the old door handle, put on the new door handle.

I did have to put signs on the door to remind others, including myself, that the door no longer simply pulled open without depressing the button on the handle.

This may seem quite simple to many folks, but for me, each of these little tasks become a deposit in my confidence bank account. They are important reminders that with some common sense, information, and some pluck, very few tasks are beyond my capability.

Go, Ye, therefore with confidence, and attempt/accomplish something you've never tried.

Make it a great day!

MIAGD: Make it a great day

Why must we continue to remind ourselves “we are all in this together?”

When I was growing up, there was such a strong sense of community throughout the neighborhood, the schools, and the entire community.  I know it recalls merrier melodies of Mayberry, but it was truly a comforting, secure, and enriching feeling to live this way of life.

My neighbors, The Fortners, The Herndons, The Coles were more like additional uncles and aunts, and their children, cousins.  Luther and Ida, two dear septuagenarians across the street were additional great-grandparents from the deep hills of Kentucky (I still use several of their DIY tips!).

The parents of schoolmates were often family friends, and if not, we all knew one another with a slight amount of affection.

Teachers were not overburdened with government interference, and could actually teach us students, and not teach toward a government mandated exam.  We had a healthy fear of our teachers, administrators, and staff, but we knew they loved us, and wanted the best for us.

When we were uptown Elwood, Indiana, I don’t remember folks looking away as you walked past them; a lack of self-confidence seemed miniscule.  People often knew me by name, and stopped for conversation.

It seems we were all so much more interconnected, physically, which secured the mental and emotional connectivity.  Now, we are less physically connected, and I am not certain we are all the more mentally, and emotionally connected.  It would seem social media, Skype, and the other numerous means of connecting would draw us closer, but it seems, to me, we are growing further apart.

I do miss the closeness of what I knew as a child, and teenager, but, alas, I’ve fallen victim to the disconnect.

Maybe it’s a part of the aging process.

Maybe it’s just me.

But, I can still give a damn good bear hug!

Make it a great day, Folks!

Usually I can wrestle fatigue, but tonight, I am losing the match.

The past several days have been filled with organizing the study, prepping for the school year, teaching, and doing the run-of-the-mill household chores.  I wish I could find the button to the “tired spot.”

But, I cannot deny it’s been an awesome several days.  They’ve been productive, and exciting to witness progress with students, and getting the school year ready.

Here’s some photos from my Monday….

My gosh! I fell asleep at my desk, twice.

My morning hours were spent with scheduling private students for the 2017-2018 Season, and other multitasking, and before I realized it I had thirty minutes to shower before my first student arrived.

Several students, and then a fantastic master class with very attentive, talented students. Then, more lessons.

At 8:00 PM, as my last student pulled out of the parking lot, I was already plowing through 30+ emails, adjusting scheduled items, and juggling several other items.

By 11:30 PM, I was wrapping everything up.

I allowed myself some doggie hugging time while listening to Brahms' SYMPHONY No. 5, before returning to another batch of responding emails.

1:00 AM, I realized I'd fallen asleep, twice. The incoming emails would just have to wait until morning.

Alas, a highly productive, yet, still relaxing weekend has come, and gone.

Thursday, I spent a majority of the day working on the deck, and on some minor projects in the back yard. 8:30 PM, I walked two blocks to Rousch Stadium to watch the Fairmont HS Marching Firebirds present their parent/camp show.

Friday, was much of the same, except I taught a new student lesson, and then Griffith and I ventured downtown to watch my student, Sam, who will be portraying Cat In The Hat in the musical, Seussical, perform a brief preview. , Sam, his mom, Karen, Griffith, and I walked around downtown observing, and even participating in some of the really cool art projects.

I fully intended for my Saturday to be focused entirely on writing. However, that was not to be the case.

I rose at 7 AM, and thought I would do some household tasks until 10 AM when it hopefully warmed up a bit outside. What a pipe dream!

By 8 PM, I was wrapping up my day having accomplished far more than I had ever intended. I repositioned televisions/cables, assisted Griffith with putting some additional flat stones along the back walk, continued with re-organizing my study, turned the stairwell to my bedroom into an art gallery, and completed a lot of scheduling/business items as we head into the new school year in a few weeks.

Despite sacrificing my designated writing time, I am very pleased with all that was accomplished yesterday.

This morning, since 7 AM, I've been preparing for today's regular lessons, and a master class.

It feels good to be ahead of the game as we make this transition with the new school year's schedule.

It hit me with a bit of, “Oh, no… it cannot be forty years…”

Yes, Darin.  It’s been 40 years since you attended your first drum corps show in August 1977.  My band director, Paula Simmons, and her Ball State University college roommate, Pam Smith-Wishmeyer, invited me to attend the drum corps show in Lafayette, Indiana.

That first sound…

I can still remember the chills that invaded my soul.

I can still remember the hair standing up on my arms, and the back of my neck.

I can still remember the seeming spin of my brain as the music swelled.

I can remember falling in love with music on a much, much deeper level.

I’ve never gone a summer without seeing a drum-corps (now, more familiarly known by the organizational name, DCI/Drum-Corps International) since 1977.

I’ve had former students march with various corps through the years, most recently, Marlyn Strickland with Madison Scouts (now band director at Coy Middle School), and John Newcomb with Legends (now a music performance student at University of Dayton).  I love seeing my kids on the field!

Marlyn Strickland

John Newcomb

Much has changed in style, concept, and performance, but the heart is still solid: music, and friendship.

One of my favorite moments is watching the incoming front-line percussion members standing over to the side of the track in their pre-show huddle, arms draping across one another’s backs, having “their moment” as the current corps finishes up on the field.  As you walk through the parking lots filled with buses, equipment semis, corps food trucks, members warming up or getting dressed, family and friends greeting members, and seeing members from different corps greeting one another, there is just always that sense of people-love.

This was a neat time tonight because one of my student’s parents bought a ticket for him next to me; he is an 8th grader; I was an 8th grader 40 years ago when I attended my first drum corps show. This was Ian’s first drum corps show.

And, I got to see the best field commander I believe I’ve ever seen: Gabe Gallegos of The Troopers from Casper, Wyoming.  Congratulations,  Papa and Mama – Bryan and Paula!

I’ve really been a lucky guy to experience this arena of music for forty years!

MIAGD: Make it a great day

Foster bags.

They accompany foster children on their Tour: a tour of moving from one foster home, or group home, to another.

Each son came with a TON of bags. Many, many, many back packs.  Many, many, many strap-handled bags. Even garbage bags filled with all their clothes or worldly possessions.

We have an area in the basement we call the “wall of bags.”  All the back packs and bags are hung on this wall.  Some bags have been repurposed, others have been there since we moved to The Haasienda fourteen years ago.

I discovered several large duffle bags Griffith had not unpacked.  I figured I would find more clothes.  Nope.  More BAGS!  There were a total of 16 new bags – 6 back packs, and other bags.

In the foster world, bags are a much desired, much use commodity.  Sometimes social workers bring joy-filled bags to their charges.  The items may have been discarded, but each foster child seems to understand a bag is never discarded.  Organizations or churches will often donate bags, and even fill them with nifty age-grouped items.

The foster children love these bags.  These bags are often their treasure chest where their favorite items are kept.

They also learn these bags are most often used to transport all their clothes, and worldly possessions to their next foster home.

Some sons returned to the foster home after school to discover these bags already packed, ready to be hauled to their new foster home. More often, than not, there were many garbage bags also filled with their worldly possessions.

This morning I stood looking at the “wall of bags.” Memories:

• Josh’s green duffle bag he’d gotten at Miss Hattie’s
• Matt’s blue duffle bag from a Texas foster children’s party
• Jose’s brown bag Shelley had used to help him pack for the trip from Oregon to Ohio
• Quintin’s red bag that his Grandma Rose had given him before leaving the Navajo reservation
• Griffith’s bag from the Baptist children’s home where he and his brother were kept for several years
• Oh!  And bags that arrived with 8-10 foster sons that escaped another tour
• And, of course, there were more, always more, bags of every shape, size, and color.

Although the bags hang empty on the “wall of bags,” they are filled with so much more.

Bags filled with anger…

Bags filled with distrust…

Bags filled with hurt and pain….

Bags filled with fear…

Bags filled with anxiety…

Bags filled with hatred for their birth family…  this bag often becomes idealized: “They weren’t so bad…”

Bags filled with depression…

Bags filled with callouses, a survival skill learned too early in life…

Bags filled with isolation…

Bags filled with nightmares of physical, mental, and emotional abuse…

Bags filled with days, even weeks of knowing hunger… 

Bags filled with tears turned into needs of survival…

Bags filled with pride, refusing to acknowledge, or accept a kind hand, or gift from others…

And always, bags filled with more anger of abandonment – always, always the fear of rejection at every turn…

The “wall of bags” has been greatly altered.

In my driveway are several garbage bags filled with bags.  Most of Griffith’s bags remain; many have been tossed, and I am confident he won’t miss them.  Yes, I should have, or could have donated 70+ bags to Goodwill, or some organization that could have repurposed them.  I am not.

These bags are hideous reminders of how birth families failed my sons.  These bags are hideous reminders of how the foster system failed my sons.  These bags resulted from bad choices made by adults in their young lives.

These touring Foster Bags were vital at one point, but eventually they seem to represent more storage for the mental and emotional baggage that always accompanies them.

Make it a great day, Folks!

It’s 12:43 AM, and we’ve finally arrived to the last day of July, 2017.

August will be greeting us in about twenty-three hours, and I always feel the weight of my fun summer schedule waning into the full school year.

This weekend was packed, and quite fun:

• FRIDAY
  • Photographing various buildings and scenes downtown Dayton
  • Housekeeping items
  • Dinner at the Dayton Mall
  • The movie, BOSS BABY
• SATURDAY
  • Housekeeping items
  • Lawn items
  • Laundry
  • CLUE, at The Victoria Theatre
  • A walk through Celtic Fest
  • A quiet evening on the deck

• SUNDAY
  • More housekeeping items
  • Helping Griffith with his laundry
  • Helping Griffith get his new quarters set up
  • Teaching
  • Mixing the green beans delivered by Nicole Melin in with the remaining homemade onion soup – YES!
  • Attending to business for the week ahead
  • Quiet time on the deck

What I miss most about the rapidly approaching fall season is my deck time coming to an end.  Oh, how I love the peaceful, serene time, reading or writing, surrounded by my beloved fur-kids.  It’s my heaven on earth.

Alas, a new weekend is now in the books, and it’s on to another exciting week of music, wonderful students, and so many other blessings.

And, I can’t forget the new member of our family, Flanagan!

MIAGD: Make it a great day

The past 48 hours have been interesting, fun-filled, and quite soul-defining.

The van has completely died.  Despite the fact it was sold to me under the guise of the engine having been fully overhauled, and continually cost me a small fortune, it led a fantastic life, carried us to many fun places, and on some nifty adventures, and accomplished much from PVC transport to basic run-of-the-mill daily needs.

Thursday, my phone was stolen while waiting for an RTA bus.  My new iPhone arrives tomorrow morning (Monday, July 31).

It’s been interesting adjusting to, and readapting life.  But what’s been most interesting are my observations, and renewed appreciation for various aspects of life.

I definitely feel European by walking more, and using the fantastic services of Dayton’s Regional Transit Authority (RTA).   First of all, Griffith, while often taking the bus to and from musical rehearsals, used a dandy little iPhone app called, “Transit.”

It’s genius, and time management friendly.

Mostly, I love the relaxing feeling of having nothing to do but sit, and allow someone else to transport me to my next destination.  Sometimes, I search for new things on the other side of the tinted glass.  I’ve discovered all sorts of different stores/businesses, a small park just north of Miami Valley Hospital, and the best search: exploring my inner self, and enjoying the quiet within.

What am I learning most:

• I am more organized when shopping because I can’t just hop back in the van to retrieve my missed item
• My desire to retreat from crowds, my very introverted self, is forced right into the fray of human activity
• I am exercising more and already feeling the benefits of being active

Life without my iPhone has been challenging, but I’ve adapted.  Yes, I am eager to hold my new phone in my paw, but there’s been a refreshing sense of freedom by not being so connected to the world.  It’s kind of like life was when we only had computers, and no handy-dandy cell phones to do all our bidding.

I work, and play from my phone, and recently, after learning some new tricks and techniques, have enjoyed taking tons of photos with my phone.  Most of my business is conducted via Siri (I loathe typing), and with immediate access, I was more in touch with the world around me.

I have actually survived, and have, in a small way, appreciated the freedom.  However, Google search is MY BEST FRIEND.  I love learning, and am fascinated by having knowledge and information at my fingertips.

I was fortunate to know all but two of my great-grandparents, and most of their siblings. I was enthralled by their stories of the late 1800s, and for many of them, stories of their parents and grandparents who settled a large portion of Madison County, Indiana.  They had no telephones/cell phones, nor automobiles.  The market? Pretty much everything they ate, or made, was from what they grew or constructed at the farm.

The past few days, I’ve been made more aware of the “must haves” and the “really?”

Perception.

Awareness.

Attitude.

Yes…. ATTITUDE!  It’s everything!

And, can we just say, “A new member of the family added tons of fun to this weekend!”

Make it a great day, Folks!

For over fifteen years, this Methodist boy has been a huge fan of Father Flanagan, the founder of Boys Town.

In 1917, Father Flanagan took in about six young boys, offering them a permanent home.  This was the beginning of the beautiful adventure that would eventually evolve into Boys Town, USA.

In honor of the centennial of Father Flanagan’s remarkable demonstration of love, we opened our home to a tiny stranded kitten we named Flanagan, or Flan.

Thank you for being such a strong advocate of children in need, Father Flanagan!

MIAGD: Make it a great day

Oh, how miserable I should be….

But, it’s all life.  Bumps. Blessings.

Enterprise Car Rental @ Loop Road = D-, you don’t just give my points away.

Enterprise Car Rental Agent at Corporate = A+, and thank you for encouraging the Loop Road agent for calling me to offer an apology.

Enterprise Car Rental @ Dayton International Airport = D-, had my phone not been stolen, I could have pulled up the reservation that said Debit Cards ARE taken by your location.

Enterprise Car Rental Agent at Corporate = A+, and thank you for making DIA agent for calling me to offer an apology.

Person who stole my iPhone from my back pocket = F- U- and Happy Hell Hunting.

Six hour seating at Dayton International Airport = B+ and, well, at least I didn’t get bumped, and no one dragged me out or made me move because seating had been overbooked by the luggage carousel.  It was heartwarming to watch arrivals greeted with hugs, and tears, as well as observing those who were seeing loved ones off… since childhood, airports tip the tear scale, as I always relate them to bidding farewell to my Uncle Ron when he would return to Norfolk where he served in the USNavy; I hated those moments with all my heart, and now, it’s hard to see Josh return to Los Angeles…

RTA Agent who assisted me Thursday afternoon with iPhone = A+

RTA Agent who assisted me Friday morning with iPhone = F, I’m sorry I am not the same skin tone, and race as you; I should never have been treated dismissively, nor should I ever have been interrupted with my issue so you could assist a fellow black man.

Not cool.

Man who, while I was taking photographs of Dayton architecture, looked to where my camera was pointed… “Man, I’ve walked down this street for sixty-plus years, and I’ve never ever noticed the beautiful carvings.”  He walked with me for about 20 minutes, discussing some of the architecture, and didn’t ask me for a cigarette, or money = A+, as well as a UN for unfinished: continue to explore the beautiful architecture that surrounds you throughout Dayton.

Griffith = A+++ for rescuing a TINY kitten, acting responsibly by taking it to SICSA, and checking the appropriate route for fostering or adoption, and making the decision that we are its family; and for thanking me by saying, “Thank you for making me feel safe, here. I guess that’s what our family is all about. Right?”

Yes.

And, welcome to The Haasienda, Flanagan/Flan, named in honor of Father Flanagan, who in 1917, took in several orphaned boys, thus the origins of Boys Town, USA.

To the Sprint Chat Agent = A+ for walking me through the “stolen phone” reporting process, and for using layman’s terms for this middle aged man.

To the Korean War Vet who leaned across to our table during dinner, and said, “I applaud you as a parent. You are having a meal with your son and neither of you have phones out. It’s delightful to see laughter and hear interesting discussion between a father and his teen son.”  Ok, he gets an A+++++ just for being a Koran Veteran; now, he did not know that I was without a phone, and that Griffith left his at home, but we do not have phones at the table unless our discussion prompts one of us to look up something we are discussing.

We wrapped up the day with dinner, and the movie, BABY BOSS, and have returned to a nice, cool-breezy evening, feeling the love of three dogs and two cats.

The bumps will be there, now and then.

The blessings are often hiding just behind the bumps to jump out and yell, “Surprise!  We’ve been waiting for you.”

Make it a great day!

Four years ago, we were anticipating the long, drawn out process as Flyer reached the end.

Mother spent four days with me, adding comfort, and holding back her own tears.  Friends and students stopped to visit for "that one last time."  Flyer had bounced back several times from previous illnesses, including a near-death bout with pancreatitis.  However, this time, we all knew this was it.

One afternoon, we spent a few hours lying next to Wilbur Wright's grave.

The first day I got Flyer in 2001, we stopped at Woodland Cemetery for our first walk together.  The tiny Flyer scampered out of the car, and zigzagged through the headstones, and suddenly stopped at Wilbur Wright's grave.  All succeeding visits were the same.

Even this last visit with Wilbur was unchanged.  While Flyer needed assistance navigating her way through the maze of stones, she aimed directly toward the Wright Family plot.

In 2003, with a newly published book, I discovered Wilbur Wright, while demonstrating the flying machine in France, 1908-1909, he had a pet dog which was named Flyer.

Eerie though it may be, it's always been a bit reassuring to ponder this connection.

On our way home, we stopped at Carillon Park for one final walk past the carillon bell tower, and onto the vast lawn that was the scene of many playful romps with my little pal.

Flyer passed away on the last Monday morning of July 2013.  I held her in my arms, and Chief laid with his head on her hip and his paw draped over her waist.

I miss several loved ones, but there's nothing to ease the ache of Flyer's absence.

What a great little pal….

Some family friends are on vacation, and their first stop was this afternoon at Campobello Island, the summer retreat for the Franklin Roosevelt family.

Franklin’s parents had a cottage on the island between Canada and Maine, and spent many summers away from Manhattan, and Hyde Park.  After Franklin married Eleanor, “Campo” became their retreat, staying with the indomitable Sarah Delano Roosevelt.  A neighbor, Mrs. Kuhn, who adored the young couple, left provisions in her will for Sarah to purchase the 30+ room cottage for Franklin and Eleanor.

The summer and fall of 1920, this vibrant young politician, newly relieved of his duties as assistant secretary of the Navy during WWI, campaigned with Dayton, Ohio’s own James Cox on the Democratic presidential ticket as Cox’s vice-presidential running mate.  Roosevelt’s star was rising.

The following August, 1921, Roosevelt, after spending time swimming with “the chicks” in the chilled waters of The Bay of Fundy, the strapping 39 year old Roosevelt walked up these steps, on his own, for the last time.

The Staircase at Campobello   Photo credit: Brady Kress

The next morning, young Franklin Roosevelt could not move his legs….

As my friend wrote, “the world was about to change when FDR walked up these steps for the last time.”

Today, July 25th, my great-great-uncle, Raymond Daugherty, would have celebrated his 96th birthday, four months ahead of his nephew, my grandfather, who would have turned 96 years old this November.

Uncle Raymond & Aunt Betty, 1986

Uncle Raymond was born in Boone Township of Madison County in Central Indiana.  His eldest sister, Thelma Daugherty, would go on to marry my great-grandfather, Virgil Barmes, and they would become the parents of my grandfather, Leroy “Red” Barmes.

When Uncle Raymond was three years old, the Daugherty family moved to a new farm near Frankton, Indiana.  Uncle Raymond recalled riding in an automobile with his mother, carefully watching his tricycle topping the piled high wagon like the cherry on an ice cream sundae.

Back in Boone Township, west of Summitville, Indiana, two young ladies became dear friends for life, Betty Church and Donna Clary.  These two best friends somehow became introduced to the uncle and nephew.  Within a few years, Donna Clary, my grandmother, married Leroy, the nephew, and Betty married Raymond, the uncle.

Uncle Raymond

Aunt Betty & Grandma Donna

Aunt Betty & Uncle Raymond

Uncle Raymond and Aunt Betty were the neatest couple, and while their bodies gave in to the waging war on the aging process, their spirits remained youthful, fun-filled, and brilliant.

When my mother was born, Uncle Raymond and Aunt Betty were the first to visit her in the hospital.  Twenty years later, along with their son, Steve, Uncle Raymond and Aunt Betty came to visit Mother and me the day following my birth.

By the time I began adopting sons, Uncle Raymond and Aunt Betty had moved to Spring Texas to live with Steve.  My son was adopted from San Antonio, Texas, so we drove four hours to spend an afternoon in Spring so they could be the first to meet my new son.  They were thrilled that they were the first to greet three generations of our family’s line.

Aunt Betty & Uncle Raymond at my 1983 high school graduation.

Shortly afternoon Hurricane Ike, Steve discovered he had pancreatic cancer.  January 2011, Steve’s battle ended, and in December, dear Aunt Betty passed away.  Uncle Raymond’s decline was swift, and soon the trio was reunited.

Steve Daugherty for a Channel 13 promotional.

Steve was a fascinating guy!  He was friends with David Letterman and Joyce DeWitt at Ball State University, and went on to a nice career as a radio/television personality in Indianapolis.  The circle of friends he collected was an interesting array of performers, politicians, political personalities: Empress Farah of Iran, Madame Chiang Kai-shek, Phyllis Diller, Joan Rivers, etc.  For my 40th birthday, Steve called, broadcasting out of my answering machine with his familiar, “Cousin Darin,” and had one of his musical friends take a piano request; I chose Rachmaninoff’s “Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini.”

Enchanting!

Following my words of appreciation, I was introduced over the phone to Van Cliburn.

The Daugherty trio of Raymond, Betty, and Steve are no longer with us, but, oh, how their love, thoughtfulness, and laughter-filled spirits continue to linger.

Happy birthday, Uncle Raymond!

For those who know Dor-Tees ice cream stand in Alexandria, Indiana, Dick Daugherty is Uncle Raymond’s younger brother.

MIAGD: Make it a great day

When I was a little boy, my grandmother had the most beautiful flower garden in her backyard. I wish there were existing photographs to document her work, and devotion to this natural artistry.

She had a batch of pretty yellow flowers, the name I can never remember. What I remember most is how they always faced the sun, following it on it's daily journey.

One late afternoon, the little flowers were facing west, clinging to the yellow glob in the sky. I complained that I didn't like looking at the flowers' backsides.

Grandma Donna took me by the hand, and we waded into the sea of floral beauty. I don't exactly remember what she pointed out on the backside of those pretty yellow flowers, but she was quite certain that I should always look for beauty all around and not just in the front, or at the face.

"Sometimes we have to fill in the colors, ourselves, so we can find the beauty."

I've always tried to apply this advice with everything, though I'm not always successful.

My sons have always teased me taking photos of obscure things, especially of architecture, but sometimes, beautiful items are not readily available to our eyes.

People, especially, can possess a quiet, unassuming beauty. Sometimes, we just have to look for it.

Make it a great day, Folks!

Grandma Donna…

Nearly fifty years later, your gentle, loving lessons still reach out to hold my hand….

My study is finally tidied, and organized.

I spent several hours organizing music, and putting all the copies from on-line music purchases into binders.  That process ended at 2:30 AM.

I rose at 6:30 AM to complete another organizing-project.  The closet is orderly, and all 93 binders of shows I’ve directed these past 32 years are neatly arranged in alphabetical order.

The afternoon was finding other things to organize until I realized I was in desperate need of a nap.  I had hit the wall of tiredness.  However, I went to lie down on the living room sofa, something I rarely do, and I could not stop watching the three dogs and the cat.  They are so content, and it’s obvious they feel loved.

I got to spend time with my friend, Jim Beard, and his son, Trent, a recent Bellbrook HS graduate, soon to be on his way to Bowling Green State University to study marketing.  Neat young man, and he has a huge heart like his dad.

I first met Jim in 2007 following a production of SOUTH PACIFIC in which he played Luther Billis, one of the most loveable characters in musical theatre history.

Mr. Logan co-wrote and directed SOUTH PACIFIC, and several times we discussed Billis’ character, and it was obviously Mr. Logan loved the character, and described how the tough guy image was one of the biggest covers for the teddy bear with the great heart.  He stressed that, though it never played well in the movie version, which Mr. Logan also directed, he believed Billis had a secret crush on Nellie Forbush.  Jim played Luther Billis just as I imagined the image in Mr. Logan’s mind.

It’s so damned neat how theatre, and music, brings folks together.

Tomorrow is Friday.  Maybe some photos around town, or something interesting before I have dinner with some more dear friends, and then seeing my students in JESUS CHRIST, SUPERSTAR.

48 years ago… Wow!

I was seated next to my great-grandfather, John William Garrett Clary, on his Davenport (sofa) in Elwood, Indiana.  My great-great uncle, Alpha Jones, was seated on the other side.

Grandpa Garrett was five years old when the Wright Brothers first flew.

I was nearing my fifth birthday when Neil Armstrong walked on the moon.

48 years…. I still vividly remember that day…

Washington, DC; July 12, 1974.

I am standing between my grandparents, Leroy and Donna Barmes, and our Indiana 6th District US Representative, Elwood “Bud” Hillis on the steps of the United States Capitol building.

We had just returned to the USCB parking lot after paying our respects to Chief Justice Earl Warren, who was lying in state in the US Supreme Court building, and nearing the steps going up to the U.S. Senate when a limousine pulled up to the steps.

A familiar gentleman in a light blue suit hopped out of the limousine, and hurried over to greet Congressman Hillis. I mediately recognized the gentleman as vice President Gerald Ford, less than a month away from being sworn in as President of the United States.

This was one of the most incredible days for a nine-year-old boy who didn’t even mind missing the Watergate hearings on television. 

I was right smack dab in the middle of Watergate world, and you could feel the tension hanging in the air everywhere you went in Washington DC.

The pure, the bright, the beautiful
That stirred our hearts in youth,
The impulses to wordless prayer,
The streams of love and truth,
The longing after something lost,
The spirit’s yearning cry,
The striving after better hopes —
These things can never die.

The timid hand stretched forth to aid
A brother in his need;
A kindly word in grief’s dark hour
That proves a friend indeed;
The plea for mercy softly breathed,
When justice threatens high,
The sorrow of a contrite heart —
These things shall never die.

Let nothing pass, for every hand
Must find some work to do,
Lost not a chance to waken love,
Be firm and just and true.
So shall a light that cannot fade
Beam on thee from on high,
And angel voices say to thee —
“These things shall never die.”

Charles Dickens

Elwood, Indiana; 1971

“Here’s your letter to Santa as I copied it down in cursive. Now, you can copy this using your own cursive.  When you’re finished, fold up your letter, and place it in the envelope and Mommy will mail it for you.”

Since I was the eldest, and for many years, only child, Mother spent a great deal of time preparing me for school, and staying a little bit ahead of new things.

In first grade at Washington elementary school, cursive was still a year away. However, I wanted to write my letter to Santa, a.k.a. Jim King, at that time, Elwood’s best assistant next to police officer, Harley Shinkle. 

if parents requested a visit from Santa’s assistant  on Christmas Eve night, they were to set a package on the front porch to be personally delivered by Santa. 

Christmas eve night, 1971, we were celebrating Christmas with my grandparents and uncles. There was a knock at the door. Mother encouraged me to answer the door. 

There stood Santa Claus/Jim King.

Santa took me through the all-too-familiar list of questions, and determined I had been a good enough boy to receive the package he brought me.

As we were to quickly discover, Santa had a Nother surprise for me.

He reached his gloved hand inside his red velvet suit, and retrieved a folded piece of writing paper. He opened the letter, adjusted his spectacles, and sang my praises for having such a beautiful penmanship at six years old.

Mother’s favorite comment, when recounting this off told Christmas memory, is how my eyes rolled over to where she was standing, and I began biting my lip.

Before leaving the house, Santa, laid the letter on the electric organ, and ventured into the dining room to greet my grandparents whom he had known for many years.

After Santa left, the family celebration continued. I was happily playing with my new electric train set, and my new G.I. Joe Egyptian explorer action figure that came with a dune buggy and hey mommy and sarcophagus, when the fear of God rush through every inch of my six-year-old body.

“This is my letter!”

I slowly turned my head to see my mother holding the latter she had written as a template for my letter to Santa Claus.

Mothers facial gestures spoke volumes, as many parents facial gestures do; however, I guess I knew my mother’s facial gestures so much better than anyone else’s. Her lips were pushed forward so she could chew on the inside of her cheek; eventually, her tongue begin pushing against the inside of her cheek prompting the tumorous mobile object on her outercheek. 

Yes, I had been caught in the act. I had inserted my Mother’s template letter into the envelope that was sent to Santa Claus. 

This photo was taken just as Santa retrieved the letter.  Somewhere, we have a photograph of Santa standing next to me, showing off my latter, but my eyes turn toward Mother who is taking the photograph.

MIAGD: Make it a great day

This is the view from the bus window this morning.

It feels like we are looking out into a world-sized Claude Monet painting. 
Here are days when our world feels blurred, entirely without focus.  Too often, those days imprison us. 

Why can’t they prompt us forward?  

What is it that makes us desire to crawl back under the covers to avoid what might turn out to be a beautiful day?

Actually, today is one of those days for me. 

For nearly a year and I’ve been dealing with various state and government agencies, and others who have purposely avoided the responsibilities.  Yesterday was one of the first actual break-thrus, and this morning is putting all those pieces of the puzzle together, hoping they fit. 

It’s a struggle to not continue looking through today’s window with the obscured view.  However, this parade of red-tape idiocy is nearing the end of its route. 

Find the rainbows. 

Find the stars. 

And don’t forget to make it a great day. 

MIAGD: Make it a great day 

The entire house is being freed of things no longer needed.

It’s amazing how having additional, no longer needed things around the house can serve as anchors.  

People can also be anchors to either assist us when needing to stay on our course, or to weigh us down.  

There is the natural weighing down that happens to all of us at some point or another in our lives. 

Then, there are the toxic, drama-driven folks who weigh us down to depths that can be unhealthy, and or poisonous.

I’ve never understood why we allow the toxic people to pull us down beneath the water’s surface to drown us alongside them.  I have allowed it to happen to me a few times, but never again. 

Just before I began adopting my sons, I felt an embalance in life.  I finally discovered that my ill-health was due to several friends whose toxicity levels had risen far beyond recognition, even comprehension.  When I rowed my own boat to the other side of the pond, I rediscovered the freedom, restored innerself, and buried joy. 

I receive a lot of smacks because folks just don’t like it when I no longer participate in their drama. I am careful to select which shows I wish to attend, and even participate. I am even more in Fattic about which shows I will not attend. 

What I can appreciate most about myself during these matters is that I don’t wear any grudges. Like the quote in the meme says, “you just become irrelevant.”

Harsh?

Perhaps. Even, yes. 
Like one of my favorite artists, Bon Jovi, sings, “it’s my life, and it’s now or never.”

Sometimes, I feel we spend way too much time trying to separate another person’s toxicity from our lives.  A strainer or colander can only hold so much before it begins to become overrun. 

We do not have that kind of time to continually strain other peoples toxicity from our lives. If we continue to attend the dramas staged by others, The time we have to do other things with good purpose are greatly diminished.

Don’t be codependent, or a supporting actor and someone else’s badly written, badly directed, and badly performed drama.

“Life is like an open highway; like Frankie said, ‘I did it my way,’ … it’s my life.”  ~ Bon Jovi

Choose your tickets to dramas carefully, and enjoy the true fellow performers with great passion. 

And, don’t forget to make it a great day!

It’s nearing midnight, and I am ready to drag my self up to my bedroom for complete slumber.

Most of my days start only a few hours after the previous day ended.  Tonight doesn’t seem to be one of those nights.  I am zonked.

Three new students, a number of key items completed, more tidying up of the restored guest bedroom while Griffith arranges his new quarters.  After teaching I grabbed a bite to eat, and returned to more work.

Griffith returned home from rehearsal shortly before 11:00 PM, and we chatted about our days and his rehearsal.  He’s pumped because he received some great “director’s notes” about the whipping moment in the musical.

Last night, he received one of the much coveted candy bars, and was still on cloud nine, not because of the candy bar, but because of its significance: “you did a great job with ______”.

It was a full day.  It was a good day.  No complaints.  Just gratitude.

MIAGD: Make it a great day

My son, on a number of occasions, has commented on how comforting the basement is. I know the older for sons, and the tribe of foster sons, always loved the basement for watching television and gaming. 
Last Friday, I asked Griffith if he would like to use a section of the basement as his bedroom. There is 1/4 of the huge basement at all we screamed, “I would be the perfect bedroom for a teenager.”
He loved the idea. 
Saturday, Sunday, and Monday, he began the transition. Last night, I finished it up while he was at musical rehearsal.
His former bedroom, which was once the former guest bedroom, 2013-2016, and my first study 2003-2013, is now back to being a guest bedroom and television room.
Last summer, when Griffith moved in, the three dogs seemed to go through a bit of depression because the guest bedroom also doubled as their room. The change of Griffiths arrival was both exciting, and confusing for them. Chief was the only one of the three dogs that had experienced sons in the house. 
Last night, the dogs did not even want to join me on the deck because all three were up on the bed in the new guest bedroom. They were happy to be restored to their former “Canine Corrall” another is referred to as, “the guest bedroom.”
Changing it up, now and then, can be work, but it’s always necessary, and healthy.
Make it a great day, Folks!
  

It’s nearing 1:15 AM, and I’ve now belted two mornings together with my day. 

I was wide awake at 7 AM, Sunday morning, and by 10 AM I was on the bus to downtown Dayton with my camera, and he packed a lunch. 

•  loveI yes  es 

Lunch was at RiverScape Metropark along the pathway of fountains.  It was so refreshing and relaxing, and I’ve decided I need to go there more often. 

By 3:10 PM I was back on the bus, and feeding the dogs before tearing into several projects, completing them all just as Griffith returned from musical rehearsal after 10:45 PM.  Then, we sat on the deck, discussing musical rehearsal. 

I’ve now reached the following morning.  Tired, yes, but so exhilarated with my Sunday.