Saw a TV Commercial this morning talking about investing for retirement. One of the actors said “Because I want to leave a Legacy.” It struck me all wrong, and I know why. It is because my Mom is Mary Ellen Harris. Today is her 70th birthday. In the 47+ years I have known her, she has taught me that there is absolutely nothing financial about a “Legacy”.
What Legacy is is giving your all, all the time for your family and friends. Legacy is considering your work as your call to help others. Legacy is teaching your granddaughters to “walk the dog” (it’s a dance). Legacy is laughing, smiling, hugging, crying and just being a real person with your family and friends. Legacy is about getting mad as hell at injustice, and trying to figure out a way to fix it. Legacy is about having an amazing meal for anybody that enters your house and “is no big deal” (usually cheese grits, Chicken “Tetzatrini”, Rolls, or homemade Spaghetti).
Legacy is about being available and flying halfway across the world (or driving just down the street) to take care of your now “grown” kids.
Legacy is about doing not just wishing or wanting. No, Legacy is not about money—it is about Time.
Now in 70 years of Time, my mom has done all she can to pass this Legacy. I love you Mom
My people signed a blank check on the dotted line…for anything that they might be asked to do, under any circumstances, as long as it was asked for the good of their country. And they don’t back down. They step up when things are most difficult and they get it done. These days are hard—harder than any anticipated. Grueling long days in and out of harm’s way, and my people jump at the chance, to do good, in the name of their country. Sent out on short notice orders, that are now open-ended promises to do whatever is asked of them. And they’ll do it with pride, professionalism, and patriotism—-representing us all.
I would love for you to meet the 20 year-old Loadmaster from West Virginia that saved a life in the cargo compartment. I would love for you to meet the 28 year-old pilot who grew up on a cattle ranch in Wyoming, was a Distinguished Graduate from USAFA, later earned a Masters Degree in Aeronautical Engineering, who at the end of an seemingly endless 26 hour crew day is “throwing” bags and putting away chains in the cargo compartment next to his “brother”—that 20 year old Loadmaster. And they will do the same thing again after only 12 hours of rest. More to those down range. More out of harm’s way. I’d love for you to meet the maintainer from the great state of Georgia that just worked his 4th 16-hour shift in a row—in unrelenting 120 degree desert heat, to turn the aircraft and send it back for more. I would love for you to meet the comm whiz kid from Michigan that can fix anything, and keeps the mission moving with his uncanny ability to innovate on the fly. I’d love for you to meet the CMSgt from San Francisco (of all places!), that I had the privilege of retiring just yesterday. He served and led with so much heart and dedication for his people and mission, that he gave all of himself entirely for 20 years. This is a very small glimpse at who my people are. And we are all better for their service.
Anything, Anywhere, Anytime.
My people ask for nothing in return. They do their job. Yes, they get paid a wage, but that sum pales to what they earn in the values that matter. They rescue the lost, and bring them to safety. My people bring people hope.
You may have seen it for the first time this week with clarity, but it is what my people have been doing for as long as I have known them.
Those of us that no longer can be an active part of their missions and operations root them on with all we have. Because it is all we can do. It is why we bristle so vehemently at those that lack integrity and those who can harm my people through reckless words and actions. Please hold these decision-makers accountable and continue to ask how this could occur. My people will keep on working, but it is the least we, on the outside, can do.
My people have been severely let down by pathetic, untrustworthy, and incompetent political “leadership”—and it doesn’t matter. They do their job. They keep their promises. They do it for their brothers and sisters beside them, their families at home, and they do it for those in need. I’m certain that my people never thought they would be in such a situation, but they’ve adapted quickly, and have excelled. They have integrity and grit, and I will take my people to accomplish any task worth doing. They get it done.
My people, my C-17 brothers and sisters, have once again demonstrated this week the best of America. They did so because it is what was in their soul. It is how they were raised, how they were trained, and it is in their DNA.
They all have a story, and they all have different reasons, but they ALL unite under a common cause. Please take the time to find out who they are, and what they are about. You will be better for it. My people make our country stronger and by their efforts, the world a safer and better place to be.
Thank you for allowing me to be a part of this group, and thank you Moose family for continuing to make us all proud.
I hadn’t noticed it in the longest time…may have been months or even years. Yet, it is still there, and will always be there. Last weekend, while listening to an excellent teaching on trusting God by Andy Stanley, I glanced over at my son and saw it clearly. It looked much the same as the first time I had seen it 16 years ago…now just under his mop of hair.
“It” is a huge scar. When our son was 6 months old, he had surgery for craniosynostosis….medical jargon for the boy’s “soft spot” in his head had fused well prior to when it should have. The surgery wasn’t rare, and we had the honor of having the best neurosurgeon we could imagine, but it was scary. It was scary as hell for us. I’ll never forget giving our 6 month old over to the nurse and…well, I get emotional just thinking about it. Having your wife go through that next to you…
People were so nice to us. The amazing nurse who took our boy into surgery had tears in her eyes as she did, but told us it was all gonna be ok. She coached us through the whole process, and helped what was then a young family get through that difficult time. Her name was Adele. Turns out now we have a daughter by the same name.
It was strange, but due to the professionals and just doing what we were told, we weren’t scared—it was more like being hopeful to get his problem fixed and put it behind us. Only in retrospect do we look and say “scary.” We just leaned on each other, prayed, put one foot in front of the other, and did our best. It wasn’t us doing well with the situation—I know it was God. We like to think we have strong faith, but I don’t think there is any way we had nor have the kinda faith that would allow us to hand over a baby and say “we will see”. I’ve come to realize that God put his arms around us and protected us when we were most fragile.
After what seemed like an eternity later, our son came out of surgery—we were overjoyed. It was a success. And we could see the scar. Ear to ear over the top of his head, in a “Charlie Brownesque” zigzag pattern. He was ok, and we were ok. The recovery wasn’t fun (his eyes swelled shut for a couple of days—that was the worst), he wore a helmet for a couple of years for protection and shaping, but we made it.
For me, that scar now serves as a reminder to trust God—he will protect, shield, guide and comfort—even if we don’t know he is. It may not go the way we think it should or the way we want it to happen, but God has us. And God’s plan is always way better than anything we could ever imagine.
Tonight, that 16 year old boy drove me to the airport so I could catch a flight to work. We had a great discussion about nothing in particular. When he dropped me off, he turned off the car, ran around to get my bags, then gave me a big bear hug. He’s bigger and stronger than me now, so it was a no joke bear hug. I told him I loved him, and good luck at work tomorrow and he said the same, right back at me. The big scar on his head apparently had no impact on his big heart.
What God has in mind is always better. That boy and the scar that he carries now under his thick head of hair remind me of that fact. I hope that scar will remind him too.
If you’re interested, here’s the link to Andy’s talk last weekend. It is exceptional.
Just got through with a “battle of wills kinda day” with our youngest. She is smart, beautiful, athletic, witty, fearless, and doesn’t know when to stop pushing to try to get her way. I get to show her when is enough, which is generally poorly received. And I’m her Dad. It is my job to not only provide for her, but to prepare her for what’s to come.
There is nothing in this world harder than being a parent. There is nothing more rewarding either. I’m fortunate that my wife and I share about 95% of the same views on the way forward with our children. If we didn’t, I can’t imagine how we would get anything done raising them. We are preparing for them to go out, but truthfully, we never want them to leave.
We’d prefer to freeze things right where they are…16,15,12, and 10…all under our roof, smiles, crying, laughing (lots of that), hopes, dreams, disappointments, and triumphs—all right where we can hold them, hug them, guide them….but that ain’t the way this all works. So we gotta prep them for when they walk out that door. And I don’t want that all to be based on hope…I need to know that they can handle both adversity & prosperity with a strong clear head and a heart full of grace.
And at times, I see glimpses that we are getting there. The way they treat others or stand for what is right, I feel such pride and hope…it is inconsistent, but we get flickers.
I know I will be completely crushed when they aren’t here. When there is no obligation to talk, text, visit, or take part in the family, will they? I suppose it will be a bumpy road…but I also need to remember the overall.
The truth is My children aren’t mine…they are the sum of our toil, worry, and hopes that we send out the front door daily to do God’s will. We pray nightly that they are “salt and light, with grace and grit” for those that they encounter outside these walls. We hope they behave so wherever they may go. They can’t do that if they are always in our comfortable cocoon…they have to go and do.
Seeing them learn, grow and mature has been the highlight of my adult life. They will grow, and do, win and lose, but thankfully I’ll always be “Dad” to them. And that small 3 letter word, when said by those 4, makes the absolute best sound in the world.
One of my favorite Captains and I were heading in different directions after 3 days of battling airports, winter weather, bad food and headwinds. The Captain was heading home, I was heading to the hotel for one more trip before Christmas. I was jealous, but I signed up for it. Even for the most jovial aircrew, the grind can get you myopic on just getting the trip finished up and getting home to the goodness that awaits. That’s when we saw him.
We were on a near collision course with a young man on a mission. Clad in the sharp drab green dress uniform with one yellow stripe on each sleeve, he swiftly strode past Willy’s Mexicana Grill. He was heading to the escalator descending from Concourse B to the robotic trains to the outside world and freedom. We happened to be just ahead of him on some of the longest escalators known to man, and I was curious—
“Hey, where are you stationed?”
“Twentynine Palms, sir!”…hugely proud of his California desert base. I think he was surprised that someone over the age of 25 wasn’t screaming at him and telling him he was wrong.
“Going home for Christmas? Where is that?”
“Peachtree City, Georgia, sir!” Again, huge pride and relief at being only 19 miles as the crow flies away from his heart and home. “I haven’t been home since I left for basic in June….they are meeting me at baggage claim!” He was nearly bursting and I was for him. He was about to have one of the greatest moments of his 19 year old life. Coming home.
For going on six months, this young PFC had been tested, yelled at, isolated, undergone physical, mental, and emotional trials to completely remake the boy into a man. A man that serves our Country—and most importantly for him, serves for the group of people waiting for him at the top of the escalator in about 5 minutes. My guess is much has changed with him, but he still has the same hopes & dreams.
I looked at him, and I told him he had earned what awaited him in less than 5 minutes. “Enjoy this!” I couldn’t say more, choking a little thinking about my excitement taking that same escalator ride 28 years ago.
The airports are about 50% of normal capacity, but the last few days, they have been chocked full of these young volunteers clad in camo, navy, royal blue, and drab green. The best that our nation produces left home to take care of us, but for now they are going home for Christmas. And everything that means. They have had this date circled on a calendar and in their minds for months. For this young PFC, it would indeed be a very Merry Christmas.
Taking Warriors home from foreign lands to their families were my favorite C-17 airland missions; and bringing these young men and women home to their families for the holidays is by far my favorite airline trips. Hoping to fly more of these PFCs today!
Like the majority of folks that live around the Charleston area, my birth certificate indicates that I’m not from here, and I’m thankful for that. Like one of the sainted prophets of Charleston, Pat Conroy, I too was born in the Piedmont of the great state of Georgia, and I believe it shows. I’m good with that. But now I’ve lived nearly 1/3 of my life here, so I think I’ve caught on to the rhythm of where my family now calls home. I’ve gained perspective by being “from off” and I know indeed that this is a special place & time.
Fall Spartina
October is THE time in the Lowcountry. With the inevitability of my daughter overfilling her Coca-Cola Slurpee, in October—the Spartina in the marsh turns purple, red and golden all at once. Red Drum come into the creeks (and not being a fisherman, I don’t know what that means other than more amazing specials at the restaurants). Sweetgrass turns “vivid cool” purple. Rob Fowler’s forecast of low temperatures in the 60’s encourages us to hold needless bonfires while sitting in camp chairs eating s’mores. October ushers in the first northernly breeze—forcing C-17s to takeoff from RWY 33—enabling us to hear and feel 160,000 pounds of Pratt & Whitney thrust 10 miles to the East. Always love the roar of those chariots of freedom! October is windows open for the first time, refreshing King tides for the soon-to-be roasted oysters, welcome relief from worrisome hurricane season, the amazing scent of Tea Olive blooming, and the first peaks of cherished camellia blooms.
Sweetgrass in full splendor
Here, there is no attempt to match the quasi-religion of my youth—Pop Warner football, high school football, and college football. Football seems to have a priority somewhere between visiting sweaty pumpkin patches and buying mums at Costco. It isn’t a big deal here other than a way to be social. The Lowcountry lets other locales play and worship the sport—occasionally in the Upstate, sometimes in Athens, and what appears to be always in Tuscaloosa. (And let’s get real Clempzon fans, your coach is from Alabama and all your good players are from the great state of Georgia).
With the New England leaf peepers (my wife being amongst the millions of them) there is great rejoicing in the colors of the sugar maple, oak, and beech, with the accompaniment of sweaters, apple picking and apple cider. And it is indeed beautiful, but personally to me has the feel of a countdown to a wake. With the last leaf to fall, the funeral dirge sounds for outside activity, and winter, cold, and misery is upon you for many long months. (I can envision my bride’s twisted-mouth disagreement to my unskilled observation—sorry Spud, it’s just an opinion, not fact)
Instead here, Fall is a time of rebirth—we can come out from under the blanket of 90s in both heat and humidity. In this area, we are renewed by the rebirth of nature and activities. The oak alleys from Savannah stretching to Pawley’s Island now await celebrations and oyster roasts under their moss & Resurrection Fern-covered branches. There are festivals, kayaking, sailing, walks, music, lowcountry boils, hamburgers on a neighbor’s BGE, and mostly palpable optimism. We endure July, August, and most of September to be here now. Here, October is a new beginning.
I’m not saying here is better than anywhere else. Like one of my favorite authors, I was born in Atlanta, but came to live and love a place of Tides, Wide Water, and Broad Street with the blessings of a October day.
“Achieved by dauntless resolution and unconquerable faith.” —Inscription on the Wright memorial at Kitty Hawk
I love this inscription about these dedicated people hailing from Ohio. At Kitty Hawk, it is in reference to Orville and Wilbur. However, in my mind, it is a testament to another smart, talented and unique individual that hailed from the Buckeye state almost a century ago.
Today is my Grandma, Ellen Stapleton’s, 94th birthday. I’ll give away the headline early here—I love my Grandma very much, and it’s hard to believe that I gave her that title of “Grandma” at the advanced age of 47 (hold on a minute….). It seems like she has lived many lifetimes before and since.
I won’t belabor you with a whole bio of my Grandma…it could, should, and maybe will be a book some day. But just a little background might be good—
Raised during the Great Depression and World War 2, she toughed out growing up in Barberton, Ohio and was the Valedictorian of her high school class. She told me she learned and played piano as an outlet. Our country needed her, so she, like her older sister joined the nursing corps to take care of those returning from overseas—one of whom was my granddad.
With what may best be described as TMI, my Grandma cringingly described how they “fell into lust.” Yikes—I still have nightmares thinking about that frank conversation. Anyhoo, they were married and their marriage produced my mom as the oldest and 7 more Stapletons. My granddad Frank was fearless apparently, and decided to move his young family across country 2 or 3 times, eventually settling in Atlanta in the early 60s. The story is my Grandma, who had a penchant for motion sickness, would ride out those 2000+ mile cross-country trips towed in the Airstream trailer with the kids (and no Air Conditioning). I can’t even imagine the looks and comments my granddad would get at the rest stops when those journeys would end. Grandma has never, ever held back on telling anyone what she thought.
I imagine those were good days. I don’t really know—My granddad died when my mom was 14, leaving my Grandma to raise 8 kids under the age of 15 SOLO. You know what, she did it. And she crushed it.
She must have invented the phrase “tough times don’t last, but tough people do.” She did it, despite everything. She did it while working night shift as a nurse. She did it while going to school to be an elementary school teacher. She did it while working two jobs to make sure all 8 were provided for. She did it while being the Sunday pianist/organist at Immaculate Heart of Mary Catholic Church. She did it while feeding, clothing, taking them to Mass, raising them to be honest and straightforward and giving them all some really horrible home haircuts along the way. She did it all without complaining and held her head high.
Many years later my mom would learn from one of Grandma’s teaching colleagues that at night after she exhaustingly put the last of the 8 to sleep, my Grandma would go up to her attic and weep by herself. Her kids never knew.
Grandma, who affectionately became known to her sons as “The Eagle” (because she was always watching and ready to pounce), never let on that she was hurting or lonely. Her best defense was a good offense, and she could let loose a tirade of, well let’s call them thoughts, that could make any NY construction crew blush. You had no doubt where she stood.
To me personally, she is my hero. Other than my parents, she is the person who most inspired me, through her fortitude, National Geographic magazine subscriptions and vacation roadtrip trivia battles, to go out and SEE and DO in the world. There is no way that I can repay her or thank her enough.
The last 6 months she has essentially been in a prison of her assisted living facility. No visitors, stay in your room for meals, no socializing. I get it, they are trying to save the residents from this virus. We have done “virtual visits” and she seems like a shell of herself. It has been hard on the family. My Uncle Tim is busting her out to come live with them next week. Thankfully, her omnipresent gumption and grit these 94 years guide us to do what she did—accept what is, and do our best to manage it. That is how she would handle it and what she would do. Damn, Gram, you should be so proud of what you have done and raised. You did it.
I wish I was as strong as her. I hope that she can know what she achieved by dauntless resolution and unconquerable faith. Happy birthday to the one and only Grandma. We all love you, Jimbo
So we have been doing a lot of yard work lately. Lots. The weather has been amazing—I refer to it as “San Diego weather”. One thing that Shauna and the kids have been doing is planting seeds—sunflowers, snap peas, tomatoes, and cabbage. These seeds are not only food and flowers, but seeds of hope. They are just inklings of what they will be. We are looking forward to harvesting them, and taking pride in the fact that we will grow them with care and patience.
I’m hoping that is what we are planting as a family during this quarantine-induced dormant time. We are emphasizing family walks, bike rides, kayaking, Nolin-led guitar sing alongs, nature photo shoots, watching shows together, working through tele-school, baking, and just sitting around laughing at the dinner table. We are reconnecting with our lifelong friends across the country through FaceTime Cocktail hours—we supposedly haven’t had time to do that in the past. We should have attempted to do this all along, but with all the distractions and places we HAD to be, maybe we didn’t have the focus. Now there are no excuses. These seeds are in the ground, but where these small seeds lead, I don’t know.
Some community activities have really been amazing seeds too. Whole neighborhoods out on walks (all separated by 6 or more feet); local mega-churches are lending audio-visual equipment to smaller churches so their parishioners can have Palm Sunday/Easter Sunday services; not one person caring about what a celebrity/sports figure thinks; artists holding impromptu tele-concerts for their homebound fans; the outpouring of admiration and respect for Doctors, Nurses, Teachers, Police/Fire/EMTs, Sanitation Workers, the Military—all who work, struggle, & excel while we stay dormant.
I see all these as seeds. They are a start. Without tending, they won’t mature, and we won’t have anything positive to show from this time. But with care, effort, and God’s grace, they can produce a great harvest for us as a society. Can you imagine how much stronger we can emerge as people, a community, and a Nation if these seeds grow? I encourage y’all to start planting and watching after that garden.
SLGG 