My brother Bill is eighteen months younger than I am, and we are extremely close.
My family tells the story of us going out together one day and sometime later he returns alone. When they ask, “Where is Bob?” he replies “He's down the street. ”What is he doing?” “He's fighting.” Bill replies. They later find out that Bill had started the fight, and I was taking up for him.
Another time Bill took Mom's white Pontiac Bonneville convertible and had cutouts installed right before the muffler (with caps on them). Take off the caps and that car had a beautiful roar. That went fine until one day Dad took it to Friebert's Garage and they found the cutouts. I thinks we all had a good laugh over that.
When I was a freshman at Ohio State I sent Bill the money to buy a Honda motorcycle. He bought it, but before I got home he took it out for a test drive. The first time out he drove off a bridge and the engine filled up with mud. When I got home I saw it in pieces in his friend's garage. I never got to ride it.
Life was always exciting with Bill around..
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Ten Broeck
In the mid-50s my parents bought property in what was then considered The Boonies of eastern Jefferson County, Kentucky, outside Louisville. The subdivision was named Ten Broeck (pronounced “brook”) Acres, after a famous racehorse of the 19th century.
In Ten Broeck, each property owner was required to purchase a minimum of three acres, so no houses were built close together. Unlike most subdivisions, where streets were laid out in a grid, there were only four streets that branched off the main drag in Ten Broeck, which was named Ten Broeck Way. Those four streets went off on only the east side of Ten Broeck Way, and each street was wide enough for only one vehicle. Our street was Lexington Lane, and while we were growing up, there were only six houses on that street. Ours was built at the dead end.
We moved there in 1956, when I was five years old. By then my two sisters were mostly grown, and it wasn’t long before they went off to college and then married and moved away. But my two brothers and I grew up in Ten Broeck, and it was a marvelous place for children. Things were different back then: parents didn’t worry much about their kids running around unsupervised. In the summer, we used to leave the house after breakfast and not come home until suppertime. No one walked with us to the bus stop at the bottom of Lexington Lane--except for our dog, Susie, who faithfully took us to the bus stop and then met us there at the end of the school day to walk us home.
The back of our house sat on a cliff overlooking a tree-covered hill at the bottom of which was Little Goose Creek. We spent many hours catching crawdads in that creek. In the winter, if the temperature got low enough, the creek would freeze completely over and we could walk on it. One summer day, when I was about ten or so, two little girls (who lived on the other side of the creek and up another hill, on Brookwood Path) and I went swimming in the creek. Adele dove into the deepest part, and when she came up she shot out of the water and onto the bank, followed closely by several water moccasins whose nest she had disturbed. It was the fastest I ever moved, either before or since. Miraculously, none of us--including Adele--was bitten. It was the last time we swam in the creek.
Ten Broeck was, like most of Kentucky, very hilly. In the winter, there was one particular street--Spokane Way-- we loved to use as a sled run after a good snow. We would start at the top of the hill and shoot down, maneuvering a series of curves, to the bottom, and then across the main drag and under a fence. We were generally too stupid to worry about cars driving down Ten Broeck Way and running over us. Thankfully, there wasn’t much traffic in Ten Broeck. I remember a couple of times our dad tied our sleds to the back of his pickup truck and took us for rides in the snow. It was great fun.
Ten Broeck was developed by a man named Wolpert. He and his wife lived on Brookwood Path, which faced--from about a half mile away-- the back of our house. The Wolperts owned quite a bit of property in the subdivision. I don’t remember how old I was, maybe seven or eight, when I discovered what seemed like an endless meadow of the most beautiful flowers I had ever seen. I often took “bouquets” of chicory and Queen Anne’s lace to my mother, and I was beside myself with excitement at the thought of how thrilled she would be when I presented her with an armload of these gorgeous blooms. I carefully picked every flower on that hill and lugged them all home to Mom. By the time I got there, Mrs. Wolpert had already called and reamed Mom out for giving birth to the horrible criminal who, with malice and vicious aforethought, had stripped her property of all her expensive, prized flowers. Apparently on that fine spring morning Mrs. Wolpert had gone out onto her deck to admire and enjoy all the tulips she had worked so hard to plant on the hill across from their house. She was (quite understandably) furious to see the hill completely denuded. But Mom never uttered a word of reproof to me. She acted as delighted to receive the flowers as I was to bring them to her. She did, however, suggest that I stick to bouquets of chicory and Queen Anne’s lace from then on.
One summer my brothers, Bob and Bill, hung two hammocks between trees down in the woods close to our house. The hammocks were made of canvas and had screening, so you could zip yourself in and be protected from bugs. I thought those hammocks were wonderful, and long after Bob and Bill abandoned them, I would go down and zip myself into one and pretend I was on a safari, or exploring new lands.
There weren’t many children in Ten Broeck, so I spent a great deal of time by myself. I wandered the woods and fields that surrounded our home, mentally writing The Great American Novel which would of course be a colossal hit on the Best Seller List. I would be hailed as a genius for having written such a fabulous book by the age of ten. Sometimes I would sing show tunes and pretend I was on the Broadway stage or in a musical movie. Besides being a famous novelist, I also wanted to be Doris Day.
Sometimes I visited our neighbors. A couple named D’Alessio owned a home at the bottom of Lexington Lane, and I became great friends with the wife, Betty. The D’Alessios were childless, and Betty found me highly entertaining. One winter, after she had had surgery and was recuperating at home, I stopped at her house every day on my way home from school and read the funnies to her from the newspaper. A highly imaginative child, I adopted different voices for each character and infused each character with powerful drama. Betty thought I was a hoot. When I reached my teens, my visits with Betty slowed and eventually stopped. Before I could go back and thank her for being such a great friend to me, she died.
I blame being raised in Ten Broeck for the fact that I never learned to roller skate. I asked for and received a pair of skates when I was seven or eight for my birthday. I went out into the carport, strapped on the skates, stood up and proceeded to skate straight off the cliff. I was airborne for perhaps five seconds before I plummeted to the earth at the bottom of the hill. As soon as I crawled back up, I threw the skates into the garbage can and decided I could get through life without being able to skate. I’m nearly sixty now, and so far it has worked out just fine.
I remember my dad and brothers skeet shooting in our front yard on Saturdays and Sunday afternoons after church. People out for a Sunday drive frequently came up Lexington Lane to our house, even though Dad had posted a Dead End No Turn Around sign at the bottom of the street. And because we lived at the dead end, the drivers had no choice but to turn around in our driveway. One Sunday afternoon some poor unfortunate soul was terrorized by my brothers, who decided it would be great fun to frighten the poor people to death by racing up the front lawn with rifles in hand, yelling at the top of their lungs. It was the only time I saw a car actually back all the way down Lexington Lane. And at a high rate of speed, at that.
Because our home was so secluded, we didn’t think twice about going outside in our pajamas, or skeet shooting in the front yard, or yelling just for the pleasure of yelling. One time when my mother decided to sunbathe, the only swimsuit she could find was one her sister had left behind. My aunt was considerably smaller than Mom, but Mama somehow poured herself into the swimsuit and went outside. While she was lying on the chaise lounge in our front yard, a man in a delivery truck pulled into our driveway and got out to ask directions. Our dog, Susie, who was large and threatening-looking, posted herself in front of Mom and growled menacingly. The driver backed up and received the directions from the safety of his truck. Mama said she was exceedingly grateful for Susie’s presence that day.
One time Mom saw a man with a rifle in the woods behind our house. Without a second thought, she flung open the door and yelled, “What do you think you’re doing?” He replied, “Mr. McConnell said I could hunt back here, ma’am.” She yelled, “Get away from the house!” It wasn’t until later that she realized she could have been shot--or worse. We all felt very safe in Ten Broeck.
I used to bemoan the fact that Ten Broeck was considered Way Out in the Middle of Nowhere. As a child, I hated that no ice cream trucks ever came through our neighborhood, and it was miles away from the country club where we had a membership at the swimming pool--too far for me to walk or even ride my bike; I had to depend on my mother or my brothers to drive me there. As a teen, I had to give my dates turn-by-turn directions to our house. But really, Ten Broeck was a marvelous place to grow up. I feel blessed for having spent my childhood there.
In Ten Broeck, each property owner was required to purchase a minimum of three acres, so no houses were built close together. Unlike most subdivisions, where streets were laid out in a grid, there were only four streets that branched off the main drag in Ten Broeck, which was named Ten Broeck Way. Those four streets went off on only the east side of Ten Broeck Way, and each street was wide enough for only one vehicle. Our street was Lexington Lane, and while we were growing up, there were only six houses on that street. Ours was built at the dead end.
We moved there in 1956, when I was five years old. By then my two sisters were mostly grown, and it wasn’t long before they went off to college and then married and moved away. But my two brothers and I grew up in Ten Broeck, and it was a marvelous place for children. Things were different back then: parents didn’t worry much about their kids running around unsupervised. In the summer, we used to leave the house after breakfast and not come home until suppertime. No one walked with us to the bus stop at the bottom of Lexington Lane--except for our dog, Susie, who faithfully took us to the bus stop and then met us there at the end of the school day to walk us home.
The back of our house sat on a cliff overlooking a tree-covered hill at the bottom of which was Little Goose Creek. We spent many hours catching crawdads in that creek. In the winter, if the temperature got low enough, the creek would freeze completely over and we could walk on it. One summer day, when I was about ten or so, two little girls (who lived on the other side of the creek and up another hill, on Brookwood Path) and I went swimming in the creek. Adele dove into the deepest part, and when she came up she shot out of the water and onto the bank, followed closely by several water moccasins whose nest she had disturbed. It was the fastest I ever moved, either before or since. Miraculously, none of us--including Adele--was bitten. It was the last time we swam in the creek.
Ten Broeck was, like most of Kentucky, very hilly. In the winter, there was one particular street--Spokane Way-- we loved to use as a sled run after a good snow. We would start at the top of the hill and shoot down, maneuvering a series of curves, to the bottom, and then across the main drag and under a fence. We were generally too stupid to worry about cars driving down Ten Broeck Way and running over us. Thankfully, there wasn’t much traffic in Ten Broeck. I remember a couple of times our dad tied our sleds to the back of his pickup truck and took us for rides in the snow. It was great fun.
Ten Broeck was developed by a man named Wolpert. He and his wife lived on Brookwood Path, which faced--from about a half mile away-- the back of our house. The Wolperts owned quite a bit of property in the subdivision. I don’t remember how old I was, maybe seven or eight, when I discovered what seemed like an endless meadow of the most beautiful flowers I had ever seen. I often took “bouquets” of chicory and Queen Anne’s lace to my mother, and I was beside myself with excitement at the thought of how thrilled she would be when I presented her with an armload of these gorgeous blooms. I carefully picked every flower on that hill and lugged them all home to Mom. By the time I got there, Mrs. Wolpert had already called and reamed Mom out for giving birth to the horrible criminal who, with malice and vicious aforethought, had stripped her property of all her expensive, prized flowers. Apparently on that fine spring morning Mrs. Wolpert had gone out onto her deck to admire and enjoy all the tulips she had worked so hard to plant on the hill across from their house. She was (quite understandably) furious to see the hill completely denuded. But Mom never uttered a word of reproof to me. She acted as delighted to receive the flowers as I was to bring them to her. She did, however, suggest that I stick to bouquets of chicory and Queen Anne’s lace from then on.
One summer my brothers, Bob and Bill, hung two hammocks between trees down in the woods close to our house. The hammocks were made of canvas and had screening, so you could zip yourself in and be protected from bugs. I thought those hammocks were wonderful, and long after Bob and Bill abandoned them, I would go down and zip myself into one and pretend I was on a safari, or exploring new lands.
There weren’t many children in Ten Broeck, so I spent a great deal of time by myself. I wandered the woods and fields that surrounded our home, mentally writing The Great American Novel which would of course be a colossal hit on the Best Seller List. I would be hailed as a genius for having written such a fabulous book by the age of ten. Sometimes I would sing show tunes and pretend I was on the Broadway stage or in a musical movie. Besides being a famous novelist, I also wanted to be Doris Day.
Sometimes I visited our neighbors. A couple named D’Alessio owned a home at the bottom of Lexington Lane, and I became great friends with the wife, Betty. The D’Alessios were childless, and Betty found me highly entertaining. One winter, after she had had surgery and was recuperating at home, I stopped at her house every day on my way home from school and read the funnies to her from the newspaper. A highly imaginative child, I adopted different voices for each character and infused each character with powerful drama. Betty thought I was a hoot. When I reached my teens, my visits with Betty slowed and eventually stopped. Before I could go back and thank her for being such a great friend to me, she died.
I blame being raised in Ten Broeck for the fact that I never learned to roller skate. I asked for and received a pair of skates when I was seven or eight for my birthday. I went out into the carport, strapped on the skates, stood up and proceeded to skate straight off the cliff. I was airborne for perhaps five seconds before I plummeted to the earth at the bottom of the hill. As soon as I crawled back up, I threw the skates into the garbage can and decided I could get through life without being able to skate. I’m nearly sixty now, and so far it has worked out just fine.
I remember my dad and brothers skeet shooting in our front yard on Saturdays and Sunday afternoons after church. People out for a Sunday drive frequently came up Lexington Lane to our house, even though Dad had posted a Dead End No Turn Around sign at the bottom of the street. And because we lived at the dead end, the drivers had no choice but to turn around in our driveway. One Sunday afternoon some poor unfortunate soul was terrorized by my brothers, who decided it would be great fun to frighten the poor people to death by racing up the front lawn with rifles in hand, yelling at the top of their lungs. It was the only time I saw a car actually back all the way down Lexington Lane. And at a high rate of speed, at that.
Because our home was so secluded, we didn’t think twice about going outside in our pajamas, or skeet shooting in the front yard, or yelling just for the pleasure of yelling. One time when my mother decided to sunbathe, the only swimsuit she could find was one her sister had left behind. My aunt was considerably smaller than Mom, but Mama somehow poured herself into the swimsuit and went outside. While she was lying on the chaise lounge in our front yard, a man in a delivery truck pulled into our driveway and got out to ask directions. Our dog, Susie, who was large and threatening-looking, posted herself in front of Mom and growled menacingly. The driver backed up and received the directions from the safety of his truck. Mama said she was exceedingly grateful for Susie’s presence that day.
One time Mom saw a man with a rifle in the woods behind our house. Without a second thought, she flung open the door and yelled, “What do you think you’re doing?” He replied, “Mr. McConnell said I could hunt back here, ma’am.” She yelled, “Get away from the house!” It wasn’t until later that she realized she could have been shot--or worse. We all felt very safe in Ten Broeck.
I used to bemoan the fact that Ten Broeck was considered Way Out in the Middle of Nowhere. As a child, I hated that no ice cream trucks ever came through our neighborhood, and it was miles away from the country club where we had a membership at the swimming pool--too far for me to walk or even ride my bike; I had to depend on my mother or my brothers to drive me there. As a teen, I had to give my dates turn-by-turn directions to our house. But really, Ten Broeck was a marvelous place to grow up. I feel blessed for having spent my childhood there.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Power in Love
Never underestimate the power of love. Love has been known to change lives, and take lives. When the author of 1 John was asked to describe God, he simply said, “God is love” (1 John 4:8, 16). The goodness of God is love. The power of God is love. Many believe love holds the power of healing. After an experience I had several years ago, I, too, believe that loves brings healing. It is a very personal story. If you find it to be be too personal, please forgive me. I write of it here because it powerfully illustrates what I believe love can do.
It was just a few years ago. It was a Saturday night. Really it was the wee hours of Sunday morning. Five of us shared a room. We spent the night together. It was a room for one, but we all managed to squeeze in. We all knew each other. In fact, we are related...enjoy each other's company...love each other. But not one of us really wanted to be there.
It was an expensive room. My guess it went for about $2,000 a night. Good view of the city. Nothing else special about it. There was no pool available. No jacuzzi. The only meals available were in the cafeteria. The room service was nonexistent. The floors weren't carpeted. I have seen larger bathrooms on a bus. No doubt what made the room expensive was the equipment: the monitors, IV pumps, electric multi-position bed, oxygen, vacuum pumps, and cabinets of medical supplies. The room we shared was room 466 in the intensive care unit of Jewish Hospital in Louisville, Kentucky.
I had received the ominous telephone call earlier that evening: “your brother has taken a turn for the worse, and we want his family to come to the hospital.” I used to work in a hospital so I know that the “turn for the worse” line is “medicalese” for “your loved one just died, and we want you to come to the hospital so we can tell you to your face that he has died.” So I went to the hospital without much hope.
Being hospital savvy and knowing I would be arriving in the middle of the night, I wore a tie and my clergy name badge. Instead of stopping me, the security guard in the ER showed me the way to the intensive care unit. Instead of questioning me, the nurse in intensive care directed me to Mr. McConnell's room. Getting there was the easy part. Surprisingly, my brother Bob was still alive when I arrived. Just barely, but alive. My sister Kae, her daughter June, and my daughter Meg, were there staring at the monitor screen. There is not much else to look at, so every one in the room tends to stare at the monitor. And they were waiting. Waiting. I arrived, we prayed, and then I joined the waiting.
We took turns sitting in the three available chairs. We were playing a sort of musical chairs without the music. We wrapped up in blankets and complained of the cold. Individually and as a unit, we pursued the hopeless search for a comfortable position. My theory is that hospital chairs are designed to be uncomfortable to make one miserable enough to go home. Nevertheless, we sought sleep, and we resisted sleep. We talked. We talked to Bob, and we talked about Bob. We talked about better days and family and how and what our children and grandchildren are doing and whatever happened to old what's-his-name and spouses and ex-spouses and what had been and what could have been and what should have been. We stood by the the bed and held Bob's hand and looked into his tired face and listened to his labored breathing and prayed and wept and hoped against hope.
Morning came. Bob was not only still alive, but just a little bit better and rallying quickly. His doctor showed up and was amazed to find him alive.
The doctor didn't quite know to make of it. Blood pressure – up. Blood oxygen – up. Lungs – clear. Temperature – down. It was amazing. The doctor wondered aloud, “How did this happen?”
We didn't know. He held the only medical degree in the room. I have a theory. A popular Christian song says, “In this very room there is quite enough love for one like me.”
I believe in that very room in the intensive care unit of Jewish Hospital there was quite enough love for Bob. Enough love for Bob – for Bob to live through the night. For Bob to recover and be living with his children and grandchildren.
Ask me, and I will tell you that it is true. You can live on love. Love powerful enough to work miracles and bring healing. My hope is that we all find a room like that very room I was blessed to spend that Saturday night in. It was a miserably marvelous room. It was a room filled to overflowing with love.
It was just a few years ago. It was a Saturday night. Really it was the wee hours of Sunday morning. Five of us shared a room. We spent the night together. It was a room for one, but we all managed to squeeze in. We all knew each other. In fact, we are related...enjoy each other's company...love each other. But not one of us really wanted to be there.
It was an expensive room. My guess it went for about $2,000 a night. Good view of the city. Nothing else special about it. There was no pool available. No jacuzzi. The only meals available were in the cafeteria. The room service was nonexistent. The floors weren't carpeted. I have seen larger bathrooms on a bus. No doubt what made the room expensive was the equipment: the monitors, IV pumps, electric multi-position bed, oxygen, vacuum pumps, and cabinets of medical supplies. The room we shared was room 466 in the intensive care unit of Jewish Hospital in Louisville, Kentucky.
I had received the ominous telephone call earlier that evening: “your brother has taken a turn for the worse, and we want his family to come to the hospital.” I used to work in a hospital so I know that the “turn for the worse” line is “medicalese” for “your loved one just died, and we want you to come to the hospital so we can tell you to your face that he has died.” So I went to the hospital without much hope.
Being hospital savvy and knowing I would be arriving in the middle of the night, I wore a tie and my clergy name badge. Instead of stopping me, the security guard in the ER showed me the way to the intensive care unit. Instead of questioning me, the nurse in intensive care directed me to Mr. McConnell's room. Getting there was the easy part. Surprisingly, my brother Bob was still alive when I arrived. Just barely, but alive. My sister Kae, her daughter June, and my daughter Meg, were there staring at the monitor screen. There is not much else to look at, so every one in the room tends to stare at the monitor. And they were waiting. Waiting. I arrived, we prayed, and then I joined the waiting.
We took turns sitting in the three available chairs. We were playing a sort of musical chairs without the music. We wrapped up in blankets and complained of the cold. Individually and as a unit, we pursued the hopeless search for a comfortable position. My theory is that hospital chairs are designed to be uncomfortable to make one miserable enough to go home. Nevertheless, we sought sleep, and we resisted sleep. We talked. We talked to Bob, and we talked about Bob. We talked about better days and family and how and what our children and grandchildren are doing and whatever happened to old what's-his-name and spouses and ex-spouses and what had been and what could have been and what should have been. We stood by the the bed and held Bob's hand and looked into his tired face and listened to his labored breathing and prayed and wept and hoped against hope.
Morning came. Bob was not only still alive, but just a little bit better and rallying quickly. His doctor showed up and was amazed to find him alive.
The doctor didn't quite know to make of it. Blood pressure – up. Blood oxygen – up. Lungs – clear. Temperature – down. It was amazing. The doctor wondered aloud, “How did this happen?”
We didn't know. He held the only medical degree in the room. I have a theory. A popular Christian song says, “In this very room there is quite enough love for one like me.”
I believe in that very room in the intensive care unit of Jewish Hospital there was quite enough love for Bob. Enough love for Bob – for Bob to live through the night. For Bob to recover and be living with his children and grandchildren.
Ask me, and I will tell you that it is true. You can live on love. Love powerful enough to work miracles and bring healing. My hope is that we all find a room like that very room I was blessed to spend that Saturday night in. It was a miserably marvelous room. It was a room filled to overflowing with love.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
I Love a Parade
The following is a newspaper article my brother Bill (William Thomas McConnell III) wrote in 1991 several years after my Dad (Pa) died in 1986.
As a pastor, it is not uncommon for me to be around and able to observe a family lose a loved one to a progressive disease like cancer. Always painful, it is also wonderfully touching and life enriching to see love shared, life made more meaningful because of its brevity, every drop squeezed from each moment because they are suddenly of very short supply. I am touched and I am reminded of going through that process with my father.
My father died over 20 years ago and rarely does a week pass that I don’t wish I had a chance to talk to him. A few years after his death, I was motivated to write the first piece I ever had published. Allow me to share those thoughts with you at the beginning of this year.
I love a good parade. I even like bad parades. I have seen both kinds. Some really stick in my memory. The 1970 Memorial Day Parade in Waddy, Kentucky (yes, that is the town's real name) immediately springs to mind. The town folks had been talking about the Memorial Day Parade for weeks before the event and I was getting rather excited about it. One couldn’t spend any time in the local grocery store without the conversation turning to the parade. Plans and preparations were being made. It seemed that most of the people in the little town were going to be participating.
My family and I passed up several offers so we could be sure to be there for the "big" parade. I will admit that the offers we received were not all that tempting. But we did make a conscious decision to be around for the big parade. At the appointed time we took our places on the sidewalk of the main drag. I must be fair and tell you that Waddy in 1970 was a community of about 255 people and the main drag was the only drag. And there were not very many feet of sidewalk to get on. Since most of the residents were in the parade, finding a place to watch it wasn’t difficult. We didn’t have to come down the night before and stake out our space. Showing up ten minutes before parade time worked out fine.
We didn’t have to wait long before the action started. Here came the parade. It was absolutely wonderful. Strung out for several feet behind the town's antique and only fire truck were two shiny, brand spanking new pick up trucks. The owners had obviously spent a lot of time washing and waxing their pride and joy. One of the trucks was pulling the only float in the parade which was carrying some of the local veterans riding on a tobacco wagon. The other truck was hauling a young girl – perhaps she was Miss Waddy or Miss Shelby County. The entire local Cub Scout Pack, all six of them, were the color guard. There were bicycles and wagons and baby strollers and balloons and crept paper and sparklers and dogs, some horses and a couple of ponies. My, it was grand. One the finest parades I have ever seen. My heart was touched. I wouldn't have missed it.
There have been several other parades in my life. All of them were larger and longer. Many were more exciting and colorful and entertaining. Some were so long they became boring. A couple of them have been just plain stupid. No offense is intended (Really) but have you ever attended a gay rights parade? There is a bad idea. But none of them grander... except one.
That is the parade that wandered through my parents’ kitchen in the fall of 1986.
My father was very busy that fall dying of cancer of the Godknowswhat. The doctors couldn't tell where the cancer had originated but it wasn't difficult to see where it had gone. It was everywhere and Dad was so skinny by then that much of it stuck out on various parts of his body. It was horrible to watch a strong, robust, commanding man reduced to a skeleton struggling to live through each day seeking to find ways to have as little pain as possible. It was horrible, but riveting – like those slasher horror films young teens flock to watch. It was also a wonderful time of quiet conversations and opportunities to do for my father; a man who had always done for others, especially his children. Though the role reversal was a bit challenging for both of us, it was a wonderful God gift to be able to serve my father during a very difficult time.
As cancer took more and more from him and more of him from us, we were completely centered on his well being. Though not unusually tall, my dad was very strong. As a high school kid he had a job picking up milk cans from the local dairy farmers. He could hang on the back of the truck with one hand, lean out and grab a milk can in the other and swing it up into the back of the truck. That is about 140 pounds per can. Whoa, strong guy. Dad played baseball and basketball well and taught his boys how to play.
Because the degeneration of his physical body and our all consuming struggle to make him as comfortable as possible had so captured my attention, the parade that had begun had been passing before my eyes long before I noticed it. But one those beautiful cloudless, bright blue sky, breezy autumn afternoons it burst upon my sight. For a parade, it was difficult to spot. There were no fire trucks or Cub Scouts or floats or marching bands or riders on horseback. There were no pretty young beauty queens seeking our attention or politicians seeking our votes. Most of the faces in this parade were familiar to me, although some were strangers. But they all knew my father. He was the "theme" that held this parade together. This was a parade of people, passing through my parent's spacious, warm, welcoming kitchen, in front of the reclining chair that had become Dad's chief place of
residence.
They came from near and far. As close as the next door neighbor and as far as several states away. They all came to say the same thing in many different ways. They came to say, "Thank you, Mr. McConnell. You have made a difference in my life." What a wonderful thing to say! "Thanks for living and letting me be a part of your life. Your life counted for something in my life." “You have lived a life that was significant because your life powerfully impacted my life.”
And what a strange mix of people it was that carried this message to my father. There were the preachers and church leaders from all over the state that Dad had prayed with and for and taught so much about how to be sensitive to the needs of others and the leading of the Lord. He helped them have more than a theoretical Christianity. There was the alcoholic who lived next door who was snubbed by the community but was proud to be called "friend" by "Mr. Mack". There were the young men of the community that had looked to my father for advice and counsel on subjects ranging from family budgeting to how to win an argument without losing a friend. There was the single mother and her children who were helped through some hard times by a man they hardly knew. There were the old people that came to thank the man who brought them meals when they were too sick to cook for themselves. There were the business associates that had worked with him for over a quarter of a century – folks who really knew him and thus knew him to be a man of integrity, courage, compassion, wisdom and humor. There were his law clients who received much more than just good advice from their attorney. There were the students from more than 30 years of Sunday School classes that came to thank the man who helped make God real and understandable to them. There were the Little League ball players who had become middle-aged men, wanting to thank him for being a fine baseball coach and an even better example.
They came from all over. They loved and appreciated my father and came to tell him. Dad was sick, but he was having a wonderful time. He had invested his life well. And though it was coming to, what many of us considered, a premature end, it had been a great, meaningful, full life. My dad had been successful. He grew up on a little hill farm in Robertson County, Kentucky. He had served his country in World War II. He was the first in his family to graduate from college. He worked his way through law school and was the Vice President and Treasurer of a very successful life insurance company. He had provided very well for his wife and children. He was successful. But more importantly, his life had been significant.
Fortunately, I recognized what was happening in time to join this wonderful parade. I grasped the opportunity at hand and thanked my Dad for being a fine father, good friend, wonderful teacher and excellent example. What a parade! My, it was grand. One the finest parades I have ever seen. I wouldn't have missed it for the world.
As a pastor, it is not uncommon for me to be around and able to observe a family lose a loved one to a progressive disease like cancer. Always painful, it is also wonderfully touching and life enriching to see love shared, life made more meaningful because of its brevity, every drop squeezed from each moment because they are suddenly of very short supply. I am touched and I am reminded of going through that process with my father.
My father died over 20 years ago and rarely does a week pass that I don’t wish I had a chance to talk to him. A few years after his death, I was motivated to write the first piece I ever had published. Allow me to share those thoughts with you at the beginning of this year.
I love a good parade. I even like bad parades. I have seen both kinds. Some really stick in my memory. The 1970 Memorial Day Parade in Waddy, Kentucky (yes, that is the town's real name) immediately springs to mind. The town folks had been talking about the Memorial Day Parade for weeks before the event and I was getting rather excited about it. One couldn’t spend any time in the local grocery store without the conversation turning to the parade. Plans and preparations were being made. It seemed that most of the people in the little town were going to be participating.
My family and I passed up several offers so we could be sure to be there for the "big" parade. I will admit that the offers we received were not all that tempting. But we did make a conscious decision to be around for the big parade. At the appointed time we took our places on the sidewalk of the main drag. I must be fair and tell you that Waddy in 1970 was a community of about 255 people and the main drag was the only drag. And there were not very many feet of sidewalk to get on. Since most of the residents were in the parade, finding a place to watch it wasn’t difficult. We didn’t have to come down the night before and stake out our space. Showing up ten minutes before parade time worked out fine.
We didn’t have to wait long before the action started. Here came the parade. It was absolutely wonderful. Strung out for several feet behind the town's antique and only fire truck were two shiny, brand spanking new pick up trucks. The owners had obviously spent a lot of time washing and waxing their pride and joy. One of the trucks was pulling the only float in the parade which was carrying some of the local veterans riding on a tobacco wagon. The other truck was hauling a young girl – perhaps she was Miss Waddy or Miss Shelby County. The entire local Cub Scout Pack, all six of them, were the color guard. There were bicycles and wagons and baby strollers and balloons and crept paper and sparklers and dogs, some horses and a couple of ponies. My, it was grand. One the finest parades I have ever seen. My heart was touched. I wouldn't have missed it.
There have been several other parades in my life. All of them were larger and longer. Many were more exciting and colorful and entertaining. Some were so long they became boring. A couple of them have been just plain stupid. No offense is intended (Really) but have you ever attended a gay rights parade? There is a bad idea. But none of them grander... except one.
That is the parade that wandered through my parents’ kitchen in the fall of 1986.
My father was very busy that fall dying of cancer of the Godknowswhat. The doctors couldn't tell where the cancer had originated but it wasn't difficult to see where it had gone. It was everywhere and Dad was so skinny by then that much of it stuck out on various parts of his body. It was horrible to watch a strong, robust, commanding man reduced to a skeleton struggling to live through each day seeking to find ways to have as little pain as possible. It was horrible, but riveting – like those slasher horror films young teens flock to watch. It was also a wonderful time of quiet conversations and opportunities to do for my father; a man who had always done for others, especially his children. Though the role reversal was a bit challenging for both of us, it was a wonderful God gift to be able to serve my father during a very difficult time.
As cancer took more and more from him and more of him from us, we were completely centered on his well being. Though not unusually tall, my dad was very strong. As a high school kid he had a job picking up milk cans from the local dairy farmers. He could hang on the back of the truck with one hand, lean out and grab a milk can in the other and swing it up into the back of the truck. That is about 140 pounds per can. Whoa, strong guy. Dad played baseball and basketball well and taught his boys how to play.
Because the degeneration of his physical body and our all consuming struggle to make him as comfortable as possible had so captured my attention, the parade that had begun had been passing before my eyes long before I noticed it. But one those beautiful cloudless, bright blue sky, breezy autumn afternoons it burst upon my sight. For a parade, it was difficult to spot. There were no fire trucks or Cub Scouts or floats or marching bands or riders on horseback. There were no pretty young beauty queens seeking our attention or politicians seeking our votes. Most of the faces in this parade were familiar to me, although some were strangers. But they all knew my father. He was the "theme" that held this parade together. This was a parade of people, passing through my parent's spacious, warm, welcoming kitchen, in front of the reclining chair that had become Dad's chief place of
residence.
They came from near and far. As close as the next door neighbor and as far as several states away. They all came to say the same thing in many different ways. They came to say, "Thank you, Mr. McConnell. You have made a difference in my life." What a wonderful thing to say! "Thanks for living and letting me be a part of your life. Your life counted for something in my life." “You have lived a life that was significant because your life powerfully impacted my life.”
And what a strange mix of people it was that carried this message to my father. There were the preachers and church leaders from all over the state that Dad had prayed with and for and taught so much about how to be sensitive to the needs of others and the leading of the Lord. He helped them have more than a theoretical Christianity. There was the alcoholic who lived next door who was snubbed by the community but was proud to be called "friend" by "Mr. Mack". There were the young men of the community that had looked to my father for advice and counsel on subjects ranging from family budgeting to how to win an argument without losing a friend. There was the single mother and her children who were helped through some hard times by a man they hardly knew. There were the old people that came to thank the man who brought them meals when they were too sick to cook for themselves. There were the business associates that had worked with him for over a quarter of a century – folks who really knew him and thus knew him to be a man of integrity, courage, compassion, wisdom and humor. There were his law clients who received much more than just good advice from their attorney. There were the students from more than 30 years of Sunday School classes that came to thank the man who helped make God real and understandable to them. There were the Little League ball players who had become middle-aged men, wanting to thank him for being a fine baseball coach and an even better example.
They came from all over. They loved and appreciated my father and came to tell him. Dad was sick, but he was having a wonderful time. He had invested his life well. And though it was coming to, what many of us considered, a premature end, it had been a great, meaningful, full life. My dad had been successful. He grew up on a little hill farm in Robertson County, Kentucky. He had served his country in World War II. He was the first in his family to graduate from college. He worked his way through law school and was the Vice President and Treasurer of a very successful life insurance company. He had provided very well for his wife and children. He was successful. But more importantly, his life had been significant.
Fortunately, I recognized what was happening in time to join this wonderful parade. I grasped the opportunity at hand and thanked my Dad for being a fine father, good friend, wonderful teacher and excellent example. What a parade! My, it was grand. One the finest parades I have ever seen. I wouldn't have missed it for the world.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Pa's Last Days
This story is based on a letter my sister Sherfy sent me describing my Dad's (Pa's) last days:
“It has been almost 24 years since Dad passed, so my memories are getting a bit hazy. I remember he got sick around Christmas of 1985. He was severely depressed and couldn't eat, and he slowly starved to death. He was still having those wretched headaches he used to get, because I remember him using an oxygen tank for the last year or two of his life. Oxygen was the only thing that helped those headaches.
For a long time no one could find anything wrong with Dad, beyond the depression. When he was diagnosed with prostate cancer in either the summer or fall of 1986, Dad called me absolutely giddy with delight that someone had finally diagnosed a physical problem. He was told he didn't have more than a few months to live, and he seemed okay with that. He never ever talked about it, though. Mama said that one day he called her to come up to his office above the garage, where he showed her insurance forms and the phone number of his personal lawyer. But he didn't say a word about dying.
We used to go to Atlantic Beach, N.C. for two weeks every summer--Kayce, me, Mom, Dad, and oftentimes friends from New Castle, like Corky and Karen, and John and Mary Roberts. By July of 1986 Dad was horribly thin and ill, and apparently the cancer had gone into his vocal chords, because he couldn't speak; he could only whisper. But he insisted on going to the beach. I drove Mom in her car, and Kae drove Dad in his car. The AC went out in his car by the time we got to Atlantic Beach, so Dad had me take him to a mechanic to have it looked at. The problem was quickly repaired, and on the way back to our condo, Dad whispered, "Tell Kae it was the way it was driven." Now, keep in mind that Dad wasn't really Dad anymore. He didn't make jokes or even talk much by that time. He was, as Bill so succinctly put it, "busy dying of cancer." So when Dad told me to tell Kae the car problem was her fault, I was floored. I questioned him about it, and in typical Dad fashion he scowled at me and said, "Just tell her." Well, I couldn't keep a straight face when I told Kae. Dad sat there passively, not saying a word, and it took Kae a minute to figure out Dad was actually pulling her leg. He LOVED to torment Kae because she's such a drama queen and made such a Big Deal out of everything, so as soon as she figured out what was going on, she gave Dad a real show. It was the last time I saw his eyes twinkle. He didn't have the strength to laugh, but he smiled.
Dad made a huge effort to make it through his and Mom's 50th wedding celebration in July of 1986. He was really touched that so many people came to celebrate with them; especially his eldest sister, Frog Pants (aka Aunt Mildred Stemler.) Dad gave a speech where he announced to everyone that Kae was always his favorite child. Kae seemed embarrassed, but I remember thinking, Well, DUH. Kind of like when Mom revealed that you were her favorite. Well, DUH!
The last couple months of Dad's life were emotionally wrenching. I got into a cycle where I would go down to help Mom take care of Dad for two weeks, then I would go back to Coal City for a week; then back to New Castle. When I was in New Castle, it was my job to take Dad to Louisville for radiation treatments. Several times Bill met me at the hospital and helped me get Dad out of the car and into the treatment center. I remember how small Dad was by that time. He was so shrunken that he was shorter than me, and he didn't weigh more than 80 or 90 pounds. Everyone in New Castle did everything they could to entice Dad to eat. They made cookies and pies and cakes and custards and everything else imaginable. Once he ate a bit of melon, so EVERYBODY started hauling in melons, but Dad didn't eat any after that one time. For a long time he TRIED to eat, but he inevitably vomited back up whatever he just ate. I remember Dad once saying he wanted to go to Frisch's, and Bill said, "Yeah. We'll have two Big Boys and a vomit cup, please." Going out to eat with Dad during those last months wasn't exactly appetizing, if you get my drift here.
Once, after one of his radiation treatments, Dad indicated that he wanted to stop at his secretary, Millie O'Nan's, house on Cannons Lane. So I drove over there, and Millie fussed over Dad as only Millie could. "Oh, now, Mr. Mac, can I get you something to drink? Do you want something to eat? You really should try to eat something, Mr. Mac. I could make you a sandwich, now how would that be? No? Well, how about..." and on and on. Dad looked at me and rolled his eyes and shook his head. I wanted to laugh, but it also made me want to cry. I grieved over Dad the whole time he was dying. Sometimes Mom and I would go out on the back porch and have a good cry, then go back inside to take care of Dad.
He was always freezing cold while he was dying, so he had the furnace jacked up to Auto Fry and the fire roaring in the kitchen fireplace at all times. It was like some cruel kind of sauna torture, but of course we all tolerated it because it was for Dad. He spent all his time in the kitchen, because after awhile he didn't have the strength to climb the stairs. He died in the kitchen. Do you still have a copy of the newspaper article Bill wrote about "I Love A Parade"? In it Bill told of all the people who came into that kitchen during the fall of 1986 to tell Dad what he had meant to them. It was an incredibly long line of folks, and I found out just what a generous man our father was. People came to thank Dad for giving them money when the heads of their households were out of work; or for bringing them meals when they were recuperating from illness; or for helping their child through college--and the list goes on. That was one of the best lessons Dad ever taught me, and he didn't even have to give me a four-hour-long lecture for me to get the message (giggle giggle.)
He was far from perfect, but there's no doubt in my mind that when Dad arrived in Heaven, God said, "Well done, good and faithful servant." I want to be as generous in my Christian walk as he was. Dad was a fine man, and I'm glad he was my father.”
“It has been almost 24 years since Dad passed, so my memories are getting a bit hazy. I remember he got sick around Christmas of 1985. He was severely depressed and couldn't eat, and he slowly starved to death. He was still having those wretched headaches he used to get, because I remember him using an oxygen tank for the last year or two of his life. Oxygen was the only thing that helped those headaches.
For a long time no one could find anything wrong with Dad, beyond the depression. When he was diagnosed with prostate cancer in either the summer or fall of 1986, Dad called me absolutely giddy with delight that someone had finally diagnosed a physical problem. He was told he didn't have more than a few months to live, and he seemed okay with that. He never ever talked about it, though. Mama said that one day he called her to come up to his office above the garage, where he showed her insurance forms and the phone number of his personal lawyer. But he didn't say a word about dying.
We used to go to Atlantic Beach, N.C. for two weeks every summer--Kayce, me, Mom, Dad, and oftentimes friends from New Castle, like Corky and Karen, and John and Mary Roberts. By July of 1986 Dad was horribly thin and ill, and apparently the cancer had gone into his vocal chords, because he couldn't speak; he could only whisper. But he insisted on going to the beach. I drove Mom in her car, and Kae drove Dad in his car. The AC went out in his car by the time we got to Atlantic Beach, so Dad had me take him to a mechanic to have it looked at. The problem was quickly repaired, and on the way back to our condo, Dad whispered, "Tell Kae it was the way it was driven." Now, keep in mind that Dad wasn't really Dad anymore. He didn't make jokes or even talk much by that time. He was, as Bill so succinctly put it, "busy dying of cancer." So when Dad told me to tell Kae the car problem was her fault, I was floored. I questioned him about it, and in typical Dad fashion he scowled at me and said, "Just tell her." Well, I couldn't keep a straight face when I told Kae. Dad sat there passively, not saying a word, and it took Kae a minute to figure out Dad was actually pulling her leg. He LOVED to torment Kae because she's such a drama queen and made such a Big Deal out of everything, so as soon as she figured out what was going on, she gave Dad a real show. It was the last time I saw his eyes twinkle. He didn't have the strength to laugh, but he smiled.
Dad made a huge effort to make it through his and Mom's 50th wedding celebration in July of 1986. He was really touched that so many people came to celebrate with them; especially his eldest sister, Frog Pants (aka Aunt Mildred Stemler.) Dad gave a speech where he announced to everyone that Kae was always his favorite child. Kae seemed embarrassed, but I remember thinking, Well, DUH. Kind of like when Mom revealed that you were her favorite. Well, DUH!
The last couple months of Dad's life were emotionally wrenching. I got into a cycle where I would go down to help Mom take care of Dad for two weeks, then I would go back to Coal City for a week; then back to New Castle. When I was in New Castle, it was my job to take Dad to Louisville for radiation treatments. Several times Bill met me at the hospital and helped me get Dad out of the car and into the treatment center. I remember how small Dad was by that time. He was so shrunken that he was shorter than me, and he didn't weigh more than 80 or 90 pounds. Everyone in New Castle did everything they could to entice Dad to eat. They made cookies and pies and cakes and custards and everything else imaginable. Once he ate a bit of melon, so EVERYBODY started hauling in melons, but Dad didn't eat any after that one time. For a long time he TRIED to eat, but he inevitably vomited back up whatever he just ate. I remember Dad once saying he wanted to go to Frisch's, and Bill said, "Yeah. We'll have two Big Boys and a vomit cup, please." Going out to eat with Dad during those last months wasn't exactly appetizing, if you get my drift here.
Once, after one of his radiation treatments, Dad indicated that he wanted to stop at his secretary, Millie O'Nan's, house on Cannons Lane. So I drove over there, and Millie fussed over Dad as only Millie could. "Oh, now, Mr. Mac, can I get you something to drink? Do you want something to eat? You really should try to eat something, Mr. Mac. I could make you a sandwich, now how would that be? No? Well, how about..." and on and on. Dad looked at me and rolled his eyes and shook his head. I wanted to laugh, but it also made me want to cry. I grieved over Dad the whole time he was dying. Sometimes Mom and I would go out on the back porch and have a good cry, then go back inside to take care of Dad.
He was always freezing cold while he was dying, so he had the furnace jacked up to Auto Fry and the fire roaring in the kitchen fireplace at all times. It was like some cruel kind of sauna torture, but of course we all tolerated it because it was for Dad. He spent all his time in the kitchen, because after awhile he didn't have the strength to climb the stairs. He died in the kitchen. Do you still have a copy of the newspaper article Bill wrote about "I Love A Parade"? In it Bill told of all the people who came into that kitchen during the fall of 1986 to tell Dad what he had meant to them. It was an incredibly long line of folks, and I found out just what a generous man our father was. People came to thank Dad for giving them money when the heads of their households were out of work; or for bringing them meals when they were recuperating from illness; or for helping their child through college--and the list goes on. That was one of the best lessons Dad ever taught me, and he didn't even have to give me a four-hour-long lecture for me to get the message (giggle giggle.)
He was far from perfect, but there's no doubt in my mind that when Dad arrived in Heaven, God said, "Well done, good and faithful servant." I want to be as generous in my Christian walk as he was. Dad was a fine man, and I'm glad he was my father.”
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