Scott

I love Christmas

I love my memories of Christmases past. The ones when our boys were little are the ones I cherish most.

This Christmas, after a snow cancelled flight and driving a rental car through the night with friends we just made at the airport, Diane and I arrived for a week’s stay at our oldest son’s house in Michigan’s UP.

It was our first reunion with our grown up sons, their wives and kids (is it a re-union if it’s the first time?).

One Christmas morning years ago, Diane gave me a 1957 Chevy . That’s a Christmas memory that’s hard to beat, but this year was our best Christmas yet. Holding and interacting with our little grandchildren was priceless.

Witnessing how our sons love their wives and kids was rewarding. Diane got to snow ski again after many years, and I got to take pictures with my new camera (shot hundreds, shoulda taken more). We played in the house and we played in the snow.

My younger son, Robin, gave me a flying camera, a drone. My first flying lesson began by launching it from the ice covered snow in the garden.

Robin took this shot through his phone, from the camera on the drone, before a take-off

I hope it’s a good memory for my three year old grandson, Kellen, when he hugged the gate for protection like I told him, as the nearly controlled drone buzzed over his head to awkwardly touchdown behind him in the back yard.

This Christmas could have only been better if, on top of being with our kids and grand kids, I received another classic Chevy. Well, actually, my oldest son, Brandon, did give me a 57 Chevy he made with his computer and router.

I hope this gathering was a preview of Christmases future.

A few weeks after returning home, I was in Portland to help my brother, Mark, prepare to move. Later, we drove over to see our brother Dan at his Alpha Stone Works shop. While Dan was showing me the new stone cutter (he went to Germany to buy), he asked how I was and if my cancer was gone now.

I explained that Multiple Myeloma doesn’t go away, but I’m doing okay right now, and that I get tested every three months to monitor the cancer. I told him, “I can live with that….. Get it? While I’m alive – I can live?”

Because, next time the cancer activates, or the time after that – one of those times will be the last time, and the following result will be my life ending.

Usually quite stoic, he let out a hearty chuckle. He appreciated that dark (rest of my life) humor enough to recount it later at the restaurant with all five of us at the table. We all enjoyed a good laugh (though some politely tried to resist), not over the inevitable end of my life, but from stumbling upon a little sarcastic humor in the situation.

*On our last visit to the shore of Lake Superior, we were burning our bare feet on hot sand just a short walk from here.*

I remain thankful to God for a life full of blessings.

Too busy for Cancer, way too busy to die

Most mornings, I wake before the alarm. My sleeping mind seems to be already busy when it joins my waking mind. I give myself an hour before I must leave for work, but if I deviate from my routine, I’ll probably have to drive.

I normally walk the commute, it’s not a race, but there is no time to stop and smell the roses. I usually have a few minutes to quickly check email and a news site before the clock strikes eight.

I always try to work at a quick, efficient pace, there’s way more to do in a day than I can get done. My walk home could be more leisurely, but I hurry again to get busy on my unfinished or my next endeavors. A life overflowing with God’s blessings is a very busy life.

I hurry to get something done before dinner, and chip away at more until bed time. I might stop and join Diane for a little TV watching, then hurry off to sleep, and begin again. There’s much to do and time seems short. I’m too busy for Cancer, way too busy to die.

*Out for a drive in the Chevy – Thanks, Diane MacDonald, for the picture*

One day years ago, my job took me to an elderly man’s house. It was practically on the campus of the university in our town. The old timer seemed to know everyone there, and they all addressed him, “Grandpa.”

I quickly learned that he was deep in the pursuit of Genealogy, and that he had, “much yet to discover, record, organize, and share.” He was sure the Lord wouldn’t be, “calling him home” before this massive mission of lineage research was completed.

One day recently, my job took me back to the Campus Grandpa’s house – to his vacant house. I wonder if he had enough time to feel the satisfaction of a job well done.

Nothing I keep myself so busy with would sway the Lord to let me catch a later flight (I don’t believe it works that way). My projects, my lists from top priority on down doesn’t even make a blip on the radar screen of the important things in life.

The most important things I’ll ever do, have probably been done, and would probably be done better if I could do them over, but that’s life.

My job took me recently to another house. There I recognized someone there who recognized me. Our kids were friends in school. She asked, “How have you been – didn’t you have cancer?”

I told her I’ve had three cancers, and one is incurable, but right now I’m doing okay. Her tone lowered just a bit, and in a reluctantly accepting voice she said, “Well, I guess that’s life.” I added, “Yea, or maybe that’s death.”

A New Old Photo

I attended a Martin Family Reunion at my cousin, Brian’s house in August. He showed a reel of old family pictures. The funny looking young people in the long ago photos brought a lot of laughs to the new, younger relatives.

I saw a few pictures of myself I had never seen, they were taken by Brian’s folks. This picture of me and my first (official) girlfriend was among them. I remember that striped shirt and Timex watch. Is that a transistor radio on the table?

I was clicking around the internet looking for possible contact with anyone involved with class of 1970 reunions at Jefferson High School in Portland; I served my freshman year sentence there, but never made it to a reunion.

I found a couple classmates that went from Kenton Elementary School to Jefferson. That led to a couple more classmates and a suggestion that we have a Kenton class reunion. Five or six of us met at a restaurant in Portland and became the planning committee.

That meeting itself was a precious reunion. At one point when Bill Dunlap laughed, that sound went into my ears, into my memory banks, and instantly registered a solid confirmation (with goosebumps) even though I hadn’t heard that laugh in 35 years. Amazing!

We divided up our list of classmate’s names to try to contact. I was happy to see my old girl friend, Carol Leech, was on my list; it would be fun to contact her.

I eventually reached her in Washington by phone. We must have talked for an hour and a half. We talked about all things relevant when you haven’t seen or spoken to each other since eighth grade.

At one point, she asked if she could speak to my wife. I handed the phone to Diane, and Carol proceeded to tell her what a wonderful young man I was, so many years ago. I got her address and promised to send the reunion invitation when they were printed.

The “Kenton 8^th Grade Class of 1966 Turns Fifty” class reunion invitations were mailed out and confirmations began coming back. A couple weeks passed and I hadn’t seen anything from Carol so I called to see if she had received the invitation. She had not.

I told her I would send another, but I also confirmed the date and time. I asked hopefully if she thought she would make it. She said she would if money and health allowed. I told her it would be my honor if she would let me pay for her dinner, to please not let that stop her from attending.

The event was held at the McMenamins Kennedy School in Portland, the evening of October 5^th, 2002. Turnout was fair, conversation and dinner was good. How did these 8^th graders get so old?

I was really looking forward to seeing Carol, but she didn’t make it.

I did not yet own a digital camera, but a classmate, Mike King, emailed me a few pictures he took at the event. I forwarded them to Carol, but got no reply.

After a few days an email arrived with this message: Hi, this is Carol’s daughter. I see you were corresponding with my mom, so I thought you should know that she died.

Three Months At A Time

Thursday, I had my 6 month visit with my Pulmonologist (my sleep doctor). I repeated my complaint, “I’m so tired of being tired,” and answered yes when he asked if the pills were helping.

He quickly instructed, “Up the dosage.” I suspect he likes to practice a little psycho analysis with the Pulmonology. We talked a bit about poor sleep quality, joining my mind already in progress when I wake; work, retirement, stress, decisions… I suppose its all sleep related.

I saw my Oncologist the next day for my three month blood tests. After reporting to that office so often for the last two years, I feel like I’m visiting friends now, except for that one dangerous friend who always sticks a needle in me.

The doctor said the tests indicate no change, and no change is good, especially considering I’m three years into the 3 ½ year average benefit enjoyed by stem cell transplant patients.

We haven’t had a garage sale in several years; that great, American tradition where you display on folding tables the surviving remnants of your treasured memories, souvenirs of your children’s mileposts, and items that could be family heirlooms (if only someone would take a closer look).

You set them out on display to be judged by all, and the verdict after just a moment’s deliberation? “Will you take a dollar?”

Diane said it was time we had another garage sale. I was determined to be brave and participate by putting some things out to sell instead of trying to keep everything forever.

I know that makes sense, but selling a favorite shirt that has to be pulled tight now to button is publicly admitting I will never lose enough weight to fit it again.

It means finally admitting that those odd items I have accumulated and held because certainly they must be rare and/or odd enough to be of some monetary value, aren’t worth $2 to anyone willing to walk up our driveway and have a look.

It means that after a week of preparations and a two day sale, we can probably go out to dinner on our financial gains.

But consider this, once you identify an item you might be willing to part with (especially with the hope of a handsome profit due to its appreciation since being in your custody), you take it out, dust it off, place it on the folding table and watch it for two days only to realize that its value is exclusively in your eyes .

You must then decide if you will put it back where you had it, or move to the next level and DISPOSE OF IT. Maybe that’s been the hidden agenda behind these garage sales all along!

Since Jason and I built the dirt track for Radio Controlled cars in my back yard, I’ve been meaning to invite long time RC racing friends, Don and Diane, to come out from Portland and try it out.

With summer circling the drain, and after several, “we’ll have to get together sometime-s,” we finally chose a day, ran the cars on the track, had a real nice visit, and wrapped it up by driving the ’57 Chevy to lunch.

Don and Diane trying out my backyard dirt track

During our visit, we reminisced about the good times we had racing in the “Yamhill County RC Car Club” in McMinnville, and marveled that it really was 20 years ago. The thought of a car club reunion had previously been mentioned a time or two, but that day we committed to looking into it.

I suggested that if we found at least 10 of our fellow racers we haven’t seen in years, it would be a fun gathering, so we’ve started with a Face book Group Page.