Our son, Nolan came down stairs this morning to find a drum set. Santa had dropped through the chimney and eaten the pound cake, marshmallows and demolished a can of coke that our children left in anticipation of his visit. Once again, he took care of all five kids.
Nolan didn't seem surprised to see the beloved drum set he'd been asking for since June.
Each time he was asked what Santa was bringing him, he'd state emphatically "Drum Set". He ran the words together so they came out as one. "Drum Set". And he never waivered. Three years old, and he already knows what he wants out of life....or at least out of Santa.
When he saw the drum set, he didn't shriek. His eyes didn't widen and shimmer with glee. He didn't race over to the set, astonished that Santa had once again, remembered him as one of the good boys. No shock. No giddiness.
I way overthought this over my morning Duncan Donuts coffee. It appeared as if Nolan knew he'd been good, and of course! It's the way things should be, and nothing inbetween. It was simple. He'd been good. He wanted a drum set. Santa took care of good little boys, and our son trusted that it would all work out the way it was supposed to. He trusted, and therefore, it was no surprise. It was, quite simply, the way thing should be.
It isn't always that way, though. We know of one person this morning, who trusted that things would work out the way they are supposed to. And they didn't. And it cost him a lot. We mourn when our trust is shattered, because it would be like my son coming downstairs, certain that things work out....only to find that his drum set isn't there. Suddenly, all is askew. Everything he knows about life is disrupted, and it's a shock. And in some way, he'd be changed.
My hope is that the grown up little boy who didn't get his drum set, gets it soon. Because above all things, there should be a happy ending. And the grinch shouldn't win.
And like my son, I believe with all my heart, that Santa is going to come through. I believe, indeed, that there is one more drum set awaiting delivery before the week is out.
Merry Christmas, once again.
Friday, December 25, 2009
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
And Update, The Blind Side
Last night, the doorbell rang. Karen and Bill Lemmons dropped off dishes and silverware....and wash detergent. Merry Christmas to them, and one day I'll beg Karen to reveal where she gets the enormous amount of energy that compels her to be awake and working, when the rest of the world is asleep?????
Jeff and Cheryl Williams, our dear friends who have saved our kids' lives a number of times (exaggerated, but not so much!), dropped off a bag of goods and groceries. With two small kids in their house, and not a minute to spare, they have given.
And Bruce and Dyanna - adding to that turkey dinner, more groceries and household items.
To all our dear friends, we are thankful that you've dipped into your reserves to help us help Mimi Carpenter and her kids. Christmas 2009 will be one of abundance for them - for us, and for you all.
Thank-you on behalf of the Carpenter family.
Jeff and Cheryl Williams, our dear friends who have saved our kids' lives a number of times (exaggerated, but not so much!), dropped off a bag of goods and groceries. With two small kids in their house, and not a minute to spare, they have given.
And Bruce and Dyanna - adding to that turkey dinner, more groceries and household items.
To all our dear friends, we are thankful that you've dipped into your reserves to help us help Mimi Carpenter and her kids. Christmas 2009 will be one of abundance for them - for us, and for you all.
Thank-you on behalf of the Carpenter family.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
The Blind Side.....and Merry Christmas
There is a scene in the "Blind Side", that changed everything. It was a small moment, that caused a tectonic shift in the life of both the Toueys and Michael Orr, and were you to have blinked, you'd have missed it. And if Mrs. Touey had blinked, or hesitated, or flat out rejected it....the Blind Side wouldn't have been. And Michael Orr would still be struggling in the ghetto, starving, his potential wasting away.
When Mrs. Touey drove by Michael Orr, that poor thing, walking in the too-cold drizzle rubbing his substantial arms, unable to keep warm, she could have missed the moment, and drove on. The full force of humanity was laid bare, unadorned, right in front of her. And in a split second, her choices were clear - do something, or do nothing. Do something.....or do nothing. Doing something was uncomfortable. Doing nothing was bound to be uncomfortable.
Part of Mrs. Toueys delimma, lie in whether she had an understanding of why she wanted to help. Some people are short-term "do gooders", who give for personal satisfaction, and once the conscience is assauged, they move on to throw a few dimes in another direction. For others, it is a committment for change to make someone's life, a little bit easier. Both gestures probably matter in some way - but doing nothing matters in a much bigger way, sadly. Mrs. Touey accepted one simple principle - someone needed help, and she had the means and the way. With a bucketful of courage, the Touey family was well on its way to changing lives. Thank-God for her, and for Michael Orr, that she didn't miss the moment.
Our "Blind Side" came one day almost a decade ago, when Dr. Katherine Lawson, our next door neighbor, called us five days before Christmas. "There has been a shooting, and this family is without a Dad, and a Christmas." And in a course of one minute, Mimi Carpenter and her brood of five children, came into our lives. We panicked and flew into a flurry of buying for her kids. I had no idea what we were facing. Rob, having worked stories in "that part of town", smiled grimly and just said "Ok", knowing that any further discussion was useless. We were on a course not destined to jump the tracks any time soon. His sight picture was much better honed than mine, and yet in an act of love and trust, my beautiful and insightful husband did not hesitate. He became the engineer of the project.
Our children and neices at the time, ranged from ages six up to twelve. All told, we hauled two suburbans and about six little kids, into the worst part of town on Christmas Eve. And it was a shock, even for me at the ripe old age of thirty-five. The little poorly-maintained but neat home, was two bedroom, dank...and dark. But not dark enough that we couldn't see the cockroaches crawling over everything. There was one couch, well-worn and very, very tired. And there were five precious little faces peering up at us, awed to see anyone on Christmas eve. There was a Charlie Brown tree, with a handful of ornaments hanging off it, with nothing under the tree. Not one single thing.
No one knew what to say. We were in culture shock the first half hour, and I think our children wanted to cry. All of them. And we were a little worried about flying bullets. It was, indeed, that bad. But neither Rob, nor I, were about to let our dismay ruin the day, and so we plowed on, urging the children to get to know each other. That was a little like putting a six year old in a space shuttle. They had no experience with poverty, no vision outside of the shrouding we'd raised them in with the very best of intentions, and no basis for interaction. It was awkward and painful at first. All the white folk huddled one one side of the room, yanking the edges of the comfort blanket around us, and the african-american folk huddled in their corner. Rob and I stared at each other, wondering for a flash whether this is what our own children needed, on Christmas Eve?
We just didn't really know what to do or say. "Hey, I got the nintendo DX for Christmas....what did you ask Santa Clause for?" It was a steep learning curve that day.
Soon, one of the smallest of Mimi's children wandered over and said "Mister Rob, can I open one of my presents?"
And the heavens split wide open, as we finally found common ground - ripping open some of the gifts. That part, our kids could understand. And they all piled in and broke the ice.
That broken ice has turned into one of the greatest gifts our family has been given. For eight years now, we have been able to contribute to Mimi's family, not just at Christmas, but throughout the year. We've helped her help herself. Mimi got her CNA certificate, and got a job in the nursing industry. She has moved to a better place, and is on her own with her children. Mimi is a good, good mother, and it's been oh so gratifying...for all of us, to be able to help in some meaningful way.
One thing our children have learned is that poverty isn't really chosen. There are some who say that that those in poverty "have choices" to get out of the ghetto. That's like saying that a horse who lives in a 20 foot corral, should get out and run when the door is opened. They can't and they won't. It's what they've learned their whole lives. They have to be pushed and retrained and shown another life altogether. It's a slow and painful process.
Mimi came from a crack home, where she woke up on a floor with different men in and out, her entire life. School was just a government-required mandate, and she had little understanding of it's importance. She had no help with homework; no mother setting limits and boundaries; and no vision of future. That's life in the ghetto. That she's managed to raise respectful children, and rise above where she was raised, is a Christmas miracle in itself.
None of her children will go on to play pro football. We haven't made that much of a difference, and never will. None of them will go to elite colleges; or maybe even college at all. The journey out of poverty isn't a leap - it's a decades-and generations - long, process. But little things have happened along this last decade with Mimi, a few earth-shattering, but most just subtle and quiet.
Not long ago, Mimi's oldest son was accused of a crime that we knew unequivocally did not commit. He bumped up against a young girl at school, and it made the girl angry. She had a crush on him, and he was in a hurry and probably wasn't very nice to her. She cried, and accused him of sexual assault. Mimi called. And we called the great Mark Mesler, a top-notch criminal attorney. And he bought his very own pair of "Christmas shoes" for us that day, free of charge. "Go down to 201 Poplar, and get with that kid. See what the story is, and get with the officer. Intervene now before they charge him, and call me if they charge him".
And so we did. 201 Poplar is an inhospitable place, kindly speaking, and while it wasn't my first time down there, it too, is a culture shock. I made my way through a throng of accused perpetrators, and was buzzed in. I asked to see young KT, and to the officer's credit, he took me right back without the third-degree. In a room with two-way windows, sat big KT, head down. We hugged, and he towered over me. My head barely hit the middle of his chest. "KT, look at me. What happened?" I was not nearly interested in helping KT, as I was finding out the truth. And the truth mattered. If he'd assaulted that girl, I'd be walking out to find the public defender. If not, Rob and I were prepared to fight to the end for him. We'd come too far with that boy, to let him go down for a crime he didn't commit. I also knew I'd get the truth, because that boy was incapable of lying. I'd known him almost a decade. "I was running down the stairs, because my momma was blowing the car horn for me to come out of school. I was swinging my arms, and hit that girl. Jan, I said I was sorry, but she started yelling at me and screaming, and she ran to the office. Then her momma came, and she started yelling that I'd touched her daughter". "KT, how old was she?" Fifteen. The writing was on the wall. I'd have to pray for a miracle, because KT was on a fast track to the sex offender registry, and prison. If he did it, so be all those terrible but necessary, things. If not....well...... In a split second, I had to come up with a plan that would work to keep KT out of jail. Did he need to take a stand of denial, and risk making the mom ever madder, which would have resulted in pressure on the police to press charges? Did he need to just get the truth out there in front of that mother? And my last thought was "I don't know what I am doing, but the Sawyers are all this kid has right now". I reflected briefly on a quote "Evil prospers when good men do nothing". I wasn't a man, but I wasn't going to do nothing, by God. I leaned across the table, knowing full well that sex crimes officers were probably watching and listening. "KT, you have one chance to get this right. You go in there, and you humbly apologize to that girl, and let's pray that this works out the way it's supposed to". It isn't the stuff defense lawyers dream about at night, but it was all we had. And it was free of charge.
I knew something about men, and one thing I know is that the art of apology is a little lost on them. Think "Mars and Venus". And so we rehearsed. "Mary (not her real name), I know you were hurt by what I did, and I am deeply sorry for that. I did not intend to hurt you, and I'll be more sensitive in the future. Will you please forgive me?" Over and over, until he got it right.
Officer Thomas took us in the room where the mother and daughter, Mary, awaited. KT waded through the tension to take a seat at the back side of the room, across from the girl. Momma eyed me suspiciously, and said nothing. The hulking, well-seasoned sex crimes officer, settled in on one edge of a desk. He asked one question. "KT, what happened here today?" And KT told his story. The officer shifted his gaze to Mary, and paused. The girl dropped her head, and began to cry. "Mary, is this how it happened?" And she bobbed her head up and down, gently at first, and then more resolutely. And suddenly, the rest of us weren't even in the room. "Momma, he didn't mean to do it. I was just so mad. We had a class together". And she cried harder. And in an instant, I think officer Thomas got it. A simple accident, seen through the eyes of a loving, protective mother, became a mountain. And a child wanted desperately to please her mother. But not at the expense of a boy's life.
She confessed, and the compressed air blew out of the room as KT exhaled. And then, KT bought his own pair of Christmas shoes. He didn't have to do it, because the cat was out of the bag. "Mary, I am sorry I hit you. I didn't mean to do it, and I am sorry you were hurt. Will you please forgive me?" This girl, who had the power to ruin his life, had just received a gift. And we left the room lacing up our own pair of Christmas shoes.
I went to meet Rob behind the locked door at 201 Poplar, where he'd waited anxiously for the outcome, praying a young boy he cared for so much, wouldn't be going on the fast track to prison. We left the jail, knowing that somehow, through no hand of our own, we'd just changed something big.
Last year, our eldest child Sydney, made a post on her facebook. I suppose she maybe didn't think we'd read it, but we did, and with great pride and thankfulness. In it, she talks about the joy of Christmas. And I humbly quote from her posting "Icicles and Cracker Barrel Ornaments", "My favorite part of Christmas is watching others open the gifts I bought them. I could care less if I got anything in return: this is where people don't get it. So many people nowadays are extremely materialistic. They want the newest iPod, the phone with the most features, the latest designer purses, the most expensive jewelry, etc. For the past seven or eight years my family and I have helped a family in need at Christmas. The Carpenters are a family of six kids and a single mom. When we first met them, they had nothing......... They lived in an awful part of Memphis where there were regular shootings. They were always so grateful to us when we would bring presents over for them and the kids were always smiling. Seeing how they lived really put it in perspective for me. Everyone wants nice things, but things don't make happiness. Family, friends and significant others make the happy."
The Blind Side has changed how our kids, see life. When they too, are confronted with the proverbial shivering human being, maybe they have a better chance now at the vision, instead of walking away. Maybe they will understand that most times, we are born with fortune, or not. Born with advantages that most people don't have. Maybe they've learned empathy, because empathy is, indeed, learned. And they, and I, will have a more keen sense of thankfulness for what we have, and what we can do.
I asked Mimi this year, what she wanted for Christmas. Earrings? A purse? No. Wash detergent, shampoo, and sheets for the beds. And a few dishes to serve us pizza on when we make our visit on Christmas eve eve.
Our neighbors, Bruce and Dyanna Thompson, pulled out their wallet a few nights ago, and bought Mimi a turkey and rolls, for their Christmas meal. We didn't ask, they just did. Not because of any kind of guilt at what they have - just because it was a pair of Christmas shoes they wanted to buy. They have the vision.
We have some friends who make a lot of money every year, and I'd be surprised if they keep much of it. Red Cross - millions of dollars. Rebuild New Orleans - millions of dollars. They have the vision.
Send sheets, dishes, and wash detergent our way, if you can spare them. In fact, any kind of Christmas shoes you want to send, we will take them with us on Christmas eve eve. And Mimi and her children will peer up at us, much like ten years ago, thankful and changed. And so will we.
Merry Christmas, and may this be the year that you get the gift of the Blind Side, in some way or the other.
Love Jan and Rob
When Mrs. Touey drove by Michael Orr, that poor thing, walking in the too-cold drizzle rubbing his substantial arms, unable to keep warm, she could have missed the moment, and drove on. The full force of humanity was laid bare, unadorned, right in front of her. And in a split second, her choices were clear - do something, or do nothing. Do something.....or do nothing. Doing something was uncomfortable. Doing nothing was bound to be uncomfortable.
Part of Mrs. Toueys delimma, lie in whether she had an understanding of why she wanted to help. Some people are short-term "do gooders", who give for personal satisfaction, and once the conscience is assauged, they move on to throw a few dimes in another direction. For others, it is a committment for change to make someone's life, a little bit easier. Both gestures probably matter in some way - but doing nothing matters in a much bigger way, sadly. Mrs. Touey accepted one simple principle - someone needed help, and she had the means and the way. With a bucketful of courage, the Touey family was well on its way to changing lives. Thank-God for her, and for Michael Orr, that she didn't miss the moment.
Our "Blind Side" came one day almost a decade ago, when Dr. Katherine Lawson, our next door neighbor, called us five days before Christmas. "There has been a shooting, and this family is without a Dad, and a Christmas." And in a course of one minute, Mimi Carpenter and her brood of five children, came into our lives. We panicked and flew into a flurry of buying for her kids. I had no idea what we were facing. Rob, having worked stories in "that part of town", smiled grimly and just said "Ok", knowing that any further discussion was useless. We were on a course not destined to jump the tracks any time soon. His sight picture was much better honed than mine, and yet in an act of love and trust, my beautiful and insightful husband did not hesitate. He became the engineer of the project.
Our children and neices at the time, ranged from ages six up to twelve. All told, we hauled two suburbans and about six little kids, into the worst part of town on Christmas Eve. And it was a shock, even for me at the ripe old age of thirty-five. The little poorly-maintained but neat home, was two bedroom, dank...and dark. But not dark enough that we couldn't see the cockroaches crawling over everything. There was one couch, well-worn and very, very tired. And there were five precious little faces peering up at us, awed to see anyone on Christmas eve. There was a Charlie Brown tree, with a handful of ornaments hanging off it, with nothing under the tree. Not one single thing.
No one knew what to say. We were in culture shock the first half hour, and I think our children wanted to cry. All of them. And we were a little worried about flying bullets. It was, indeed, that bad. But neither Rob, nor I, were about to let our dismay ruin the day, and so we plowed on, urging the children to get to know each other. That was a little like putting a six year old in a space shuttle. They had no experience with poverty, no vision outside of the shrouding we'd raised them in with the very best of intentions, and no basis for interaction. It was awkward and painful at first. All the white folk huddled one one side of the room, yanking the edges of the comfort blanket around us, and the african-american folk huddled in their corner. Rob and I stared at each other, wondering for a flash whether this is what our own children needed, on Christmas Eve?
We just didn't really know what to do or say. "Hey, I got the nintendo DX for Christmas....what did you ask Santa Clause for?" It was a steep learning curve that day.
Soon, one of the smallest of Mimi's children wandered over and said "Mister Rob, can I open one of my presents?"
And the heavens split wide open, as we finally found common ground - ripping open some of the gifts. That part, our kids could understand. And they all piled in and broke the ice.
That broken ice has turned into one of the greatest gifts our family has been given. For eight years now, we have been able to contribute to Mimi's family, not just at Christmas, but throughout the year. We've helped her help herself. Mimi got her CNA certificate, and got a job in the nursing industry. She has moved to a better place, and is on her own with her children. Mimi is a good, good mother, and it's been oh so gratifying...for all of us, to be able to help in some meaningful way.
One thing our children have learned is that poverty isn't really chosen. There are some who say that that those in poverty "have choices" to get out of the ghetto. That's like saying that a horse who lives in a 20 foot corral, should get out and run when the door is opened. They can't and they won't. It's what they've learned their whole lives. They have to be pushed and retrained and shown another life altogether. It's a slow and painful process.
Mimi came from a crack home, where she woke up on a floor with different men in and out, her entire life. School was just a government-required mandate, and she had little understanding of it's importance. She had no help with homework; no mother setting limits and boundaries; and no vision of future. That's life in the ghetto. That she's managed to raise respectful children, and rise above where she was raised, is a Christmas miracle in itself.
None of her children will go on to play pro football. We haven't made that much of a difference, and never will. None of them will go to elite colleges; or maybe even college at all. The journey out of poverty isn't a leap - it's a decades-and generations - long, process. But little things have happened along this last decade with Mimi, a few earth-shattering, but most just subtle and quiet.
Not long ago, Mimi's oldest son was accused of a crime that we knew unequivocally did not commit. He bumped up against a young girl at school, and it made the girl angry. She had a crush on him, and he was in a hurry and probably wasn't very nice to her. She cried, and accused him of sexual assault. Mimi called. And we called the great Mark Mesler, a top-notch criminal attorney. And he bought his very own pair of "Christmas shoes" for us that day, free of charge. "Go down to 201 Poplar, and get with that kid. See what the story is, and get with the officer. Intervene now before they charge him, and call me if they charge him".
And so we did. 201 Poplar is an inhospitable place, kindly speaking, and while it wasn't my first time down there, it too, is a culture shock. I made my way through a throng of accused perpetrators, and was buzzed in. I asked to see young KT, and to the officer's credit, he took me right back without the third-degree. In a room with two-way windows, sat big KT, head down. We hugged, and he towered over me. My head barely hit the middle of his chest. "KT, look at me. What happened?" I was not nearly interested in helping KT, as I was finding out the truth. And the truth mattered. If he'd assaulted that girl, I'd be walking out to find the public defender. If not, Rob and I were prepared to fight to the end for him. We'd come too far with that boy, to let him go down for a crime he didn't commit. I also knew I'd get the truth, because that boy was incapable of lying. I'd known him almost a decade. "I was running down the stairs, because my momma was blowing the car horn for me to come out of school. I was swinging my arms, and hit that girl. Jan, I said I was sorry, but she started yelling at me and screaming, and she ran to the office. Then her momma came, and she started yelling that I'd touched her daughter". "KT, how old was she?" Fifteen. The writing was on the wall. I'd have to pray for a miracle, because KT was on a fast track to the sex offender registry, and prison. If he did it, so be all those terrible but necessary, things. If not....well...... In a split second, I had to come up with a plan that would work to keep KT out of jail. Did he need to take a stand of denial, and risk making the mom ever madder, which would have resulted in pressure on the police to press charges? Did he need to just get the truth out there in front of that mother? And my last thought was "I don't know what I am doing, but the Sawyers are all this kid has right now". I reflected briefly on a quote "Evil prospers when good men do nothing". I wasn't a man, but I wasn't going to do nothing, by God. I leaned across the table, knowing full well that sex crimes officers were probably watching and listening. "KT, you have one chance to get this right. You go in there, and you humbly apologize to that girl, and let's pray that this works out the way it's supposed to". It isn't the stuff defense lawyers dream about at night, but it was all we had. And it was free of charge.
I knew something about men, and one thing I know is that the art of apology is a little lost on them. Think "Mars and Venus". And so we rehearsed. "Mary (not her real name), I know you were hurt by what I did, and I am deeply sorry for that. I did not intend to hurt you, and I'll be more sensitive in the future. Will you please forgive me?" Over and over, until he got it right.
Officer Thomas took us in the room where the mother and daughter, Mary, awaited. KT waded through the tension to take a seat at the back side of the room, across from the girl. Momma eyed me suspiciously, and said nothing. The hulking, well-seasoned sex crimes officer, settled in on one edge of a desk. He asked one question. "KT, what happened here today?" And KT told his story. The officer shifted his gaze to Mary, and paused. The girl dropped her head, and began to cry. "Mary, is this how it happened?" And she bobbed her head up and down, gently at first, and then more resolutely. And suddenly, the rest of us weren't even in the room. "Momma, he didn't mean to do it. I was just so mad. We had a class together". And she cried harder. And in an instant, I think officer Thomas got it. A simple accident, seen through the eyes of a loving, protective mother, became a mountain. And a child wanted desperately to please her mother. But not at the expense of a boy's life.
She confessed, and the compressed air blew out of the room as KT exhaled. And then, KT bought his own pair of Christmas shoes. He didn't have to do it, because the cat was out of the bag. "Mary, I am sorry I hit you. I didn't mean to do it, and I am sorry you were hurt. Will you please forgive me?" This girl, who had the power to ruin his life, had just received a gift. And we left the room lacing up our own pair of Christmas shoes.
I went to meet Rob behind the locked door at 201 Poplar, where he'd waited anxiously for the outcome, praying a young boy he cared for so much, wouldn't be going on the fast track to prison. We left the jail, knowing that somehow, through no hand of our own, we'd just changed something big.
Last year, our eldest child Sydney, made a post on her facebook. I suppose she maybe didn't think we'd read it, but we did, and with great pride and thankfulness. In it, she talks about the joy of Christmas. And I humbly quote from her posting "Icicles and Cracker Barrel Ornaments", "My favorite part of Christmas is watching others open the gifts I bought them. I could care less if I got anything in return: this is where people don't get it. So many people nowadays are extremely materialistic. They want the newest iPod, the phone with the most features, the latest designer purses, the most expensive jewelry, etc. For the past seven or eight years my family and I have helped a family in need at Christmas. The Carpenters are a family of six kids and a single mom. When we first met them, they had nothing......... They lived in an awful part of Memphis where there were regular shootings. They were always so grateful to us when we would bring presents over for them and the kids were always smiling. Seeing how they lived really put it in perspective for me. Everyone wants nice things, but things don't make happiness. Family, friends and significant others make the happy."
The Blind Side has changed how our kids, see life. When they too, are confronted with the proverbial shivering human being, maybe they have a better chance now at the vision, instead of walking away. Maybe they will understand that most times, we are born with fortune, or not. Born with advantages that most people don't have. Maybe they've learned empathy, because empathy is, indeed, learned. And they, and I, will have a more keen sense of thankfulness for what we have, and what we can do.
I asked Mimi this year, what she wanted for Christmas. Earrings? A purse? No. Wash detergent, shampoo, and sheets for the beds. And a few dishes to serve us pizza on when we make our visit on Christmas eve eve.
Our neighbors, Bruce and Dyanna Thompson, pulled out their wallet a few nights ago, and bought Mimi a turkey and rolls, for their Christmas meal. We didn't ask, they just did. Not because of any kind of guilt at what they have - just because it was a pair of Christmas shoes they wanted to buy. They have the vision.
We have some friends who make a lot of money every year, and I'd be surprised if they keep much of it. Red Cross - millions of dollars. Rebuild New Orleans - millions of dollars. They have the vision.
Send sheets, dishes, and wash detergent our way, if you can spare them. In fact, any kind of Christmas shoes you want to send, we will take them with us on Christmas eve eve. And Mimi and her children will peer up at us, much like ten years ago, thankful and changed. And so will we.
Merry Christmas, and may this be the year that you get the gift of the Blind Side, in some way or the other.
Love Jan and Rob
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Slipping the Surly Bonds
Yesterday one of the most gratifying moments of my adult life happened again. Having come out of semi-retirement (which makes it not a retirement at all!), to teach Keith Anderson how to fly, we'd reached the day that he was ready to spread his wings on his own, and boot me out of the cockpit. One with lesser confidence might feel used up and thrown away. Not me. It's a moment I welcome as an accumulation of many hours of work and effort.
One must spend two minutes thinking such a thing. A mere 23 years old, and that young strapping man would be entirely responsible for his very life. Not one single person on this earth would be able to assist him, once I stepped out of the plane and his wheels left the ground.
Does anyone know what an utterly precarious place that is to be? And how rare? Think back on how many times you've been utterly alone at the mercy of your own skills - to save yourself. Probably very few, if any.
Keith Anderson is an eager, focused, country boy with the persona of Garth Brooks mixed in with Tom Cruise. And he looks like it too, with penetrating, bright and blue eyes, shaggy but fashionable black hair, lanky, wearing jeans with holes ripped in the knees big enough to put your head in. He laughes and says his wife, Casey, hates them. I think it's funny. He has the ease of a young man not yet confronted with challenges big enough to stagger him; yet the confidence and foundation that will certainly sustain him, when he does.
One of five brothers, I'd guess his parents surely did a good job.
And that kid can fly! Fifteen minutes in the cockpit, it was clear that his steady head translated into a steady hand. The confidence of a much older man yielded quick learning; fearlessness; and appropriate aggression - were a perfect match for a learjet. Only days were holding him back. Yet he has no desire for the glitz of a learjet - only the power of a cropduster, the 18 hour days in the hot sun, flying low and fast dodging powerlines and geese, remnants of the 1940's dragged into today's rapidly advancing sophistication and technology. And it fits this young man - earthy, honest, uncomplicated, effective.
Yesterday was clear and calm, and we both knew it would be the day. Barely topping 11 hours at the controls, this young man was one of the special ones and would solo easily and beautifully. Like a horse hopped up on testosterone, it was hard to hold him behind the gate until the timing was right.
Finally, with landings straight down the centerline; touchdowns squeaky clean - the instant arrived and my services were gleefully no longer needed.
I'll admit, were I to think long and hard about what the solo moment brings, I'd probably scare myself to death. It's another person's life, right there in the palm of my hand, that I alone will be responsible for. And courage is paramount.
Courage that I've more-than-adequately taught him. That I have correctly interpreted his fallacies, and used good judgment to figure out what needed the sledgehammer; and what needed the tap, to fix him. That in our training, I've determined his emotional stability and decisionmaking abilities, that will make him a safe pilot. That I've applied standards for performance above and beyond what the government requires, so I can sleep at night knowing I've done more than the best I can. Because it's his life literally, at stake.
And it's a little like raising children. What things need adjustment because they could later come back to bite a child in the bottom, hard....and what things aren't worth the battle? How do I pick and choose what elements are critical to keeping a plane in the air, and what are preferences that I shouldn't meddle with? And most importantly, where does the control begin and end?
Control is a powerful tool - and abused, it can be fatal in the aviation environment. Too little is too little, and it can get your student killed, and too much is too much, with equally distasteful consequences. And so it is with children, and the balance is truly an enigma.
Keith Anderson was eeeked out rope at a rate commisurate with how he earned it. The more I controlled the plane, the less he learned for himself - and lets face it. At 10,000 hours plus in the cockpit, I already KNOW how to fly. And it's his dime.
The more choices I make for him, the less he learns. The more control I exert, the more I save him from the consequences of his mistakes, and again, the slower he learns. And the more I save him from learning by his mistakes, the harder and longer his job is, learning how to fly.
It is terribly painful sometimes watching my students fly themselves into a grandiose mistake. Once, a student flew to the wrong airport, miles away from his intended destination. How painful it was when he took off his hood, only to find himself a long, long way away from home. Or the student pilot who wouldn't extend his gear time after time. And I knew that his gorgeous $500,000.00 airplane was going to land wheels up sooner than later if I didn't do my job and change a behavior. Can you imagine how he felt when I let him get ten feet off the deck, ready to set that beautiful bird down, when I snatched the yoke away, slammed in the power, and exclaimed calmly and resolutely, "If you ever do that again during our training, you will write a check to St. Jude hospital for $5,000.00 if you want to keep me as a teacher". He never wrote the check, and he never did it again. He turned out to be a fine, fine pilot. And he still has his wheels, Thank God.
And in the end, parents and pilots who over-control, are keeping their children and their pilots from the ultimate goal - making them strong, efficient, self-reliant pilots and people.
Keith, as others who have come before him, have worked hard for me. They have walked in my door, eager to learn and grow under my tutelege. To their credit, they have trusted my judgment implicitly, knowing that experience counts for a lot. They seem to know that my roots in aviation have been sown deep, and their best interests are always at the top of the heap, though sometimes they have walked away chastised, frustrated, and almost too well challenged. I am thankful for their opinions of my ability, and they have honored me by working hard and doing the very best they can. Or most of them, anyway.
Yesterday, I climbed out of Keith's Piper Archer, and peered up at the blue, cloudless sky. He received the coveted "thumbs up", and that bright young man pumped both his fists at the sky, elated that his moment had finally arrived. Surely when he was two years old, pointing upward toward the heavens yelling delightly, 'PWANE! PWANE!", he'd finally come full circle. And so had I.
He taxied out, and paused at the runup pad, while I caught my breath and took a second to be right there with him, sharing in the glory of the moment just before his wheels left the firm earth. It was quiet, and still. And as my thoughts conveged on both my journey as an instructor, and my journey as a person who clammored for this remarkable moment, I heard the faint rev of his engine. And I sucked in my breath as I know he yelled "LET'S ROLL!" in the cockpit, though to be heard by no one now, as Keith was utterly alone.
Ten seconds to abort - to have a moment of fear, seizing him and urging a lapse of courage, but not Keith. His parents had prepared him for this in everything they did....or didn't do, and he was grabbing the golden ring. His wheels left the ground, and it was way too late for me. Too late for do-overs, too late to change my mind and snatch back the moment to observe him just a little bit more.
But my heart was quite still, because I knew unequovically, the outcome, and indeed, it would be glorious.
He soared into the air, finally at last his very, very own person. Revelling in the beauty of being in complete command of himself, free from the surly bonds.
And so did his teacher. In that moment, every distraction is peeled away, and my life's work is right there before me, exposed in the most precarious and exposed ways. I threw my arms out and laughed, yelling "YES! YES! YES!", knowing that I was the only one who would ever hear my cries of joy, or see my flailing arms underneath that quiet sky, but I didn't care. It's one of those moments that if I never do anything else on my bucket list, this one fills up the whole bucket, and I know that I am truly one of the most blessed people on the planet. I do not, do NOT sell that gift short.
Sometimes many people see the joy. Once, my student on his solo day, brought a double magnum of Dom Perignon, and a whole party, to watch the event. I think I drank most of the champagne, delirious with satisfaction at what we had accomplished.
Keith made the pattern, and set himself up for a perfect landing. His wings were level enough to balance eggs on them; airspeed nailed, glideslope absolutely textbook. He gently glided down to touchdown, and lined up on centerline - not left, not right, but wheels prepped to dip into the white. And he did. The wheels squeaked ever so gently, and then the moment I'll never get back, passed.
Keith had won. It was a beautiful sight.
We cut the back of his shirt off, though I had to put weights in his pockets first, to plant his feet back on the ground. That young man had begun a new life, and so had I.....again.
None of my children may ever learn to fly, or become pilots. But I will urge them to find work that is deeply satisfying, in a way that most people don't ever understand....and turn it into a lifetime. My job isn't perfect, heavens knows, but every time I walk out onto the ramp, I can't help but smile in wonder and say to myself, "I still can't believe I make money doing something I love so much!" Lucky me. And if my greatest Christmas wish is granted for my children, hopefully lucky them.
One must spend two minutes thinking such a thing. A mere 23 years old, and that young strapping man would be entirely responsible for his very life. Not one single person on this earth would be able to assist him, once I stepped out of the plane and his wheels left the ground.
Does anyone know what an utterly precarious place that is to be? And how rare? Think back on how many times you've been utterly alone at the mercy of your own skills - to save yourself. Probably very few, if any.
Keith Anderson is an eager, focused, country boy with the persona of Garth Brooks mixed in with Tom Cruise. And he looks like it too, with penetrating, bright and blue eyes, shaggy but fashionable black hair, lanky, wearing jeans with holes ripped in the knees big enough to put your head in. He laughes and says his wife, Casey, hates them. I think it's funny. He has the ease of a young man not yet confronted with challenges big enough to stagger him; yet the confidence and foundation that will certainly sustain him, when he does.
One of five brothers, I'd guess his parents surely did a good job.
And that kid can fly! Fifteen minutes in the cockpit, it was clear that his steady head translated into a steady hand. The confidence of a much older man yielded quick learning; fearlessness; and appropriate aggression - were a perfect match for a learjet. Only days were holding him back. Yet he has no desire for the glitz of a learjet - only the power of a cropduster, the 18 hour days in the hot sun, flying low and fast dodging powerlines and geese, remnants of the 1940's dragged into today's rapidly advancing sophistication and technology. And it fits this young man - earthy, honest, uncomplicated, effective.
Yesterday was clear and calm, and we both knew it would be the day. Barely topping 11 hours at the controls, this young man was one of the special ones and would solo easily and beautifully. Like a horse hopped up on testosterone, it was hard to hold him behind the gate until the timing was right.
Finally, with landings straight down the centerline; touchdowns squeaky clean - the instant arrived and my services were gleefully no longer needed.
I'll admit, were I to think long and hard about what the solo moment brings, I'd probably scare myself to death. It's another person's life, right there in the palm of my hand, that I alone will be responsible for. And courage is paramount.
Courage that I've more-than-adequately taught him. That I have correctly interpreted his fallacies, and used good judgment to figure out what needed the sledgehammer; and what needed the tap, to fix him. That in our training, I've determined his emotional stability and decisionmaking abilities, that will make him a safe pilot. That I've applied standards for performance above and beyond what the government requires, so I can sleep at night knowing I've done more than the best I can. Because it's his life literally, at stake.
And it's a little like raising children. What things need adjustment because they could later come back to bite a child in the bottom, hard....and what things aren't worth the battle? How do I pick and choose what elements are critical to keeping a plane in the air, and what are preferences that I shouldn't meddle with? And most importantly, where does the control begin and end?
Control is a powerful tool - and abused, it can be fatal in the aviation environment. Too little is too little, and it can get your student killed, and too much is too much, with equally distasteful consequences. And so it is with children, and the balance is truly an enigma.
Keith Anderson was eeeked out rope at a rate commisurate with how he earned it. The more I controlled the plane, the less he learned for himself - and lets face it. At 10,000 hours plus in the cockpit, I already KNOW how to fly. And it's his dime.
The more choices I make for him, the less he learns. The more control I exert, the more I save him from the consequences of his mistakes, and again, the slower he learns. And the more I save him from learning by his mistakes, the harder and longer his job is, learning how to fly.
It is terribly painful sometimes watching my students fly themselves into a grandiose mistake. Once, a student flew to the wrong airport, miles away from his intended destination. How painful it was when he took off his hood, only to find himself a long, long way away from home. Or the student pilot who wouldn't extend his gear time after time. And I knew that his gorgeous $500,000.00 airplane was going to land wheels up sooner than later if I didn't do my job and change a behavior. Can you imagine how he felt when I let him get ten feet off the deck, ready to set that beautiful bird down, when I snatched the yoke away, slammed in the power, and exclaimed calmly and resolutely, "If you ever do that again during our training, you will write a check to St. Jude hospital for $5,000.00 if you want to keep me as a teacher". He never wrote the check, and he never did it again. He turned out to be a fine, fine pilot. And he still has his wheels, Thank God.
And in the end, parents and pilots who over-control, are keeping their children and their pilots from the ultimate goal - making them strong, efficient, self-reliant pilots and people.
Keith, as others who have come before him, have worked hard for me. They have walked in my door, eager to learn and grow under my tutelege. To their credit, they have trusted my judgment implicitly, knowing that experience counts for a lot. They seem to know that my roots in aviation have been sown deep, and their best interests are always at the top of the heap, though sometimes they have walked away chastised, frustrated, and almost too well challenged. I am thankful for their opinions of my ability, and they have honored me by working hard and doing the very best they can. Or most of them, anyway.
Yesterday, I climbed out of Keith's Piper Archer, and peered up at the blue, cloudless sky. He received the coveted "thumbs up", and that bright young man pumped both his fists at the sky, elated that his moment had finally arrived. Surely when he was two years old, pointing upward toward the heavens yelling delightly, 'PWANE! PWANE!", he'd finally come full circle. And so had I.
He taxied out, and paused at the runup pad, while I caught my breath and took a second to be right there with him, sharing in the glory of the moment just before his wheels left the firm earth. It was quiet, and still. And as my thoughts conveged on both my journey as an instructor, and my journey as a person who clammored for this remarkable moment, I heard the faint rev of his engine. And I sucked in my breath as I know he yelled "LET'S ROLL!" in the cockpit, though to be heard by no one now, as Keith was utterly alone.
Ten seconds to abort - to have a moment of fear, seizing him and urging a lapse of courage, but not Keith. His parents had prepared him for this in everything they did....or didn't do, and he was grabbing the golden ring. His wheels left the ground, and it was way too late for me. Too late for do-overs, too late to change my mind and snatch back the moment to observe him just a little bit more.
But my heart was quite still, because I knew unequovically, the outcome, and indeed, it would be glorious.
He soared into the air, finally at last his very, very own person. Revelling in the beauty of being in complete command of himself, free from the surly bonds.
And so did his teacher. In that moment, every distraction is peeled away, and my life's work is right there before me, exposed in the most precarious and exposed ways. I threw my arms out and laughed, yelling "YES! YES! YES!", knowing that I was the only one who would ever hear my cries of joy, or see my flailing arms underneath that quiet sky, but I didn't care. It's one of those moments that if I never do anything else on my bucket list, this one fills up the whole bucket, and I know that I am truly one of the most blessed people on the planet. I do not, do NOT sell that gift short.
Sometimes many people see the joy. Once, my student on his solo day, brought a double magnum of Dom Perignon, and a whole party, to watch the event. I think I drank most of the champagne, delirious with satisfaction at what we had accomplished.
Keith made the pattern, and set himself up for a perfect landing. His wings were level enough to balance eggs on them; airspeed nailed, glideslope absolutely textbook. He gently glided down to touchdown, and lined up on centerline - not left, not right, but wheels prepped to dip into the white. And he did. The wheels squeaked ever so gently, and then the moment I'll never get back, passed.
Keith had won. It was a beautiful sight.
We cut the back of his shirt off, though I had to put weights in his pockets first, to plant his feet back on the ground. That young man had begun a new life, and so had I.....again.
None of my children may ever learn to fly, or become pilots. But I will urge them to find work that is deeply satisfying, in a way that most people don't ever understand....and turn it into a lifetime. My job isn't perfect, heavens knows, but every time I walk out onto the ramp, I can't help but smile in wonder and say to myself, "I still can't believe I make money doing something I love so much!" Lucky me. And if my greatest Christmas wish is granted for my children, hopefully lucky them.
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