Month: June 2020

Marcel Proust was an influential French writer of the early 20th Century, whose most celebrated work is the novel Remembrance of Things Past.  A famous passage in the book is about a man who sits down to enjoy a small pastry called a “petite madeleine,” which he dips into his cup of tea; and the taste of the crumbs and the smell of the tea flood his mind with memories of his grandmother’s kitchen.  This stirring of strong memories by one or more of your senses has become known as a “Proustian Experience.”  My Proustian moment takes place when I encounter the man standing not far from the Target store.

He is often there on the slender median as you drive out of the shopping center, holding a tattered and hand-scribbled cardboard sign which reads ANYTHING HELPS GOD BLESS.  He wears dirty and shabby clothes and scuffed-up shoes.  His hair is unkempt, his face unshaven.  He has about him a most dispirited air.  Homeless.  Pitiful.  Beat down.  Threadbare.  Humiliated, just to be standing there, begging.  Usually I ignore him, hoping with no small amount of shame that the light will stay green until I pass by; but on this day the light changes, and my car is stopped directly opposite him, not four feet away.

In my shirt pocket is a Trader Joe’s gift card; and without too much thought I pull out the card, lower the window and hand it over.  He reaches out and takes it with muttered thanks.  Even though our hands do not touch during this brief encounter, he is close enough, and it is time enough, for me to catch more than his sad appearance.  It is his smell.  I know it well.   

It is the same smell that froze me with fear on that mournful night so many years ago, a recent high school graduate, coming home at dusk from a summer job, saving up for college.  As soon as I opened the door, you could hear and smell what was wrong.  My mother was choked with tears, and there was that familiar odor that seemed to hang in the house whenever my dad fell off the wagon. 

It had been almost two and one-half years of sobriety, the longest dry spell ever.  A periodic drunk, he would go on benders two or three times a year. We knew this enemy called alcoholism could rear its ugly head at any time.  We knew it was never really cured.  Yet, after all this time, we had slowly built up unspoken hope.  The smell was devastating.

For about a week I had sensed something, but could not put my finger on it, or did not want to.  In earlier days when the pattern was measured in months instead of years, I had been able to see it coming more easily.  There was a nervousness that was not in my dad’s character usually.  There was the slightly more deliberate speech.  His words were a surgeon’s scalpel, biting, especially towards our mom.  And there was that smell.  His diet obviously changed when he launched on a bender, and this normally fastidious man who always shined his shoes would stop shaving and bathing.

What snares me in this remembrance is not just the sound and the smell; there is also a visual.  Audrey is sitting in the green chair, and on the ottoman in front of her is a Kleenex, the last one.  Between wiping her eyes and blowing her nose, there is not much left of it.  She is carefully spreading it out before her, as if to dry it out.  It is tattered nearly beyond use, and hardly recognizable as a tissue.  It is a ragged and forlorn remnant, full of holes, a sad piece of lace, a metaphor about how fragile our family seemed at that moment.  Oh, how lonely she must have felt, her older sons flown the coop, her youngest son about to bolt, her nest emptying out, and the love of her life passed out on their bedroom floor.   

“Oh, Mom, what are we going to do?”

She took a few moments to answer while her tears dried up a bit and she went to the Kleenex one more time, and then she said this incredible thing.  “I’m going to brush my teeth, Son.  Then I’m going to bed, and so are you.  We both have jobs that we need to get up for tomorrow morning.”   

And so she did.  Brush her teeth, and floss as always, and it took a long time.  She marshalled her anger, her fear, and her crushing disappointment into one focused response, and committed an all-out and violent assault on her teeth and gums; and when she emerged from the bathroom, an incredible transformation had taken place, almost as if this evening of horror had not taken place.

Then she did another incredible thing; she told me an unprintable joke, and with that she gave me a kiss and went off to bed.  Not that it was all that shocking, the joke; Audrey could be earthy.  It was the timing that faked me out.  In a most agonizing moment in our lives, my mom went ribald.  Looking back, however, it was a good move on her part.  She knew we needed something to break the surface tension in the house.  She knew we needed some levity.  She knew we needed some normalcy.  She knew we needed to move on.

Years later my wife and I would binge on “The West Wing,” and there is a recurring line in which President Bartlet, after resolving one major crisis or another, yells out to his secretary, “MRS. LANDINGHAM!  WHAT’S NEXT?” 

That’s what Audrey did — the next thing!  Teeth!  Cheer up the son!  Go to bed!  Go to work! 

She was a tower of strength; and if you asked her, she would always say her strong tower was the Lord.  At the heart of her was a hunger for God.  It was her faith that enabled her time and again to put one foot in front of the other.  She lived this verse: “Blessed are those whose trust is in the Lord; they will not be dismayed by bad tidings.”  In good times and bad she would turn her face to the Lord and ask, “What’s next?”

My mother was ninety-three when she came to live with our family, and for several more years we shared many stories and tears about my dad.  It had been twenty-five years since he died and thirty-five years since that time when he was flat on his face.  Time and forgiveness had changed our hearts.  The tears we shed were no longer bitter.  When I tucked her in bed at night and sang to her, I always made sure she had a full box of Kleenex on the bedside table.                 

A Love Letter to Liza

The late great Roger Miller wrote a song about a guy who shows up late, or forgets the thing, or calls his sweetie at the most inconvenient time; and she stops what she’s doing. 

And if that’s not lovin’ me, then all I’ve got to say is, God didn’t make little green apples

Liza, you are very seldom idle.  When your phone rings, and it’s me, it’s an interruption, right?  Your Bible study?  Your photography or scrapbooking?  Your pursuit of laundry?  But whatever it is, you stop what you are doing and ask, “Is it time for me to curl up in the green chair”?

You know why I am calling, don’t you?  You know that I am working on the daily devotional for the staff; and you know that before I hit “send,” I want to read it to you.  When I call from the principal’s chair, you grab your cup of tea, nestle in, and give me all of your attention.

You know it’s not just the inconvenience that I appreciate.  It’s not just the willing interruption of your day that I have come to take for granted.  It’s not just the time that you give to my private musings, or devotionals, or a letter that needs to be proofed, or the grumblings of a no good very bad day.  Although it’s all of that!

No, what I really appreciate is the seriousness and thoughtfulness with which you put your mind to the times I am seeking prayer, or wisdom, or quite possibly approval.  Sometimes you say, “That needs another sentence right after your introductory paragraph.”  Or, “That story just doesn’t work there.”  And sometimes, “That’s a keeper.”

And if that’s not lovin’ me…   

That green chair has come to mean a lot to me.  It means that you’re the one who presents your body as a living sacrifice.  It means that that you are the one who is there.  It means that you are the one who will tell it straight, speak the truth in love, and bring not just your own version, but your best shot at a Biblical view.  Of course, your editing sometimes requires more editing on my part; because it is a devotional, not a treatise.  It is only your wording that needs the cropping, not your thinking. 

This is our 38th celebration. Thirty-eight years of highlights. Thirty-eight years of the ordinary things that make a life of blessings. When I think of you in the green chair, it reminds me that you are like the girl in the song who stops what she’s doing. It reminds me that you are my closest friend and most confidential advisor. It reminds me of why I love you.

And if that’s not lovin’ me…

Love, Me

Happy Anniversary

August 2006

How long does it take a disgruntled student who is leaving the assistant principal’s office to pull out his cell phone and speed-dial his mother, who forwards the message to the dad, who rings up the assistant superintendent, who kicks it to the director of secondary education, who calls the principal, who summons the afore-mentioned assistant principal into his office? 

o o o o o

The young man stomps into the assistant principal’s office uninvited, slams a weighted brown Alpha Beta bag down on the desk and barks, “That lady in the library says I must pay for my book.” (Only he did not say “lady.”)

Me      “So, what’s the problem”?

Him    “It’s the end of first semester. I went to the library to turn in my government book and check out my econ book for the second semester, and she said I can’t get my new book until I pay for this one.”

Me      “Well, let’s take a look.” 

Opening the bag and peering in, the student’s dilemma — and the librarian’s point — are both immediately apparent; because what used to be a textbook is a total mess, twisted, torn, shredded, nearly unrecognizable.  Do they make a blender for books? 

Me      “Obviously they can’t take it back.  So yes, that is the policy.  You must either return the book in good enough condition for another student, or you must pay for it.”

Him    “It’s not fair.  It’s not my fault.  Why should I have to pay for it?  I need my new book.”

Oh, the whining!

Me      “Yeah, I get that, but if someone borrowed your bike, you would expect it to come back in one piece, right”?

I thought my logic was unassailable; but, more whining!

Me      “So how did this happen”?

What I heard next was the all-time, most lame and pitiful excuse that has worn the patience of teachers from coast to coast for generations.

Him    “My dog ate it.”

Taking another look in the bag, I could believe it; and if true, it was not a Chiweenie or a Peke or a Shih Tzu.  Based on the physical evidence it was the Hound of the Baskervilles.  You could tell that it was one of those dogs who — once he picks up a book – cannot put it down until he is finished.

Me      “So you really don’t think you should have to pay for this book, right”?

Him    “Darn right.” (Only he did not say “darn.”)

Me      “Someone has to pay; so here is a suggestion.  Get your dog to pay for it.  Because until he does, or you do, or your parents do, you are not getting your econ book.”

He grabbed his bag and left the office in a huff, pulling out his cell phone and initiating the phone loop mentioned above.  And in answer to the question above, about how much time it takes?

Not long!

By the time I made a brief pit stop and checked my mailbox and snagged a cup of coffee from the staff lounge, the principal was standing in the hallway, beckoning me with “IN. MY. OFFICE.”   

When I sat down, he growled, “It has been reported to me that you told a student that he must get his dog to buy a book, or he cannot check out anything from the school library.  Tell me you didn’t say that.”

Put like that, it did sound a trifle unprofessional, and a bit snarky.  It conjured up the memory of a popular parlor game called “telephone” where you whisper a message around the table, and by the time it gets back to you, it doesn’t sound quite the same as when it started.

Sitting in the chief’s office, I was thinking that there might be a scalding from on high; but by the time I told him the story of the kid and the bag and the book and the dog and the whining, he was giggling.  Since he had received the call from the district office brass, he said he would make the call to the parent.  Not ten minutes later he was in my office, quoting a familiar refrain, a refrain that I had heard more than once before when I had messed up, and which totally endeared me to this most excellent of bosses: “Once again, Piatt, I have covered your backside.”  (Only he did not say “backside.”)          

I am not a collector. I don’t keep things. Haven’t worn it for a while? Gone! Postcards, ticket stubs and wedding invitations? Stamps, coins and seashells? Pressed flowers, souvenir menus and autographs? No.

And I didn’t hang onto that car.                                        

When I would see that jaunty Plymouth coupe coming down the street, and into our driveway, I would light up, because that meant my grandfather was here. It is impossible for me to separate the memories of my granddad from his ride. He bought the car right off the showroom floor for $900 cash in 1948; and when he stopped driving 16 years later, it had under 100,000 miles, the second set of tires, the original battery, and it ran like new.

It had a pointy-nosed hood, big bug-eye headlights on the rounded front fenders, and a running board.  It came in your basic tan.  It featured a straight-six cast iron block, a three-speed column shift and a push-button starter.  When you opened the huge hump-backed lid in the rear, there was a cavernous trunk, because there was no back seat.  The deep trunk was useful for traveling salesmen and their wares, so the model was called a “business coupe.”  It had just the one bench seat of grey woolen upholstery.  It was built for two, but it was not too crowded for three, if it was my grandfather, my grandmother, and me in the middle.

He only took it out two or three times a week, one of which was Sunday church; and there was a ritual.  He opened the garage, opened the hood, checked the oil, checked the water level in the radiator, unlocked the car door, turned the key, pushed the starter button, and listened for the hum.  Then he went back in the house to put on his tie and coat and gather up my grandmother and me.  I never knew him to drive that car without warming it up for at least ten minutes. 

Into his eighties he was still managing his avocado grove and still driving the car, but we were all worried about his driving.  Wouldn’t you be, if one day he got ON the freeway by driving up the OFFRAMP while you were in the car?  He didn’t say a word or acknowledge in any way that he made a mistake.  He just bumped across the median and continued in the right direction as if that was standard operating procedure.  Cars were dodging, and my heart was in my throat. 

That was near the end of his driving, but not of his own volition.  At the age of eighty-seven, he went to the DMV to renew his license; and they might have renewed it, if he had not fainted dead away while waiting in line.  When the State of California said “No,” it was the end of many things for him.  He couldn’t work his farm anymore, because he couldn’t pick up supplies.  He couldn’t deliver the provender of his hilltop grove and garden to the local orphanage.  And he and my grandmother couldn’t hit the road for their bi-annual road trip to visit kith and kin in Texas.  It was hard on him, the loss of freedom and the loss of the ritual.  In the end he sold me the car for $75.00.

On the day I drove it away, he gave me careful instructions.  Although I had driven the coupe a few times, he wanted to make sure that I was truly familiar with the care and feeding and pampering of his “baby.”  He pointed out the hood latch and demonstrated how to safely raise the hood.  He pulled up the dipstick and we noticed the oil level.  He uncapped the radiator.  “Put the water here; it keeps the engine cool.”

I should have paid more attention.  Not that I needed to be reminded where to put the oil and the water; but I needed to listen more carefully to his words, and especially his heart, about this baby of his.  But I did not.

It didn’t take long for the car not to work right.  I didn’t check the fluids every time, and I didn’t always warm her up for ten minutes.  Not only did I drive every day, I drove at freeway speeds, and my granddad had never pushed it beyond fifty-five.  It was spooky the way that car behaved like “The Wonderful One-Horse Shay,” whose days were numbered.  I sold the car and bought something newer. 

Next time I visited, my granddad asked me about his car.  I could not lie to this kind and loving man who told me about radiator caps and tools and avocados, and who put a Bible in my hand for the first time when I was just a little kid.  He did not register disappointment or deal in anger, because you see, he loved me way more than he loved the car.  But he did dearly love the car.

I have driven some cool cars in my life, including a VW “bug,” a powder-blue ’65 Mustang and a classic Jaguar, with those dual exhausts that create the most amazing rumble and roar when you downshift.  But none of them can match the sentiment of that coupe.  I have threatened for years (if I ever had the money) to track one down and bring it back to life.  But I know that even a totally remodeled and tricked-out 1948 Plymouth “business coupe” would not absolve me from my regret and my cluelessness, and how I hurt him.

Oh, how I wish I had kept that car!

My dad was one of a kind, a character right out of a Damon Runyon story.  He had a great and wry sense of humor, and he was a mesmerizing storyteller.  Ted was also old-school, polite, courtly.  Standing up or tipping his hat whenever a woman entered the room, the ladies found him charming.  As for men, he loved sports and could spin a good yarn, not often profane, but certainly ribald at times.  Although he had no more than an eighth-grade education, he gave nothing away when it came to brain power.  He was a voracious reader and a terrific speller.   

He made us laugh.  He would start a joke, and we three sons would be on the floor long before he reached the punch line. We still reminisce about the weird and goofy things he said. like…

“Come into my office,” which could mean, “I have a funny story,” or it could mean, “We have something to talk about.”      

“I’m gonna set fire to the seat of your pants,” which meant “Fear the paddle.”        

“Try to use your head for something other than a place to hang your hat,” which is self-explanatory.

“Do you know the difference between an elephant and a loaf of bread?  No?  Then I’m not sending YOU to the market.”

“If it takes six yards of cheesecloth to make a cummerbund for an elephant, how long does it take a cross-eyed grasshopper with a wooden leg to kick all the warts off a dill pickle?”  Decades later, my brothers and I are still trying to figure out the meaning of that one.  No matter!  It still brings a smile.           

He was generous to a fault, always good for a few bucks or the use of his car.  My friends liked him too; he was the dad who would drive us all over.  One day in the spring of my junior year in high school, he sprang me and two of my buddies from school and drove us halfway up the coast to watch our baseball team in a playoff game in San Luis Obispo, including his buying lunch and dinner for everyone.  During that day-long adventure he didn’t say more than half-a-dozen words.  He just listened all day to three goofy sixteen-year-olds with mush for brains talking about girls. 

Yep, Ted was a great guy, most of the time.  In fact, I’ve put a number on it.  My dad was a great guy around 80% of the time.  My brothers and I differ slightly on the percentages, but the sentiment is the same; he was a real nice dad.  Most of the time!  You see, all those tender and delightful things described above about my dad took place when he was sober.

If you have ever experienced addiction in your life, you know that it is like a big rock thrown in the lake, rippling outwards in all directions and rocking the canoes.  It does not matter whether the addict is your parent or your child or your brother or your sister of your husband or your wife or your bestie, or yourself.  Truthfully, it is way bigger than any pebble in a pond; it is a boulder, creating a tsunami of emotional and financial upheaval, swamping the family.

Our dad wasn’t a daily drunk, tying it on in this evening and stumbling off to work tomorrow.  He was a sporadic drunk, periodically succumbing to his demons, felled by whatever triggers, plunging into this dark place for days and weeks at a time, as many as two or three times a year.  His longest stretch of sobriety was about two-and-a-half years, from the early spring of my sophomore year in high school until August of the summer after graduation; but that story about his falling off the wagon is for another time.

Now I want to tell you that I did not hate my dad.  On the contrary, I loved him deeply.  My friend Frankie once said that his dad was the most reliable, dependable, sober, hard-working dad of all time; but my friend never felt that his dad ever really loved him.  My experience was just the opposite; I knew my dad loved me, but we couldn’t count on him.  Over the years during his life and mine, and for ten years after he died, I harbored feelings of anger and resentment and bitterness and unforgiveness for the times he didn’t show up at my games and didn’t show up for my necessary discipline, leaving the heavy lifting to our mom.

And in addition to his drinking, he was also a gambler; and that is a lethal combination.  He would bet on almost anything.  A couple of years before I came along, he was in an all-night poker game, accompanied by strong drink, and he literally threw the mortgage to their house into the pot, like a riverboat gambler.  He had to ask Audrey to sign on the dotted line, telling her that he needed the money for an investment.  Well, addicts don’t always tell the truth.

His favorite place to lose money was the racetrack.  He loved the ponies.  As a rite of passage, we all learned about famous horses, jockeys and racetrack touts.  To this day I could probably tell you the names of most of the Triple Crown winners.      

One Sunday morning in church the worship band was leading the congregation in a song based on an OT Scripture: Some trust in horses, some trust in chariots; but we will trust in the name of the Lord our God.  My brother leaned over and whispered, “We knew someone who trusted in horses.”  We had to stifle our laughter there in the pews, but at least I could laugh at that point; because it had been many years since my personal confrontation about the unforgiveness I harbored for this man who went off to the fields of France in WW One as a 17-year old, witnessed untold horrors, was mustard gassed and lost a lung, and probably developed the habit of a lifetime of disappearing into a bottle.  But that epiphany of mine is also a story for another time. 

Sometimes we have to take a long look at the people in our lives, stop what we’re thinking, and realize they are doing the best they can.  For many years these tears of mine about my dad were born of anger.  Now these tears that run down my face and fall on the space bar are born of melancholy, tenderness, and nostalgia.  My dad’s strengths and weaknesses were as 80 against 20 in his favor.  At the end, I will be more than happy to take that tip of the scales in my favor.  I am no longer a child, but I am still Ted’s child, and grateful for it. 

There used to be places in my front lawn where it felt unsafe to walk.  There were little dips and gullies everywhere where the ground had caved in over the gopher tunnels.  A gopher leaves a hole in your lawn, and a little pile of dirt from his excavations, and over time your lawn looks like moguls.

I always thought gophers were country folks; they lived in huge numbers in the field not far from here.  But when a developer disked the field, the gophers moved to the city, which is to say my yard and the yards of my neighbors.

Now I have nothing against gophers personally.  In fact, I think they are rather cute; they have little buck teeth, and if you catch sight of one in the light of day, he is always squinting.  I do hate the idea of killing off little myopic, new-wave prairie dogs; but people in my neighborhood did not like the holes and the little mounds of dirt that you find in the early morning on the lawn.  So, some time ago I found myself joining in a battle to exterminate the gophers.

At first, I just swore at them, but that did not produce any results.  Then I stuck a hose down one of the holes, and that produced a swampy lawn and a fresh little pile of dirt left by another gopher the next morning.  When that didn’t work, I resorted to more lugubrious methods.  We were really into bragging rights around the neighborhood; I went all out.

A gopher trap is a small tin box with springs and sharp things, with an opening just big enough for a gopher to wander in.  You set it place it in the gopher hole, being careful to cover it with dirt so no sunlight shows in.  Well, the first time I went to check the trap, it impaled my hand.  That was maddening, and I blamed the gopher, for the same reason I blame my wife when I run out of gas or thump my head on the open cupboard door.  I couldn’t possibly be that dumb or that careless; it must be someone else’s fault.

Chemicals, smoke bombs and bait, whatever I could spend my money on at Home Depot; and what I got for my trouble was a revolving balance on my Visa and a fresh pile of dirt or two every morning as another gopher — or perhaps the same wily little devil — skirted my remedies and pushed his way around under my lawn and to the surface.

Once I went after one with a shovel, but I got a sprinkler line instead, and a new hole and a fresh pile of dirt the next morning.  The only success was quite by accident.  On my way out the door one morning to play golf, one of those critters stuck his head out of a hole right by the porch, and I nailed him with my six iron, my only good shot of the day.

Once my dog caught one.  Waldo appeared at the door with this broken creature in his mouth.  I thought he was going to give it to me.  What a stupid thought; that dog never fetched a ball or a newspaper.  When I tried to take away the dead gopher, the dog gave the first real defiance I had ever seen, by growling at me and staring me down.  He was just showing me his trophy before going off to do whatever dogs do, and wherever dogs go, with deceased gophers. 

As he trotted off with the gopher’s limp head hanging out of one side of his mouth, and the hind feet and tail dangling out of the other side, I decided right then and there to admit defeat, that I just didn’t have what it takes to wage guerilla warfare in my own yard.  It is no good to go after gophers when you do not even have the skill set of a rescue mutt.  I put away the traps, stopped over-watering, ditched all the chemicals, and retired my golf clubs.

My only consolation was that my neighbor Bill was faring little better.  It seemed all we talked about for weeks on end was the one that got away.  When you get right down to numbers, Waldo was the only successful gopher catcher.  We had done as much or more damage to our yards as the gophers had done; and I knew this was really getting to me when I started asking global questions like, “Whose lawn is it anyway”?

One weekend my wife and I had a getaway, but I did not want to fall completely behind in the gopher wars.  With tongue in cheek I made a sign for the gophers that read NO DIGGING.  I attached the sign to a stick and shoved it into one of the gopher holes.  The sign was probably bigger than necessary for a gopher, but I wanted to make sure that Bill could read it from his yard.  When we returned, I discovered that no gophers had dug in my yard all weekend, whereas Bill had a new pile of dirt.

It turns out that a neatly printed sign in the yard is just as effective as any other method I have used or ever heard of to get rid of gophers.  Believe it or not, we never saw evidence of another gopher in our yard.  As God as my witness, I did not know gophers could read. 

Marty was a former high school principal out of L.A. Unified, and in his retirement, he took up the occasional temporary, part-time gig as an administrator to replace someone who was ill, or on leave; and that was why he showed up for a season on our campus. He did not serve on any of our committees, or work on an accreditation report, or make any classroom observations.

His main job was to handle student discipline referrals that came in from teachers or campus security; and he was great at it.  He was not imposing in size, nor was he aggressive.  He was relaxed, easy-going, friendly, avuncular and kind, not threatening in the least.  He would joke and tease with the miscreants.  He was every kid’s favorite grandfather, and they responded respectfully.  It seemed effortless for him to work the student around to taking responsibility and accepting his consequences.  He was the “visiting priest” who draws the longest lines at the confessional.

There was one especially effective tactic he used with students who were bobbing and weaving with the evidence.  He would remind the student that he must call Mom or Dad; and that when he made the call, he would convey one of two messages to the parent, and the student could decide which message.

Message #1.  “I have some bad news.  Your son/daughter was sent to the office, and he/she has chosen to whine about it and not take responsibility.  The consequence for her/him is _______.”

Message #2.  “I have some good news.  Your son/daughter was sent to the office, but there were no excuses. Your child took full responsibility for her/his actions and graciously accepted the consequence, which is _______.  Students make mistakes all the time, and many of them do not fess up; but your child is different.  Looks like your child is growing up.  Looks like good parenting to me.”

I stole that tool for my kit and would use it to good effect on many occasions.                                                                

He was also something of a collector.  For over forty years he had chronicled the excuses he had heard.  When you summon a student to the office in response to the discipline referral; ninety-nine times out of one hundred, the student does not immediately tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.  The excuses, the evasions, the blame shifting, the denial of wrongdoing, the smokescreens, the cover up, the whining and the drama can be exhausting.  Please do not get me wrong.  These are not bad kids.  These are just kids who have been caught in a misadventure and hoping to wiggle out of it.  Not much different from the rest of us.  Congressmen in training. 

After he left us and went to another school district to be an example for others, we kept in touch for a while.  He sent me the occasional addition to the list, and if I had a new one, I would return the favor.  Between Marty and me, and mainly Marty, our list grew to more than 50 examples of excuse-making.  Here are a few!

Some other kid did it….It’s not fair….She doesn’t know how to teach….I’m smarter than the teacher; it’s boring in there….I’m not the smartest kid in the class; it’s boring in there….The lady at the gate made me show my ID; that’s why I dropped the F-bomb….I was up late at the drive-in with my girlfriend. Why is being tardy such a big deal?….That teacher doesn’t like me….I threw my English book at her because she didn’t invite me to her birthday party (three years previously in sixth grade)                                                   

Some of my colleagues also contributed to the list, and we numbered them. We took it to Kinko’s, where it was enlarged to 24” x 36” and laminated; and we put it up on the office wall.  Staff members came by for a chuckle, and it became required reading for any student who was in the sub-culture known as “kids who get sent to office.”  They were told to look down the list and pick the excuse most closely aligned with their crime. 

We messed with them, saying, “Just pick a number; it will save a lot of time.”

Many students just took a glance, didn’t read the whole list, didn’t react at all, didn’t get it, no sense of humor!  Yet there were a few who stood there, taking it in, allowing the absurdity to roll over them, smiling at the weirdness of it, and who would say, “Yeah, OK, number 14. What do I have to do”?

There is no telling how many kids came clean without a fuss.  Probably a small number.  After all, it was just a whimsical thing on a wall, like “The Things You Learned in Kindergarten.”  Yet for those few for whom it was a prompt to do the right thing, and for whom it was a learning experience from a school discipline moment; they can thank a man that most of them never met nor remembered. 

His time with us was short, just a few months; but he is fondly remembered for his wonderful anecdotes about the crazy things he saw and heard in his decades of service in the school trenches. He is still remembered for his droll sense of humor, and he is especially remembered for the way he dealt with such care and compassion to the kids who were at that moment in some degree of trouble. Marty is in his 90’s now; moving a little slower; but still laughing and telling stories. I smile to recall the “excuse” list — a tangible reminder of Marty’s infectious wit; and I will never forget the even more intangible reminders of his kindness and guidance to students, and to me. 

My friend Misty uses an expression to describe any good and felicitous moment that is beyond coincidence, makes no earthly sense and defies every rule of logic.  She calls it a “God Thing.”  I can offer no other explanation as to what happened when I stepped into the treatment center at Kaiser Hospital Woodland Hills in July of 2011 for my first day of chemo.

My journey there had started in earnest just six weeks earlier on June 1^st with a painful rib that drove me to my GP, and a sore jaw that drove me to the dentist one week later; and I would soon learn of the connection between those two visits.  There came specialists, X-rays, MRIs, blood-letting and other indignities.  Along the way the word “biopsy” was spoken, and it did not take the deductive powers of Sherlock Homes to know that something was afoot; and what was afoot was made clear on June 18^th when I heard those most frightening of words,

“Tim, it is 85 against 15 that you have a cancer known as multiple myeloma.” 

I will not sugar-coat it.  it is no fun.  Nine years of treatment, close to three hundred trips to Kaiser, certain experimental drugs that can beat you up, and at least a thousand needles.  Do you like needles?  Me neither! 

However, those are not the things I dwell upon.  The median life expectancy upon diagnosis for this cancer has telescoped from just two years — fifteen years ago — to more than eleven years today.  The drugs have become so refined that the treatments are not as pernicious as they were almost sixty years ago when my dad was brutalized by the rather primitive chemo therapies.  I will be receiving treatment every two weeks for the rest of my life; but it is now regarded as a chronic disease, not a death knell; and I am absolutely besotted with love and appreciation for the nurses and phlebotomists and pharmacy techs and oncologists who nurture me, comfort me, keeping me alive.  Super-heroes all. 

Of course, I was not aware of these benefits on that first day.  As I walked down the hallway to the treatment center, I was praying like mad and claiming to myself, “You’re in good hands, Timmy; you’re in good hands.” 

Little did I know!

She welcomed me and said, “Hi Mr. Piatt.  Remember me”?  There are about ten nurses in the treatment center, and they work on a rotation that pairs them with the patients on a random basis.  What were the chances that a former student would greet me and treat me on my inaugural visit?  And what were the chances that her husband’s gramma is a dear friend of mine?  And what were the chances that this young nurse had the most remarkable hands?

As a senior in high school, Keri was the captain of the “Guard.”  Sometimes known as the drill team, or the flag girls, or the pageantry corps, or the dance guard; they performed on the street and on the field with the marching band.  And as a separate spirit group, they competed in “Guard” competitions.  It was spellbinding to watch them do dance routines and close-order drills with the discipline and the cadence you would associate with the Marines. At the same time, they were waving these huge flags on ten-foot poles or flipping wooden rifles.  They practiced like crazy, and the flags and guns were heavy and dangerous.  Many were the times they took a blow from a falling rifle on the head or the hands or their shoulders.  And as they endured the pain and worked the routines, they built real strength.  Keri and her teammates developed hands and forearms as strong and sinewy as Popeye’s, with toughness to spare.

These memories of the “Guard” flashed through my mind as she shook my hand. She gave me my first needle, my first IV, my first dose of chemo and the first drip of my bone-repair medication.  My day had started with apprehension and wild curiosity, wondering whether I would live or die, lose my hair, get real pukey or suffer enormous pain.  Instead, from the handshake on, there was an enormous calm that defies all comprehension.    

Over these nine years I have experienced the most amazing care from all the Kaiser nurses — now cherished friends; yet, my first day of treatment had a special tenderness.  I was in the care of a woman whose hands were uniquely equipped to allay my fears.  My walking-in prayers were answered, because I was indeed in good hands, the best of hands — hers and His.

My friend Misty called it.        

Our daughters tell their friends that their dad is not a crybaby, and that I only cry on special occasions.  Special occasions, like breakfast.  Like Hallmark ads.  Like chick movies.  Like Super Bowl ads — remember the horsey and the puppy? 

And other special occasions.  Like eating an apple.  I have carved up a gorgeous Honey Crisp, put the slices in a bowl, and am about to toss the core…but I stop.  Most people toss the core into the garbage disposal or the compost pail, but I can’t do that right now; because the sight of the remnant on the cutting board conjures up a snapshot of my mom, for whom an apple core constituted a meal unto itself.

This Depression Era lass was beyond frugal.  She never wasted a thing; and I have such a vivid memory of Audrey devouring an apple.  She would gnaw on it until the only thing left was the stem.  She ate the seeds and everything.  It was a sight to behold.  And it wasn’t just apples; you should have seen her scavenge a chicken wing, right down to the marrow.  You could have sold tickets. 

Which is why on this morning I am a little weepy in remembrance of my mother’s quirky habit of making a banquet out of everyone else’s leftovers.  When there was a family gathering at the local Denny’s, Audrey didn’t order anything except a cup of coffee and an empty plate; and when everyone else was done, she would scrape the stuff from all the other plates onto her own.  That was Audrey’s dinner.  I told her once that she reminded me of Charlotte’s friend Templeton the rat, who goes to the fairgrounds at the end of the day and gorges on the smorgasbord of throwaways and leavings.  Strangely, she was offended by that. 

And she took her own sweet time.  This is the woman who could take half-a-day just to finish a wing.  Yes, it took a lot of patience to go out to dinner with Grammy, but that wasn’t the hardest part.  Sometimes she would get antsy and begin to snitch stuff off the rest of our plates before we were finished.

“Daa-aad!  Grammy’s eating my fries.”

After a while we all agreed to a change of habits.  Rather than guarding our plates, and then waiting for her to finish, we began to share a portion of our orders with her.  Each of us gave her a morsel; that way she could eat right along with us.  Call it table tithing.    

Yet some habits are hard to break; she didn’t want to give up the scavenging.  So after dinner, instead of scraping our leftovers onto her plate, we scraped all the orts into a doggy bag — or in her case — a combination chicken wing bag, mac “n” cheese bag, cold fries bag, Caesar salad bag, meatloaf bag, little piece of fish bag, a BLT bag, and so forth.  She got to take home her favorite form of dining, and we no longer had to wait her out.  She would feast on that hash for days.  Just for the record, she never took home any dessert scrapings, because no one in our family ever left even a hint of cheesecake on the table.

Once on my birthday, I asked the family if I could pick something off each plate around the table, in honor of their Grammy.  They said they were cool with it, but when the check came, they all had forgotten their wallets; and I ended up paying for my own birthday dinner.      

Back to the apple core!  Why does this simple scrap of fruit make me cloud up?  Even though it is close to twenty years since Audrey passed, and even though she lived until just two months after her 99^th birthday; even though all of that, there are still some days and some moments when I miss her like crazy.

And there’s this.  At the core of me, I am a crybaby.