March | 2015 |

The first time I rode Johnny. His mane was long, he was underweight, but he was already awesome - truly, the best horse I ever rode.

“Life is a series of natural and spontaneous changes. Don’t resist them; that only creates sorrow. Let reality be reality. Let things flow naturally forward in whatever way they like.” – Lao Tzu

Everybody is gone or going.

Not literally everybody, of course. But it feels that way. For me, 2012 and 2013 represent a high water mark of connectedness. In 2012, my family of Clemson friends was very intact and a good thing, too, because that’s when I needed them the most. So many people were there for me. One of the friends I relied on most heavily, Dinger, left for New Hampshire in 2013. Another one of those friends, Brenden, is about to move to Denver. His wife, Kate, instantly became one of my favorite people. My traveling compadres Alrinthea and Lisa, moved to Greenville and Chattanooga, respectively. Odd though it may seem to those on the outside, my frequent breakfast buddy Evan is on to new adventures, too. Sean went to Charlotte. The list goes on.

In 2013, I met a whole new crew of friends, the comedians. On the plus side, I enjoyed them thoroughly while they were here, but they’ve fled, too. Justin Thompson, Camilo Potes, Nick Shaheen, and Charlie Grey. All taken by Atlanta, as though it were a giant monster in the night, stealing away with the comedy children I’d come to love so much. When I learned Charlie was moving to Atlanta, I mourned the loss of him. Not just because I will miss Charlie, but because I will miss the era that is now ending. It was sad to lose Justin, Camilo, and Nick. I miss them all. But the loss of Charlie feels like a tipping point.

Of course, I haven’t lost any of these people for good. Even if they’re no longer in my town doesn’t mean they’re no longer my friend. I still see all of these people, some of them pretty regularly. But it is not the same. Dr. Seuss says, “Don’t be sad that it’s over, smile because it happened.” I am struggling to follow Dr. Seuss’s advice. For a long time, I was eager for change. I wanted a new job, a new life. And then I got that new life. And I liked it a lot. Loved it, in fact. And suddenly, I am not so eager for change. Change is a lot harder when you’re letting go of something that was good.

For a lot of people reading this blog, this next part may sound strange, because it’s not about a person – it’s about a horse. In October, I met a black Thoroughbred gelding I dubbed Johnny. I’ve ridden horses my entire life. I started showing at age three. I’ve been fortunate enough to work at some elite level barns, took care of and rode horses who had been short-listed for the Olympics. I’ve owned and ridden some great horses, but Johnny was my favorite. He is an exceedingly special horse. He was exceedingly special to me. When I met him, he was for sale and he eventually sold to someone else. He sold to someone else because I failed to sell the books I’d spent months working on. They may yet sell somewhere else, but the influx of money I was hoping to receive is not coming anytime soon. The failure of those books to sell was a significant disappointment. This might sound odd, but my main sense of loss is tied up in losing out on Johnny.

In early January, I learned Mama Cat, my oldest pet, has cancer. She’s still hanging in there. She has very suddenly gone deaf and she gave up bathing herself, but her appetite is still good. Even so, I know the end that is inevitable for us all is much closer for her than it is for most. Mama Cat entered my life in 1999, when I was still in college. She was feral. Evan and I trapped her because we saw she was pregnant. She really domesticated quite nicely and she wound up having Little Bastard. She is a sweet, patient, tolerant cat. She is also symbolic of another era.

When I went out to Charleston to write, I did exactly that. It was a very productive trip in a lot of ways. Coming back has been hard. I instantly realized I needed to get out of this house that I’ve lived in for ten years now. Hindsight is 20/2o and I find myself looking back over some of my decisions of the last two years and thinking perhaps I made some mistakes. Evan and I engaged in what was essentially a slow motion divorce. Some aspects of that method were definitely beneficial, working out logistics on the other side of emotion is a good idea. But on the flip side, I still have an attic full of memorabilia that needs to be gone through. I see now the benefit of ripping the band-aid off and taking care of everything quickly, of getting it done and over with. In the slow motion divorce, you deal with it again and again. And again. And again.

It’s not that I wish I was still married. Truth is, every time Evan and I see each other it becomes increasingly bizarre to us we were ever married in the first place. The nice thing is we can laugh about it. When we were married, there were so many things left unsaid, so many personality traits stifled. Now that we are free to be wholly ourselves around one another, it’s kind like, “How did that happen?” I’d like to think we’re both pretty decent people, and as such we make pretty decent friends. In this, I am incredibly fortunate. And yet, despite all of this intellectual knowledge, this peaceable resolution, divorce still sucks. It is painful. The feeling of rejection runs deep. Believe it or not, this segues back to the horse. Johnny, it seemed to me, liked me. I get that there are a lot of people who like me, who even love me. But as I said before, Johnny was special. I have trust issues, and there were so many times that that horse, had he been a normal Thoroughbred, would have behaved badly. Instead, he was good and brave, which made me good and brave. It’s not supposed to go that way, you know. The rider is supposed to create confidence in the horse, not the other way around. In the end, everything that the rejection of divorce does, working with Johnny did the opposite of that. And all of a sudden I find myself surrounded by artifacts of that rejection, including this house. So now, I too am going. Not far away, but I am going.

Everybody is going or gone.

There have been times in this process where I handled things really well, where I was strong and felt the living peace of faith. Now is not one of those times. This has been a time of mourning, weeping, throwing things away, it has been a time to die, to tear down, to give up. I don’t like it and I don’t want it. I hate feeling weak. It is my least favorite feeling in the world. It brings out all the worst in me. But this is where I am, whether I like it or not. And change is coming, it is almost here. I know there will be times of planting, building, laughing, dancing. A time of rebirth. There is a season for every activity under Heaven.

“There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven:
a time to be born and a time to die,
a time to plant and a time to uproot,
a time to kill and a time to heal,
a time to tear down and a time to build,
a time to weep and a time to laugh,
a time to mourn and a time to dance,
a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,
a time to embrace and a time to refrain,
a time to search and a time to give up,
a time to keep and a time to throw away,
a time to tear and a time to mend,
a time to be silent and a time to speak,
a time to love and a time to hate,
a time for war and a time for peace.”

(Ecclesiastes 3:1-8, NIV)

Fred and Irene

Yesterday, we celebrated my dad’s birthday in the traditional Adams Family way – with awesome ribs, some wine, and funny stories. On March 4th, my dad will turn 73. Here are some quotes from the evening:

My dad talking about how he got my beautiful mother to marry him: “Perseverance and lies. You know, if you can get someone to marry you based off of lies, and then they can forgive you and love you anyway, that’s a wonderful, wonderful thing.”

My dad regarding a tough joke somebody just made: “This isn’t a family for the weak.” My brother: “It’s a family that makes you strong.”

My dad on the fact I’ve been feeling pretty fragile lately: “We’ll always be here for you, Beautifuls. Whatever you need. Okay, I’m going to bed.” (My father’s retreats are sudden, but not hard to predict. The man goes to bed around eight and gets up at four.)

I love it when my dad is in a storytelling mood, and last night he was in rare form. It was yet another occasion where I realized that I am my father. So many of his stories sounded like pages from my own life. “So, I was drinking with this guy, and then…” random adventure ensues. Other stories involved visions. For example, my dad told the story of the financial crisis brought on my the surprise arrival of my brother. (He is 15 years younger than my oldest sister.) During this time of crisis, my dad spent a lot of time drinking and laying on the couch, wondering how he was going to pay for David’s college. He then awoke in the middle of the night with an epiphany that he would be a CPA in Atlanta. He wound up in Greenville, SC, but, you know, close enough. And from the point of that vision forward, his crisis abated. I am a big fan of visions, too.

My dad also talked about the diagnosis he received in 1996 that shaped all of our lives from that point forward. At that time, a doctor told my dad he’d likely pass away in three years, but that if he was incredibly lucky, he might make it to 70. I remember praying so hard that my dad would reach 70. For years and years, that was my prayer. Often times, God dreams bigger than we do. We are extraordinarily fortunate that my dad turned out to be a medical anomaly, and there is a strange blessing in twenty years spent in the shadow of death. Perhaps predictably, it teaches you to be grateful for the days you do have. But it also teaches you, through forced contemplation, to became familiar with death itself. I think our modern discomfort with death is a great tragedy. We outsource it to hospice workers and hospitals, we fight it in ways big and small. I see it in efforts like the desire to colonize Mars. We want to sustain, live on. We obsess over our health and nutrition and try to tack on as many years as we can. To me, these things seem born of fear, the fear of a failure to survive – when of course none of us survives. The loss of a loved one through death equals profound heartbreak. But if you believe as I do, that after death the person lives on, the hard scrabble, even desperate effort to cling to this mortal coil, as Shakespeare would say, is odd and sad. Far better to really live while you’re here, have fun, and not worry so much.

In this, my father has excelled. He is, in fact, far better than I am at it, but I like to think I’ve inherited some of his joie de vivre. I’ve told many people about how my dad introduced me to comedy. My father and I share a joint lexicon of phrases culled from W.C. Fields, Laurel & Hardy, and Mel Brooks movies. “Say, is this a game of chance?” W.C. Fields: “Not the way I play it, no.” Laurel: “Don’t you think your bounding over your steps?” Hardy: “He means stepping over your bounds.” And most frequently used – Director Roger Debris in The Producers, who is dressed in drag and about to go to a costume contest: “What do you think? BE BRUTAL, BE BRUTAL! Heaven knows they well.” And Roger Debris again: “CONGRATULATIONS!” My dad also introduced me to amazing television, like Taxi. We were also big fans of Night Court. Best exchange ever – John Larroquette to a scumbag restauranteur: “And what are these ‘batter fried bits’ made of?” Scumbag: “Formerly living things.” “Formerly living things,” is the perfect answer whenever somebody asks you what’s for dinner.

Had my dad been born in another time and place, he would have made an incredible stand-up comic. I’ve seen him on stage as an emcee and roaster, and his ability to craft a joke is superb. He’s a natural. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again – if I had my dad’s talent for comedy I’d already have a Comedy Central half hour. I mean that, too. I have my dad’s instinct for storytelling, but not his gift for punchlines.

As I said, the older I get the more I realize that I am my father. We see the world through the same eyes. It is, of course, a great blessing to be like my dad. He’s a widely beloved man. But everybody has a shadow side. We’re both stubborn people. When we are hyper focused upon a task, don’t interrupt us. Like the Hulk, you wouldn’t like us if you interrupt us. We think we know exactly the way things should go and get very bent upon bending reality to our will. Most of the time we’re peace-loving folk, given to seeing situations in shades of gray, but our sense of injustice and correlating rage can be pretty intense. We seem like we’re really easy to get along with, but secretly we can be difficult. Which makes it that much more difficult for those that find us difficult, aka, my mother. But on the plus side, we’re big on love and forgiveness and humor.

Long story short – I am blessed to have my dad for my dad. He is a great man, a great father, a truly rare creature that improves all of the lives he touches – and there are no shortage of people he has helped along their way. There is a very old African-American saying about sipping from the saucer. The idea is that if your cup runneth over, you can sip from the saucer. This saying reminds me of my father. He is an expansive man, capable of great acts of selflessness and giving, but he does not empty himself in order to fill others, because the well of his faith runs so deep. In this, I would like to be more like him.

Yesterday, watching my dad reminisce, in his beautiful home surrounded by his family who loves him, a successful businessman and living miracle, I considered how improbable his life story is. This poor boy from Alabama, kicked out of high school and who got into college having still not memorized the alphabet, found himself married to a beauty queen from Idaho, wound up back in the South, alive and well and deeply loved. Not everybody gets such a happy third act to their life story. I am incredibly thankful my father has. He’s a wonderful man, and deserves all the happiness in the world.

Month: March 2015

The Exodus

The Birthday of Fred J. Adams