Hallelujah, By and By

The drive from south Miami to Orlando to see Grampa and Granny takes a few hours. In most of the pictures I see of me and my Grampa, I am doing something with him. We are playing with blocks: I love building things, and he is a self-taught artist, so it works out. I remember playing baseball in his backyard, and the times he lets us ride on his lawnmower or in the trailer behind it. I walk into his garage while he and my dad are working on our red Dodge Caravan. I have a vague recollection of either a child-oriented lecture on mechanics, or perhaps just eavesdropping on what they are saying. He comes down and helps my dad fix our house after Hurricane Andrew in 1992.

He is an average sized man, especially when standing next to my six-foot-four dad. Although, when I am a young child, he seems to be the biggest man I know. Everyone speaks well of him: as a kid with everything figured out, I know my mom has to say nice things, it is her dad. But even my dad makes it seem like he is the biggest man in the family. “When you marry a woman, you marry a family,” my father tells me on more than one occasion. I can only assume he has his father-in-law in mind when he says that.

It seems that in all my memories he looks exactly the same: He wears glasses (although he didn’t used to); His hair has always been grayish white. He is never bald, but never has a full head of hair. Even in the old pictures of him, his wife, my mom and her sister, his blonde hair, not balding, looked just like the “Grampa” I visit through the years. He laughs a deep, manly chuckle that only comes from a palpable enjoyment of life and seems to assure you whatever was just said is undoubtedly funny.

We call him “Grampa.” Not Papa, Grandad, Grandaddy, or Granpa. No, he is very specific: he wants to be called Grampa, with an “m.” I don’t know why he wants us to call him that, but we don’t mind. He never asks us to do anything unreasonable, and so as a kid it seems natural, right. As if there is some natural way the world should be, and that way includes me calling him Grampa.

Now that I think about it, he hardly asks us to do anything at all. There is the leaf-raking session every time we visited the house they moved to in the Northeast Georgia mountains, but even that was enforced by my parents, not him. The one request he regularly makes of us is not to fight with each other. The only time I ever see him cry or get angry is when I fight with my brother or sisters. He explains a concept I am reluctant to accept: how “He’ll always be your brother,” or “You’ll always have your sisters, and you need to be there for each other.”

Naturally I try to listen to what he says—my Grampa is, after all, the smartest man ever. I mean, he lived through part of the Great Depression, and World War II. I remember the first time I really understood that. I was astounded that I knew someone who was alive during a time in actual history. He shows me one of his elementary class pictures, and the one thing that strikes me is the lack of shoes. There are only a handful of children with shoes, and Grampa isn’t one of them. In the picture, he doesn’t seem to mind.

My Grampa always impresses me when I think of him, though I can’t tell you exactly what it is that impresses me. It isn’t his stint in the Army at a radio relay base in Africa during the Korean War. It isn’t the successful ownership of Professional Carpet Systems for almost a decade, during which he employed my dad between jobs. It isn’t his car phone—very prestigious to have when they pre-empted the cell phone—although as a kid this is one of the coolest things about him. He always quick adapts to new technology—the computer, internet, and e-mail—not a common feat among his peers. It’s not the multiple battles with heart issues, the quadruple bypass surgery. It isn’t even his faith: a go to church every Sunday and let God’s love show between each visit sort of faith; the kind that preachers preach about when they’re really talking about Jesus. It isn’t any of these things. It is probably all of them, and then some.

He tells me once about how one time in church when another guy had the nerve to put his arm around my Granny before she was dating Grampa. He explains how there rose up in him an incredible urge to throttle the guy. He didn’t, naturally. It was in church. My mom tells me about how he got my Granny. She was the Baptist pastor’s daughter, and their first date was to—gasp—a drive-in movie, an act comparably abominable to dancing. Sometimes I see the old 1950s couple transported to their living room: Still with the pet names and a kiss on the cheek and the occasional clasped hand.

I have a faint memory of his pipe but I may just be imagining that. My Grampa would never smoke. Except that he used to smoke cigarettes but switched to a pipe because my aunt was allergic. He quit the pipe and threw it into a sinkhole next to his house the day his father died of lung cancer. “It’s a three minute addiction,” he says once, “If you can withstand it for three minutes, it’ll go away.” I don’t smoke, so I doubt I’ll ever know if that’s really the case or if my Grampa just has extraordinary willpower. But I sure as hell am not going to pick up a habit that my Grampa tried and then quit. He is, after all, just about the smartest man ever.

As religious as Grampa is, going to visit him never feels like going to church. I’m always learning things, but never being preached at. His favorite hymn is “I’ll Fly Away.” It’s an old country church hymn about going “to a home on God's celestial shore...when this life is o’er.” I never know it is his favorite until they play it at his funeral.

My dad chokes up a little when he tells me. I don’t understand why everyone cries: he didn’t flinch in the face of death—he is escaping “like a bird from prison bars” to “a land where joy shall never end.” But they aren’t sad because it isn’t his time, or because of the tragedy of it all. They are crying because when a man as big as my Grampa passes, you mourn.

Books Ruin the Movies

For most of my thoughtful life, I have been of the opinion that this shirt is mostly correct. It seemed to me that every time a piece of literature was adapted to film, the medium proved sorely lacking. Naturally, the easiest person to blame is someone else, claiming that no creative expression can match up to the individual imagination.

That would be the way I have always looked at it: the Lord of the Rings movies were fantastic, and it was enjoyable to see the story visual depicted. But, the battle for Helm's Deep was not as epic as the one I read. Nor was Saruman as evil. Nor Minas Morgul and the Ringwraiths as terrible. But I don't think this comes from a shortage of creativity on the director's part. I think the books are the ones to blame.

A recent Curator article spoke to this--the author essentially saying that no one who dove headlong into the books will ever be able to fully enjoy a film adaption, because it will always be the second time he or she has seen it. This has been my experience--I have only recently been able to get caught up in the emotion of book-to-film adaptions that I have read, because I already knew what was coming. I didn't even frown when Dumbledore died, I was too busy critiquing the differences they had made in the plot that lead up to it.

The solution, obviously, is to stop reading books. Or, and this is just a thought, we could try really really really hard to treat the movies as their own story. Certainly, you won't be surprised when Mr. Male Supporting Role dies tragically, or when Ms. Protagonist admits to that love affair, but you can enjoy the d*mn movie--which you probably paid $10+ to go see--without musing about your superior creative direction for the film.

I should say, my two favorite movies--Star Trek and Pride and Prejudice--represent both sides of this issue. Granted, I have never read the Jane Austen classic, but I know the story so well that it never surprises me. Yet, each and every time I am pissed at Darcy's arrogance and surprised by Elizabeth's ironic pride. I cry every time I watch Star Trek, and fist pump multiple times in celebration of a certain explosion or stellar cinematography. So read the book, then forget about it. Go enjoy a movie.

Deconstructing Childhood Construction

When your dad works for the church, your family doesn’t have much disposable income. As a kid, I rarely picked up on this—I didn’t mind eating the store brand cereals or wearing Wal-Mart clothes. What I was aware of, though, was the fact that my family didn’t get as many new toys as my friends’ families. This wasn’t a problem, but it did result in one necessity: recyclable entertainment. My personal venue for such reusable fun was my substantial collection of Legos.

The infinite combination of seemingly endless plastic blocks occupied a significant portion of my childhood. The spaceship of today was tomorrow’s race car, the next day’s superhero base, and the next week’s medieval fortress. For me, the joy was not in the imaginative battles and adventures the finally constructed sets could engage in, but in the creative process itself. I would rather have the opportunity to build one set than play with three. My brother would hastily construct a not-to-poorly designed car and then immediately begin to ask if I would play some variation of a race or demolition derby. For me, this was unthinkable! How dare he suggest I risk destroying that which I had spent such a lengthy and tedious amount of time constructing!?

The constructs I was most proud of were perfectly coordinated in structure and color; not a single Lego brick was unnecessary or out of place. I would naturally build any brand new set exactly as the instructions indicated. The longer the pieces were in my possession, however, the more likely they were to be shuffled and recycled into a new, inventive piece of sci-fi machinery, the specific engineering of which only I could explain. These prized productions would then proceed to occupy a special location on top of my dresser or bookshelf, safe from the war-mongering grip of my “less scrupulous” fellow creator.

Yet, even my carefully conceived and composed creations were eventually destroyed, if only to make way for the next great endeavor of my early engineering career. Sometimes, I wonder if I missed out a little bit. Not that I would trade the care I put into making each and every set. I have merely found myself pondering my brother’s consistent, endearing urge to just play, and mine to think and create. Maybe my 10-year-old self could construct a happy-medium bridge between the creative process and simply enjoying the participation.

Oh Potter, You Rotter

I have been prompted to write this because of the literal threat of a slow and painful death by a friend of mine. I was quite terrified. Almost as terrified as the time that basilisk attacked me at the urging of the memory of a dark lord who was contained in a diary.

Speaking of dark-lord-memory-induced-basilisk-attacks, I just finished the second book of the Harry Potter series: The Chamber of Secrets. You must understand: I am someone who all but swore to never read them, or in the very least decided to put every other book ever written in

front of Harry Potter on the "list of books to read." That's right, that includes Twilight and Joel Osteen's Become a Better You.

And yet, I took The Sorcerer's Stone with me to Summer Conference and then followed it up with The Chamber of Secrets, which I finished last night. I must say I have thoroughly enjoyed both of them. As a writer, I can appreciate the overall storyline, the epic and destiny-driven plot that does not overshadow the everyday experiences of Potter and his friends. The one bit of criticism I do have is that it is reminiscent of the TV show 24 in that there is a single major conflict each and every book. It may get repetitive. It hasn't yet, just the prospect of it is not great.

Other than that, I have highly enjoyed a thorough romp through Ms. Rowling's created world. I am not and have never been opposed to the concept of magic, wizards and witchcraft. At least, that was never my reason for not reading them...because it is fiction, after all. About 45% of the reason I never desired to read them was the fans. They tended to annoy me on a Twilight and Jonas Brothers level. Oh, yeah. The other 55% was that I had always disliked the prospect of witnessing the plight of an angsty teenager and his magical world. I wasn't wrong, per sé, but we'll just leave it at this: that which kept me away has drawn me in.

Six Word Memoirs

About a year ago a friend was doing a photography project entitled "Six Word Memoirs," inspired (as far as I can tell) by a certain NPR story and gallery, or, upon further research, this book and this magazine.

Whatever the original source, she asked a group of us to give her a memoir, summed up in exactly six words. No more, no less. This was to be accompanied with our photographic portrait. What I came up with was:

I was born, and then again.

I have tried very hard to match the glory of that precedent. I will continue to try. In the meantime, here are a few others I have done:

My soul clings to the dust.

Life happens a lot. Respond accordingly.

Love is all that I can.

I have fallen for you, miss.

Now, when the same directive was put to others of my friends, here is what was produced:

I want to wear a tie.
I'm so glad that's over with.
It rained yesterday. My umbrella broke.
--Daniel Romanoski

and

I am my mother's flower child.
The world hurts, but he restores.
--Amanda Patterson

It is an interesting exercise. It takes some thought and purpose and often creativity to condense experience to a mere six words. From a poetic point of view, it is a convenient and interesting way to get he most bang for your buck as far as words go.

Now, I know I ask you as readers to do things a lot, or at least ask what you think, but this is a sincere request: please please PLEASE take a tad bit of your time to do this. Boil it down to a "penny for your thoughts" query.

It doesn't have to be a memoir of your whole life, your "singular purpose." It can be for the last year, the last week, the last day--it could even be a memoir of the last hour. Just think about it, and post your Six Word Memoir as a comment.

This Man Gatsby

I am beginning to realize why The Great Gatsby is considered a classic:

"He smiled understandingly--much more that understandingly. It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in life. It faced--or seemed to face--the whole external world for an instant, and then concentrated on you with an irresistible prejudice in your favor. It understood you just so far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you would like to believe in yourself and assured you that it had precisely the impression of you that, at your best, you hoped to convey. Precisely at that point it vanished--"

--Nick Carraway, pages 52-53

What I'm Reading

In the spirit of I need to get off my lazy butt and read more if I am going to keep up the pretense of being intellectual, educated and an English major, I am going to read more. And I am going to post what I am reading here.

The book I am currently reading (semi consistently) is Just Do Something by Kevin DeYoung. The subtitle is "How to Make a Decision Without Dreams, Visions, Fleeces, Open Doors, Random Bible Verses, Casting Lots, Liver Shivers, Writing in the Sky, etc." Pretty fabulous.

I had heard about the book from Josh Harris a few months ago, seeing as he wrote the foreward for it. Which is pretty amazing. You should check it out. So far the book is good stuff, and fairly predictable, but still good.

It's telling me what I need to hear: JUST DO SOMETHING. I'd encourage you to pick it up, though. It's pretty cheap. And worth it.

Of Resonating Literature

Sometimes literature just resonates with you. It takes your meager circumstances and elevates them or mirrors them in the higher plane of that which you are reading.

"When once he was within the cabin there was nothing to do but kiss. He avoided her mouth—the mouth reveals so much, but she wouldn't be content until she had pulled his face round a left the seal of her return on his lips. 'Oh my dear, here I am.'

'Here you are,' he said

...

Did my lies really start, he wondered, when I wrote that letter? Can I really love her more than Louise? Do I, in my heart of hearts, love either of them, or is it only that this automatic pity goes out to any human need—and makes it worse? Any victim demands allegiance.

...

'Missing Mass on Sunday's a mortal sin, just as much as adultery.'

'Adultery's more fun,' he said with attempted lightness.

...

...he felt his whole personality crumble with the disintegration of lies.

...

'Why do we go on like this—being unhappy?'

'It's a mistake to mix up the ideas of happiness and love,' Scobie said with desperate pedantry, as though, if he could turn the whole situation into a textbook case, as they had turned Pemberton, peace might return to both of them, a kind of resignation.

...

One ought not to lie to two people if it could be avoided—that way lay complete chaos, but he was tempted terribly to lie as he watched her face on the pillow. She seemed to him like one of those plants in nature films which you watch age under your eye.

...

'But I simply don't understand. If you believe in hell, why are you with me now?'

How often he though, lack of faith helps one to see more clearly than faith. He said, 'You are right, of course: it ought to prevent all this. But the villages on the slopes of Vesuvius go on...And then, against all the teaching of the Church, one has the conviction that love—any kind of love—does deserve a bit of mercy. One will pay, of course, pay terribly, but I don't believe on will pay for ever.

...

'I can regret the lies, the mess, the unhappiness, but if I were dying now I wouldn't know how to repent the love.'

...

'It's not much good confessing if I don't intend to try. . . .'

'Well then,' she said triumphantly, 'be hung for a sheep. You are in—what do you call it—mortal sin? now. What difference does it make?'

He thought: pious people, I suppose, would call this the devil speaking, but he knew that evil never spoke in these crude answerable terms: this was innocence."

From Book III, Part I, Chapter I of Graham Greene's novel The Heart of the Matter. Read. Buy.