March, 2019 - C.E. Lemieux Jr

March 2, 2019March 2, 2019

More Than A Memory

2012

“Memory is the diary that we all carry about with us,”— Oscar Wilde

I took this quote from John Lavan. John is a poet and his work can be found at http://poemsfromreality.blogspot.com/

At the time I read John’s Tweet, I was searching for a topic for the blog. Much as Karen’s comment seemed to inspire my thoughts in the last blog, John’s quote came along at just the right moment. Memory is an amazing thing and for those who face circumstances which rob them of their memories, it must be a fearsome thing to lose.

I have a friend with whom I often sit around talking about the old times. Wes and I have been friends for over thirty years. We’ve created a lot of memories together. Sometimes he triggers my mind to remember things I have forgotten and sometimes I do the same for him. Invariably we wander down trails and remember both good times and bad. From high school parties to camping at the edge of a clear mountain lake, the images return. The smell of bacon frying mingles with the scent of pines freshly dripping from a morning rain and I can once again feel the chill in the air of that mountain morning.

When I attend a high school football game the crisp fall air takes me back to my youth and what it felt like to strap on those pads. I can hear the snap of the chinstrap and the slap of shoulder pads as we were warming up. The smell of the fresh cut grass; the scent of the leather ball; and the aroma of fresh popcorn drifting from the concession stand window all return to me through the glorious experience of memory. I spent most of my seasons standing along the sidelines, but I can still feel the excitement as the seconds tick toward opening kickoff and I remember the shrill sound of the ref’s whistle.

Memory is much easier to access than piles of pictures and stacks of photo albums. Those photos are just a sliver of time, but they can help restart the recording within my mind. There is a picture on my desk with two little boys dressed in hiking gear. They’ve got their hand-carved hiking sticks, laced boots, and broad smiles. They stand upon a rise they traversed and the pines fill in the background. Today they are grown, each with school, jobs, and girls on their minds, but when I look at the photograph they are little once again, and it never fails to bring a smile to my face as I recall those warm memories. Sometimes it causes me to wonder if I shared enough time with them; it makes me wish I could go back and do it again just to be sure. It makes me think about all the obstacles in life they will face and if they know how simple that time in their lives will seem to them one day. Sometimes I wonder if they ever look at that picture and feel the same way.

On a wall in another room there is a large photograph of a young man in a white tux. He still has hair. Beside him is a beautiful girl in a white gown. Again, memory allows me to go back in time and revisit the day that portrait was taken and the first steps we were taking into our future together. After twenty-four years we’ve both changed in ways we probably wouldn’t have imagined on that day. In other ways we haven’t changed. I still enjoy holding her hand and sleep most comfortably when she is beside me.

Memory truly does serve as a diary we can take with us wherever we go. It sometimes holds so many riches we may even find a time when we fear losing them just as easily as those photographs would be lost to a fire, flood, or other natural disaster. In my novel, Loving Deacon, Andrew Jordan (Deacon) voices thoughts which echo that sentiment.

“Seventy years. Where have they all gone? To what place does time go when it has passed from our view? Where are all of those wonderful memories stored when we are no longer around to be the vessel which holds on to them?”

Deacon finds comfort in his memories. They allow him to return to times past and they eventually lead him to a discovery which has eluded him all of his life. He is fortunate in that way, but some people aren’t so fortunate. There are those among us who are robbed of their memories. They suffer a cruel death, often living as much as forty percent of the time they are plagued with their disease in the most severe stage. There are 5.4 million Americans living with Alzheimer’s disease. While deaths from other diseases has decreased, deaths from Alzheimer’s disease increased by sixty-six percent between 2000-2008. Two-thirds of those with the disease (3.4 million) are women. Another American develops Alzheimer’s every 69 seconds. Alzheimer’s isn’t just a memory losing disease, it is debilitating and ravaging. The disease doesn’t only affect those who are diagnosed with it; their caregivers and family members are impacted as well. These facts are readily available from the Alzheimer’s Association website http://alz.org/index.asp

September is World Alzheimer’s Month and September 21st is Alzheimer’s Action Day. For the month of September I’ve made a commitment to donate all royalties from the sales of the Loving Deacon paperback purchased on Amazon to the Alzheimer’s Association. This is just one small way in which I can help. If you were considering a purchase of Loving Deacon, I urge you to do so this month from Amazon. Here is the link: http://www.amazon.com/Loving-Deacon-1-Lemieux-Jr/dp/1453609318/ref=sr_1_4?ie=UTF8&qid=1315068352&sr=8-4

So think about it, where would you be without those memories you cherish so much? How often do those memories bring you comfort in times of turmoil? Of course we are always making memories. Each second, each hour, and each day brings with it the possibility of new memories to add to our collection. Let’s not miss a second that could help others hold on to those memories. Let’s not miss a second that could allow you to hold on to your memories. You don’t have to buy the book to help. You can visit the Alzheimer’s Association Website http://alz.org/index.asp and make a donation, but if you were going to purchase the book, do so in September on the Amazon site. Either way, you’ll be making a memory worth hanging on to –the day you helped bring an end to this horrible disease.

–Thank you to Cynthia Strohschein, Director, Strategic Communications of the Alzheimer’s Association and to the Alzheimer’s Association for allowing the use of their information and links for this article.–

March 2, 2019March 2, 2019

Times Are Hard

2012

Times are hard. Folks are looking for jobs. Homes are being foreclosed upon. Prices are going up. Wild fires are roaring across the grasslands. Drought is drying and cracking the earth in parts of the country while flooding has ravaged other areas of the nation. Times are hard.

A couple of weeks ago I helped a friend of mine take a large number of his cattle to market. It was a tough decision for his family. They’d worked hard at growing their herd. Each year they moved out the older cows and were working toward improvement. But the reality is that there has been little rain across our area; grass is scarce; the price of hay is high. They can only afford to feed a certain amount of cattle.

To make matters worse, farmers in the area are finding it hard to plant winter wheat. In a normal year they’d be able to allow the cattle to graze on the young wheat. With no rain, there is no planting. Some folks are dusting their wheat into the ground with the hope that rain will come and offer moisture to the seeds after they buried beneath the surface of the soil. It’s a big risk. Seeds and fuel cost money.

We sorted the cows and calves, keeping the cows he thought he could afford to feed. We loaded as many as the trailers would hold and had to make several trips. He knew he was taking a loss to sell them early. At the sale barn, we waited in line. There were others who faced the same decisions. Horse trailers and cattle trucks lined up to alleviate the burden on heavily grazed pastures. It’s a buyer’s market. In a few months, there will be fewer cattle to take to market, and beef prices are likely to go up. That will affect the rest of us.

Times are hard, but they aren’t as hard as they’ve ever been. Our grandparents and great grandparents had it harder. They endured the crash of the market, the great depression, two world wars, and the dust bowl. They made it through. In fact, my friend’s family was one of the few who persevered, held on, and made a life in this rugged country. So many were forced to pack up and move away. Many found life in the cities almost as difficult.

How did they make it? What lessons can we learn from them?

They made it by reaching deep inside, finding discipline and determination where it hides inside. They pinched pennies. They made things last. They held tight to what matters; family, friends, neighbors. They stuck together. They helped each other out. They did what they had to do. Times were hard.

When times are hard, we have to look for what’s important. We have to make the tough decisions. We have to hold on to what matters most and make the most of what we have. Commitment, dedication, determination, self-sacrifice – those words hold more meaning when times are hard.

My wife recently had surgery four and a half hours away from home. My mom stayed with the kids. My wife is doing well, still sore, but getting around. Times are hard, but folks showed up at our house with meals every day. They stuck with us, showed us kindness, took the time to think of others even though things might not be going well for them right now.

There’s another word which has more meaning when times are hard; that word is hope. We hope for the rains which will eventually come. We hope for an improvement in the economy; for jobs to become available; for prices to stabilize. However, hope isn’t an empty pail waiting to be filled. Hope is the heart at work. It is that determination our ancestors tapped into; it is staying prepared to leap when the time is right. Hope is keeping our eyes open; our ears alert; and our souls on fire for the day which promises to bring those improvements we so desire.

The encouragement, support, and kindness of others can help fuel our hope. We can help build the hope of others by offering them our support as well, but real hope comes from inside; it comes from the determination that we are strong enough to face what comes against us. Hope comes from knowing the sun will shine through the clouds again someday and we will be ready for that day. In my book Loving Deacon, Emily and Deacon are among those who endure. They hold on to each other. They treasure what matters most. Their love and determination see them through. They are the kind of folks who add to the hope of others even when they may be struggling as well. Their spirits are carved from the stone which serves as the foundation of American values and traditions. They hold onto their hope when times are hard.

March 2, 2019March 2, 2019

A Season For Hope

2012

Well, it’s over. The scoreboard is dark. The public address system is silent. The seats are empty. The bases have been brought in. The bats and balls have been put away. The grass will weather the winter and the chalk lines will fade into the dirt. Sadly, the disappointment is still sinking in. For weeks, I was pumped, but in just one fall night my hopes were crushed…at least until next season. Okay, if you know me, you’ve probably realized I’m talking about the brutal loss My Rangers took at the hands of the St. Louis Cardinals. I use the word brutal, because it hurt, not because it was one of those one-sided, lame, boring World Series battles.

A little history: When I was a kid, I hated baseball or at least, I told myself I did. I played part of a season. It was in Virginia; the summer league at the fields near Indian River High School. I believe I was in the third or fourth grade. I had no concept of the game and everyone I was playing with had been playing for at least a couple of years. I was scared to death to take the field. I was afraid I’d make a mistake or not know what to do.

My younger brother, he was great at it. He started young and each year his team got better and better. He could pitch. He could catch. He could play a mean second base. My dad was one of the coaches and he had a natural talent for it. If he hadn’t decided to make a career out of the Navy, coaching would have been his calling.

It wasn’t like it is today where they used tees or pitching machines to learn the game. Those kids were pitching from the beginning and some of them were just fantastic. They took the game serious. They listened during the practices and followed all of dad’s drills. I actually enjoyed hanging out at his practices more than I enjoyed playing with my own team, so I just stopped playing.

Fast Forward: I’m in college. I went to several Rangers games in the old stadium just because the bank I worked for took all of its employees. The park was practically empty. I remember one game was against the White Sox and it went nine innings with a score of one to nothing. The Rangers lost. It just reinforced the idea that baseball was boring.

Surprisingly, I became a trainer for the college team. I enjoyed the game at that level, but it was mostly because of the attitude of the guys on the team. It was a small, private college; they played as much for the fun of the game as anything. After college, baseball went back to being a non-interest.

Fast Forward Again: I’m a dad. I’ve got a couple of kids playing ball. I decide, what better way for my kids to learn about baseball than to watch the pros. We started watching Rangers games together. No, the team wasn’t all that great and they weren’t going to make the playoffs, but they reminded me of the guys in college who actually seemed to play because they liked it. We quickly picked out our favorite players.

We watched and learned the game together. We talked about what was happening in the game. We discovered the techniques and the plays. We learned the meaning of terms like – double play, fielder’s choice, an RBI, a single, a double, a triple, and of course the most sought after – Grand Slam. We played catch. We collected cards. We got into baseball.

It became something we did together. Soon, Rangers games were family time. It was something special. We marveled at the spectacular plays and the home runs. The Rangers were in the new park and it was beautiful. When we were on vacation, we attended a Rangers game. We were in the nosebleed section, but it was awesome.

We went to a Redhawks game in the Bricktown Ballpark in Oklahoma City. They were a minor league team for the Rangers at that time. We were just a few rows back from the dugout. The dirt was so red. The grass was so green. The crack of the bat was so close and we could actually hear the ball pop in the mitts. The game was alive. The experience was so real. The crowd was so into it. I became baseball crazy. I had to catch every baseball game I could. Even baseball movies became of interest. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen Field of Dreams. I recently started a novel in which baseball plays a significant role.

Of course kids grow, and in a small town which only has a youth league, they eventually grew too old for playing baseball. One went to college. One is in high school where we don’t have a team. Another would probably play if there was a team for his age group. My daughter does play softball. Yet, even though the boys don’t play the game anymore, baseball is still one thing we can get together on once in a while.

Last year, the Rangers made it to the Series. I’d been following them for years. I knew their names and positions. There is Michael Young, the calm, cool versatile captain of the team. On second is Kinsler, who once played for the Liberal Bee Jays just 30 miles from home (I wish I’d been a follower then). Josh Hamilton is an inspiration and a slugger. There is Derick Holland, @Dutch_Oven45 on Twitter, the young pitcher. Of course, that year everyone was talking about Cliff Lee, who the Yankees took almost as quickly as the series was over. I’d seen the bullpen when it was at its worst and I’d watched as it improved. Certainly, there were others I wish we hadn’t traded and this year we have Napoli, who I can hope never leaves. I had watched their careers and the trades. They had become a part of my life, our lives. So, we were all excited when they made the playoffs and into the World Series, but then the Giants dashed our hopes.

This year, they were back. They were good. It was going to be their year. We watched the divisional and conference games. All of the playoff games were exciting; the anticipation was building with each game. Then, finally we were back in the big one – The World Series. The Series proved to be just as exciting and I was stressing through each game, but in the end the Cards took home the trophy. The final game was disappointing, a heartbreaking loss. And the worst part: baseball was over for the year.

It is amazing to see where life leads you. The kid, who thought he hated baseball, found out he loves baseball. The kid, who was scared to play, wishes he could play it now. And a game, that was just meant to show my own kids how the game is played, has become a part of our lives and something which can still bring us together.

One of the greatest things about baseball: it starts all over again in the spring. No matter how the last season ended, the slate is wiped clean and you are once again instilled with the hope that the next season will be your year. The grass greens up once again. The red dirt is groomed and chalked. The bats crack and the mitts pop; the crowds cheer, and God Bless America is proudly sung in the seventh inning stretch. And all over the country, fans kindle the hope that this year will be their year.

I can be proud of My Rangers for playing the game in a way which displayed class and respect for the tradition, enough that even Cards fans mentioned it on the Rangers Facebook page. I can be proud they made it to the Series two years in a row, making club history. I can be proud they made this last Series one of the most exciting in the history of the game, bringing in people who hadn’t watched a game in years. And I am sincerely proud of all of those things, but I will be most proud of the fact that they will be back in the spring to do it all again, and they will find a way to fill me with the hope that next year will be our year.

March 2, 2019March 2, 2019

The New Year Begins Today

02/01/2012

Well, here we are 31 days into yet another year. I find myself reflecting upon what that means to me. With the passing of 2011 growing more distant with each day, I am faced with the question of what I will do with each sunrise of 2012.

So often we hear or even speak comments as we near the end of one year and look toward another which reflects a hope for a better year. But the truth is that we have no year to plan for, we have only today, this moment, perhaps even the very breath within our chests. With the routine grind, the day to day struggle, and the constant opportunities we face, it is easy to lose sight or to lose focus on the fact that we needn’t wait for a new year which may never come to start looking for a better day. I speak from a clearly hypocritical point of view if I fail to admit that I too struggle with this revelation.

Our presence of mind is stolen by work, bills, distractions and distortions. We fall into the spin cycle and life overtakes us, rather than taking over life. We make resolutions to improve and find them swept away by the realities of daily life. We dream dreams and allow them to dissipate into the air before we have even had time to get a grasp upon them.

In looking for a topic which related to the New Year and fresh beginnings, I found this quote:

“For a long time it had seemed to me that life was about to begin-real life. But there was always some obstacle in the way, something to be gotten through first, some unfinished business, time still to be served, a debt to be paid. Then life would begin. At last it dawned on me that these obstacles were my life.”
Alfred D’Souza

I had no idea who Alfred D’Souza was and after I Googled him, the answer wasn’t much clearer. As near as I can tell, he was a philosopher from Australia. It doesn’t really matter, who he was. What matters is what he said and it was something with which I could easily relate. Life doesn’t begin when we get our act together. It doesn’t start when we pay off all of our debts and are free from the wolves at the door. It doesn’t begin when the kids are grown and move off on their own. Life begins with each day. We are living it every moment and if we aren’t happy with the life we are living, it is imperative that we make the necessary changes to live it as we would like it before we have no more time to make those changes.

Largely, when writing these blog posts, I look for something of substance to share with you, the reader. I try to find a way to relate to you, or a piece of my life to offer to you. This post is as much for me as it is for you. It will be a challenge for me to follow these words. It will be difficult to remember them when I step into my daily grind. When I’m trying to pursue my dreams and I run into that wall, it will be easier to allow myself to think about that day in the future when it will all magically come together. But that day will never come, if I am not living for it now.

Do you have dreams you have forgotten? Are they lost to you or are they merely buried beneath your burdens? Take a moment to reflect. Find those dreams within you. Set out to make them happen. Are they too big to happen in a day? Take a baby step forward. And if you are offered a tomorrow, take another step. With each sunrise, be thankful that you are able to take those steps and remind yourself that you only have the life you are living.

Life is lived one day at a time; it is lived one sunrise… one sunset… one breath at a time. Here are a few more quotes which may provide some inspiration or motivation:

“Nothing is predestined. The obstacles of your past can become the gateways that lead to new beginnings.”
Ralph Blum

“Failure is the opportunity to begin again more intelligently.”
Henry Ford

“Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could. Some blunders and absurdities no doubt crept in; forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day; begin it well and serenely and with too high a spirit to be encumbered with your old nonsense.”
Ralph Waldo Emerson

“Everything is affected by and is part of everything else, changing constantly from one state to another. The rain becomes the river; the river surrenders to the sea and the cycle begins over again. Nothing is ever lost. The melody changes – the dance goes on.”
Connie Harrison

“Remember not the former things, nor consider the things of old. Behold, I am doing a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it? I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert.” Isaiah 43:18-19 ESV

“For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans for welfare and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope.” Jeremiah 29:11 ESV

Live for the day my friends. Live for the moment. Dance your dance. Sing your songs. Paint your pictures. Write your novels. Kiss your kids. Hug your spouse. Watch that sunrise. Share the sunsets. Play in the rain. Build those snowmen. Chase those dreams. Find yourself. Love another. Have a Happy 2012! And thank you for sharing just a tiny moment of it with me.

March 2, 2019March 2, 2019

Holidays In The Hills

11/21/2011

Thanksgiving can serve as a catalyst to bring out the best in people. It serves as a reminder of the many reasons we have to count our blessings. All over the blog-o-sphere there are articles which proclaim the thanks of their particular blogger. I’ve read a few which caused me to reflect upon my own reasons for thanks (a list which could go on and on). While we often find ourselves focusing on what’s not going our way, Thanksgiving allows us to take a break from the negative and experience the positive.

I considered adding my own list and sending it sailing upon the web winds, but I finally opted for a different approach. Thanksgiving for me conjures memories; memories which often lead me down the dusty lanes of my mind, branching off and taking me to places I’ve sometimes forgotten existed. It is this trail of thought I travel today.

Any visit to my grandparents’ home was an adventure. When we were young and far from family, a trip to Kentucky was a special occasion. Certainly, there were times when we didn’t find it to be as adventurous as others. When Dad went out on maneuvers and we were forced to be there for months at a time, the special would seem to fade a little and we’d find it to be rather ordinary, but given time away once again, the specialness returned.

Thanksgiving and Christmas offered even greater opportunities, since we’d often share the space with our cousins. Most of the time, we created our adventures well with each other, but there were those occasional moments when we had simply experienced enough of each other.

I recently spent a few hours with one of my cousins reminiscing on our favorite parts of childhood visits to Kentucky. There were so many memories which came to the surface through our conversation; little things, like drinking coffee from a Dixie cup out on the front steps with my grandfather, my Uncle Gert, and Preacher Gooch (of course, our coffee was heavily diluted and laced with sugar and cream). We talked of catching fireflies (lightning bugs if you were from the hills), putting peanuts in our Coke (I still indulge from time to time), eating homemade biscuits with butter and molasses (there’s a trick to doing this one right), going down to the Company Store for ice cream (usually Creamsicles, Fudgesicles, or an ice cream sandwich), walking down to the bridge to watch the creek, and Aunt Creedy’s hose rolled down to her ankles (right above her knitted slippers).

Generally my grandmother’s spotless kitchen was off limits to childhood activity any time she was cooking, but especially so at Thanksgiving. We’d be shooed away with warnings of the dangers of the pressure cooker which steamed and whistled while it did its number on her dried shuck beans. If you have never heard of shuck beans, you’ve probably missed out on one of the most delicious sensations you could ever experience. I’ll not try to add to your culture by explaining them; I’ll save the explanation and allow your curiosity to lead you to Google. Shuck beans were part of both our Thanksgiving and Christmas meal, a tradition which has been difficult to uphold since moving so far from those Kentucky hills, but we’ve managed to keep it alive with the help of summer gardens or relatives.

Okay, call us Rednecks, Hillbillies, or whatever you want, but I can remember at least a few years when roasted squirrel could be found on the table as well (fortunately the squirrel never displaced the turkey from the meal). That portion of the meal has not necessarily been missed by this particular family member, but don’t jump to conclusions or create stereotypes; my grandma ran a tight ship. Though an occasional squirrel might make it into the oven, the cornucopia of vittles scattered across the table were heavenly and made from scratch (sweet potatoes, pecan pies, carrot cake, turkey gravy, mashed potatoes, stuffing, and shuck beans).

Though not necessarily a portal to Narnia as was the one discovered by the Pevensie’s, my grandmother, had her own version of a magical wardrobe – referred to as a chiffarobe. It was supposed to be off limits, but we snuck into it at every opportunity. It had a wonderful skeleton key, which made it even more attractive to us. How that key survived so many years without getting lost is a mystery of its own. The refrigerator was called a Frigidaire no matter what brand it was. The bedroom doors all had glass door knobs and she had a sterling silver tea set which was the centerpiece of the buffet table. Her hardwood floors were polished to a gloss.

My grandfather’s domain was outside the house where he gardened and tinkered. Though his was always clean, the unfinished basement often became a dungeon or a hideaway for childhood imaginations. He was a coal miner, so there were all sorts of gadgets and tools to gather our curiosity. One coveted gadget was the light which fastened to his helmet. The only place inside the house he claimed was his chair which sat facing the television and where an amazing smoking stand stood nearby. The smoking stand served as strictly ornamental after he stopped smoking. It was at that time when a drawer in the kitchen was designated to be filled with Juicy Fruit and Wrigley’s gum of which there would always be a plentiful supply. The same drawer held the small packets of Planter’s peanuts which we used in our little glass bottles of Coca Cola. The television was black and white long after color was available and Hee Haw was the second most viewed show just after Walter Cronkite’s evening news.

A small white church stood across the street from my grandparent’s house and the creek flowed directly behind the church. Preacher Gooch often allowed us access to the church building for our adventures. The creaking wood floors, echoing sanctuary, and the stained glass windows all added to our imaginative wanderings.

Upon the canvas of my mind, I can still picture that house and those places around it, nestled between the hills of Kentucky. A few years ago we took the trip back to attend my grandmother’s funeral. After nearly thirty years, the passing of time and people had little change upon the places I remembered. In fact, it had remained so virtually unchanged that seeing it brought back even more memories.

All of those little slivers of time have melted into memories which have become a part of me, influenced who I am, and enhanced my value system (sorry, those influences don’t happen to include knitted slippers). They have become treasures I can save and share with a family member. They can carry me away as distractions from a busy world. They weave their way into stories and allow me to connect with a character.

So while I can offer up a gazillion reasons to be thankful at this time of year, I think one of the blessings I cherish most are those memories of holidays in the hills. I hope your Thanksgiving and the Christmas holiday to follow brings you wonderful memories as well. May you count your blessings and share with your families. Perhaps you will follow your own dusty trail and remember those things which mean the most to you; those things which have shaped who you are and what you value.