Category: Parents

Bad Weather, Children, Christmas, Events, Generations, Gratitude, Parents, Relationships, Stories, Storms, Storytelling

Christmas Stockings

gregoryjoel

I don’t know how long it took to get to Swedish Medical Center. I’d never been there before but I knew that on a normal day it was only six or seven minutes from the house. This Christmas Eve night it took hours. It didn’t, but it sure felt like it.

Our arrival turned into a blur though – out of the car with the paramedics grabbing Jennine to steady her across the snow and ice then through the ambulance bay doors and me holding a bundled-up Adrian in one arm and Jennine’s go bag and a diaper bag in the other. Suddenly we were in Labor and Delivery.

I vaguely remember the flurry of activity around Jennine as they got her settled into the labor room. A nurse said something about the labor pains coming much quicker and telling us that it shouldn’t be long now. Someone popped their head in to tell me that my Mom and Dad had a friend bringing them to the hospital in his four-wheel drive. Adrian could stay with them for the night. One problem solved anyway…

The doctor entered the room. Keep in mind that this doctor was a total stranger in a hospital we’d never been to before. He grabbed one of the labor room nurses and asked for an update, never looking or speaking to Jennine or me. That was already two strikes against him. When he groaned and walked back out of the labor room it was strike three. Jennine grabbed my hand and cried out, “Who is this guy? I don’t like him. I want my doctor. It’s all your fault we’re here”.

“It’s going to be okay. I’ll find out what’s going on”. I was a little perturbed to be assigned all the blame for the whole situation. I was pretty damned sure she was present when this whole thing started. After all, it takes two to make this process work. I didn’t ask for the blizzard either.

“Stay here, she barked about the time the latest contraction came on full force. I was thinking no problem as my hand she was gripping went numb. I wasn’t going anywhere.

The nurses finally got Jennine settled in. The monitors were all hooked up and the initial examination was over. The contractions were only three or four minutes apart and our nurse informed us she was almost fully dilated. She was a Godsend. She seemed to be the only one taking the time to pay attention to us. I wish I could remember her name. Back then I would’ve sent her a bottle of twelve-year old scotch and a thank you note.

We had been through La Maze birth classes before Adrian was born and had a refresher course back in October. We had wanted a natural childbirth – at least that’s what I reminded Jennine every time she hollered for drugs as her labor became more intense. I tried to be a calming voice of reason and help her with breathing through the contractions. Apparently, a calming voice of reason wasn’t needed nor appreciated in this situation. They finally came in to do an epidural block.

Our nurse came in and, sensing the tension, she let me know I needed to go downstairs with Adrian; that my parents were almost here. How she knew that I’m not sure as cell phones were still science fiction in 1982. She also mentioned that the doctor had been here since the night before because of the storm. “She’s in good hands.” I thanked her, grabbed Adrian, his diaper bag, and headed downstairs.

I vaguely remember giving Adrian to my mother, hugging my parents – who I hadn’t seen since they got to town – and thanking our friend Mark for getting them here and back home with my son. All I could think of was getting back upstairs. I stayed in the lobby long enough to watch them all drive off into the falling snow and ran for the elevator.

I returned to the labor room and the nurse informed me I better “gown -up”. They were taking her to the delivery room right away. We had been there maybe an hour or so. I said a silent prayer of gratitude for the guy who volunteered his Jeep, the paramedics, nurses, and even the doctor Jennine didn’t like. The time it would have taken an ambulance to arrive would have meant a home delivery. I’d like to think I could’ve done it, but I was so glad I didn’t have to find out. It was going to be okay.

Sometimes I regret not being able to remember all the details of our time in the delivery room. It went so quickly, for which I was appreciative. Jennine had the hard work, but it’s hard to see your wife in pain. The only thing I remember is the doctor saying,” It’s a healthy baby boy”. The nurse took him and cleaned him up. I’m sure they went through all the post-birth baby and mother checklist before he announced, “Here’s your son”.

The one thing I remember quite clearly is that Jennine didn’t want to take him, and the nurse handed Jeremy to me. Her reluctance to take Jeremy was, in hindsight, a red flag but more about that later. I cradled Jeremy in my arms and burst into joyful tears as I saw another beautiful son.

The nurse that had been with us all through labor and delivery took Jeremy back. She told me they were moving Jennine to the maternity ward and taking Jeremy to the nursery. Then she said, “You should try to grab some sleep until we bring Jeremy to your wife’s room. Go into the Nurse’s Lounge and there’s a couch in there to lay down on. I’ll come get you when it’s time.”

I said thank you and felt a wave of exhaustion wash over me. The adrenaline coursing through my body had suddenly shut off and left me drained. It was all over and I had a new son.

I’m not sure how long I got to sleep but when our nurse returned to wake me up, I was suddenly alert and full of energy. “We’re going to bring Jeremy to her room so they’ll both there”, she said as we waited for the elevator. My excitement level made for the longest wait time ever recorded for elevator doors to open – maybe not?.

The nurse opened the door, motioned me in, and closed the door behind me. I entered the room and went to hug Jennine. I was sitting on the bed holding her hand when a maternity floor nurse entered the room with Jeremy. He was stuffed into a little Christmas stocking with a Santa cap on his head.  The nurse picked him up and handed him to Jennine. I still have the picture from all those years ago of Jennine as she held our son for the first time. Her smile radiated love and beauty filling the room as she looked into Jeremy’s eyes. A small joyful tear rolled down her cheek.

I can’t recall the rest of Christmas Day in 1982. I know my parents came back to the hospital to visit and take Adrian and I home. We planned to celebrate Christmas when Jennine and Jeremy came home the next day. My sister had spent Christmas Eve at the DFW airport before they finally cancelled all flights to Denver so she wouldn’t be with us that year and spend Christmas alone. Everything else is stored in memory sections of my brain that I no longer have access to.

I can say that it took a week-and-a-half to dig my car out and the alleyway so I could even get to the street where snowplows had left a huge pile of snow. I used my cross-country skis to get to the nearby Seven Eleven only to find bare shelves. The local media had a hay day with the “Hundred Year Blizzard of ‘82”. Everyone had opinions about the city’s response to the storm and the time it took to clear the streets; most of them beyond negative. Blame was heaped on Mayor Bill Nichols, who had been the only Mayor I’d known since moving to Denver in 1969, costing him his re-election later that year.

None of it really made a difference to me. We had another son. Every parent sees their new child as the most beautiful baby ever. The truth is, if it’s a vaginal birth all babies look like little aliens, but they appear much differently to the parents that waited so patiently for them. I had just received the best Christmas present ever and life would never be the same.

Bad Weather, Birthdays, Children, Choices, Christmas, Love, Marriage, Parents, Thoughts From the Porch

Christmas 1982 – The Beginning

gregoryjoel

It was Denver two days before Christmas in 1982. The due date for the birth of our second son was the twenty-third. I was on Christmas break from classes at the university and Jennine (my first wife) had just started her maternity leave. We put Adrian, our twenty-month-old son, to bed and put the final touches on the gifts being wrapped as we watched a holiday movie together.

Jennine went to get ready for bed and I stepped out onto the front porch to check the weather. The forecast was for a couple of inches of snow. My parents had flown in from Texas the day before and I was hoping for a white Christmas together and to celebrate the birth of our second son. The air was cold and crisp, but only partly cloudy. I didn’t put much stock in accurate weather forecasts and the coming snow. I’ll believe it when I see it.

Jennine and I had married two years before and neither of us were ready for such a major step on life’s journey. She was nineteen. I was twenty-two. We had met at work and dated a short while before she was to leave for college in California. A couple of weeks before her departure she informed me that she was pregnant and not to worry, she had already scheduled an abortion with a clinic in Boulder. I reacted with what I thought was the most honorable way I could – I asked her to marry me. She didn’t say yes right away, but after a couple of days we both decided that’s what we were going to do.

To make a long story short, we were married in August of 1980 and had our first son, Adrian, in April of 1981. He was such a joy, and we were blessed as new parents to have a son with an easygoing personality and demeanor. However, we weren’t planning on a second one so quickly. We had moved to Texas before Adrian was born and back to Denver afterward. I had been laid off. Jennine hated Texas: probably because my job with the railroad kept me away so much. I went back to work for my old company in Denver. The first couple of years were rough. They’d started to smooth out when she found out we were expecting number two…

We lived in a small stucco house in the Washington Park section of Denver. While the surrounding homes were built in the twenties and thirties and far larger, ours was an old farmhouse built in 1890: well before Denver grew farther south. We sat on two lots of land and even still had the old sidewalk to what was the outhouse. I’m told indoor plumbing didn’t come until later. I always thought it gave the backyard a bit of character. It was definitely a talking point.

The first floor was our kitchen, living room, my study, bath, and what would have been the one bedroom originally. We had converted it to a playroom and had two bedrooms in the half-finished basement. The stairs were at the back of the house with a long picture window across the back wall. We had purchased the house the year before and had great remodeling plans, but that would be a lengthy process. Jennine and I both worked full-time – her at a bank and I at a Trust company – but I was finishing my degree and had little time to work on the house. I often joke that I went to college on the ten-year plan.

It had been a long day for both of us, so falling asleep quickly wasn’t a problem. The bed was warm and comfortable. I kissed Jennine good night and curled up for a long winter’s night. At least I thought so…

Now before I tell you the rest of the story, please know that I really am a caring, loving husband. However, it takes me a while to wake up and get my bearings when awakened from a deep sleep – even in extreme situations. So, when I was shaken awake, and Jennine said she thought she was in labor I grunted and rolled over to look at the alarm clock. It read 4:12 AM. I mumbled something about a false labor, told Jennine to time the contractions to be sure, and rolled back over. That probably wasn’t the smartest thing I could’ve done. Jennine shook me again and yelled “you time the contractions”. I was awake then!

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry. I have to go to the bathroom first”. I climbed out from under the soft warmth of our goose-down comforter and started toward the stairs. “When was your last contraction?”, I queried as I walked out of our room. I didn’t wait for the response.

I went to the restroom and started back down the steps, and I noticed it wasn’t very dark outside. The cloud cover and the falling snow reflected the city lights and I could clearly see the chain link fence around our backyard – or at least part of it. The snow had begun falling sometime after we went to bed and all I could see was the top foot of the fence. She probably is in labor, I thought to myself. The idea of shoveling snow felt like a major inconvenience at 4:30 in the morning.

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I took care of my business, drank a big glass of water, and returned downstairs to the bedroom. Jennine turned away as I crawled back into bed. “I think it’s just false labor”, she grumbled as I pulled the soft comforter around my neck.

 “Well, let’s time them just to be safe”. I was a tad more awake and far more empathetic than I had been just ten minutes before. Sure enough, we timed her next few contractions, and they were extremely erratic. She wasn’t in labor. She drifted off to sleep. I couldn’t now that I was fully awake, so I eased myself back out of bed so as not to wake Jennine and went back upstairs to make coffee and spend some quiet time alone.

Community, Connection, Culture, Faith, Family, Generations, Gifts, Grandchildren, Gratitude, History, Parents, Recovery, Role Models, Songs, Stories, Thoughts From the Porch

Forty Two

gregoryjoel

It’s rained about 4 inches in the last two days with more to come. I gratefully sat down to write this morning. It seems like it’s been far too busy to do so given our unseasonably warm winter. The winter crops don’t know what to do – some have even bolted (gone to seed) – and the Spring crops are beginning to poke their heads out of the soil. It’s too muddy to work today so I get to sit back in my office and spend some quality time by myself. My playlist is going, the coffee’s hot, and I have all four dogs curled up around my feet. I can’t think of any place I’d rather be.

My playlist this morning is mostly Texas country. A Matt Hillyer song, “If These Old Bones Could Talk”, came on and I thought about the old box of dominoes in my drawer. It was a gift from my father – a box of old “bones” white with black pips and embossed with the green logo of Burlington Northern Railroad – a gift from the Burlington Northern Veterans Club (long before BNSF). The white marble-like dominoes are slightly discolored from years of body oils they’ve absorbed from years of shuffling and playing. It’s one of the few things I’ve managed to hang on to despite the chaos of active addiction that plagued me for so long.

Dad’s been gone since 2002 and I got clean and sober in 2005. The old box of bones is one of the few constants in my life – one that has seen the best of days and the worst of days. I’ve really been thinking about Dad this morning. I wish he could have lived to see me today. My wife reminds me that he does see me. I get it. It’s not the same though. I miss him. It’s my earthly father’s love that taught me how much my heavenly Father loves me. But I digress…

My dad was a railroad man. He worked for the old Fort Worth & Denver Railroad, which was owned by the Colorado & Southern Railroad was in turn, owned by the old Chicago, Burlington, and Quincy Railroad. Long before the merger with the Santa Fe Railroad – the SF in BNSF – was a merger with the Burlington Route and the Great Northern Railroad (among others) in 1970. My father could tell you the complete history and even had pictures of the old Fort Worth & Denver and Burlington Route trains as they moved through the train yards and stations. He took “early” retirement in 1981 at age fifty-seven and forty years of service. For many years afterwards he and mom attended the various BN Veterans dinners. Railroading is a different way of life – a subculture difficult to explain to outsiders. The railroad is family.

Our other family was the Church of Christ, a non-denominational body that has churches all through the state. That’s where the dominoes come in. First of all, please understand that dominoes, specifically the game of “Forty-Two”, is the state game of Texas (by a law passed in 2011). They even have a State Championship played in Halletsville, Texas every year. Texans, especially in protestant religious organizations like the Church of Christ and old railroaders take dominoes seriously.

Our family has deep roots within the Church of Christ. My great- great-grandfather was a travelling circuit preacher. My great-grandfather was a farmer and helped build the church in Navarro and Ellis counties. My parents and the majority of their friends were members of the Church of Christ and most of them grew up together. Since they were good church folks none of them played cards. That was the devil’s game. I’m told that dominoes were invented in the 1880s as a way to play cards without cards. Good fundamentalist Christians are good at finding loopholes to what they deem poor moral behavior…

My parents and all their friends would get together every month to have a “Forty-Two” night. It would always be held at someone’s house (never play games in the church building) and would include a huge potluck. Everyone would come, multiple tables would be set up, and parents would break off into tables of four to play. Kids would be running all over the yard (we still played outside – even after dark – back them). During the occasional game break one or more of the parents would come out to check on us and then return to the next game. They’d play all night – at least ten o’clock – and us kids got to stay up late. It was a win-win for everyone.

Dominoes disappeared after my dad was transferred to Denver (when the Colorado & Southern bought the Fort Worth & Denver ) – that is until they discovered a host of ex-patriate Texans and Church of Christ folks who became their new circle of friends. They got together religiously (no pun intended) on most holidays and Friday nights to play “Forty-Two”. The location changed but the game remained the same.

 I had become a teenager with better things to do than hang out with the “old folks” playing dominoes. I probably should’ve have stayed. It might’ve prevented a lot of bad choices. I never learned how to play “Forty-Two” and the kids I met in Colorado weren’t much interested in “shaking the bones”. It was the seventies and as I got older life became about sex, and drugs, and rock & roll, but that’s a story for another time.

Fast forward to my return to Texas as a young adult. I played a lot of dominoes down in the ‘hood with my using friends. It was never “Forty-Two”, but it was “straight” dominoes. Later, my recovery friends often played after recovery meetings, and I would play with my two sons occasionally (Jeremy always found a way to win but I never caught him cheating…).

I don’t play dominoes as much as I used to. Life has gotten full of good things, but it leaves me little time for the game. Besides, many of my old friends who played have either moved off or passed on. I’m sure my grandkids know how to play and next week is Spring Break. I think I’ll shuffle the old bones and see how well Jeremy taught them how to play. After all, the game remains the same.

Community, Down On the Farm, Family, Farmers Markets, Food Justice, Generations, Gratitude, Health, Neighbors, Opal's Farm, Parents, Regeneration, Relationships, Service to Others, Unity Unlimited, Inc., Urban Farming

Bees-ness

gregoryjoel

What a week it’s been. We’ve had a gorgeous week of upper sixties and seventy-plus degree weather followed by a weekend of rain. We’d love to thank everyone who braved the elements to come out to Cowtown Farmers Market on Saturday morning. I spoke with one of our customers who said, “I can’t not be here. I can’t eat that stuff they sell at the store”. I love you! People like you are our best ambassadors! Once you’ve had local it’s hard to have anything else.

I appreciate the commitment to fresh, local, and extremely healthy produce that so many of you have. It really becomes evident on days like yesterday. I enjoy the families that bring their children and teach them the importance of healthy eating. I get excited when the kids point to a bunch of turnips or kale and ask if Mom and Dad can buy that for them. That’s the highlight of my day.

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We started bee hives with the help of Brent Bennett from Green Hands Farm almost two years ago. Brent is a Master Beekeeper and has helped us reach the point where we had our first honey harvest a couple of weeks ago. Opal’s honey is not only local (which is essential for allergy help), raw, and unfiltered, it’s some of the best honey available in Fort Worth.

We plant a lot of buckwheat in the Spring. We use it between rows to attract beneficial insects as part of our integrated pest management. It’s also a favorite of our bees who bring that wonderful buckwheat taste to our honey. Come on out to Cowtown Farmers Market next Saturday and try some.

We’re working with Brent to start beekeeping classes in the Spring. Please keep an eye out for the details and sign-up site to come!

Thanks again to one and all for your support of Opal’s Farm and our local farmers markets.

Advent, Bible, Birthdays, Children, Choices, Christmas, Courage, Depression, Emotional Health, Faith, Family, Generations, Grace, Grandchildren, Grief, Hope, Love, Parents, Peace, Prayer, Recovery, Relationships, Service to Others, Spirituality, Stories, The Holidays, Thoughts From the Porch

Christmas 2023

gregoryjoel

Time goes by far too quickly these days. It’s difficult to believe that December is here. It seems like I was planning Spring crops just a short while ago. It’s almost time to do so again. The seventy-five-degree high predicted is a reminder of that. Just so you all know, we still have tomatoes at Opal’s Farm. The first freeze hasn’t hit us yet. We get the “heat island” effect from being so close to downtown…

Today is one month since my last cigarette so I guess I can’t really call this “Thoughts From the Porch”. I’ve stayed away from the front porch and concentrated on the back yard outside my office. It helps with the cravings. The main thing that helps with the cravings though is the near-constant praying to stay smoke-free. So far, so good, and so much for the news updates…

The holidays are tough for me. My son, Jeremy, was born on Christmas Day. I’ve had difficulty with the holidays since his passing – so much so that my wife started calling me the Grinch last year. I try to show some Christmas spirit but I’m not successful at faking it. I’m hoping I can do better this year.

I’ve been especially blessed to be far more involved in my grandchildren’s life this past year. I’ve been able to spend more time with them than ever before. I’m not always sure they appreciate it as much now as they’re both young teenagers – why is it teenagers rarely give more than one-word answers?

Spending time with them is such a gift and sometimes, a curse – at least where grief is concerned.

They are both very much Jeremy’s children. Lucas looks so much like him that it brings tears sometimes. His mannerisms are – a constant reminder of Jeremy. Izabella, or Simone as Jeremy called (her middle name is Simone after Nina Simone) has every bit of his wit and often, sarcasm. Together they are amazing. My daughter-in-law, Amber, has done an amazing job raising them and getting them through losing their dad. She and I can share our grief that still comes in tidal waves at times.

But back to Christmas…

I’ve had a lackluster approach to Christmas since my parents passed away, especially Dad. He was Mister Christmas. It was his favorite holiday. He made the season special; especially where my boys were concerned. Much of that had to do with my parenting or lack thereof and my addiction had a lot to do with that. Still, he was my Christmas light and I enjoyed participating each year.

After his passing, Christmas was not as big of a deal. My mom moved to an apartment in a Senior Living Center so big celebrations rarely occurred. The last years before she passed in 2017 she moved to Atlanta to be near my sister. I always hated the idea of trying to find a gift for Mom. She was extremely hard to buy for and her body language often revealed her disappointment in my gifts. (***side note – she told me that my sobriety and my relationship with God were the best gifts I could’ve ever given her.)

When Jeremy died, the best thing about Christmas became January 2nd as it would be in the past and I had survived what felt like unbearable grief. I’ve shared that with my wife (as if she couldn’t tell) and she’s always been understanding. This year has been different. I came home from work the other day and she told me that I needed to become Mister Christmas. It was my turn. Dad and Jeremy were no longer there, and the tradition shouldn’t die with them. My grandkids needed me to be that very thing. I think my wife needs that too.

Christmas was never a religious holiday for me. I grew up in the Church of Christ and they didn’t celebrate it as Jesus’ birthday because that’s not in the Bible – which begets the question why they didn’t celebrate Easter because we know what that date is, but I digress… It was significant to my wife though and now the holiday needs to be special for my grandkids as well.

When I finish writing this, I will climb the attic stairs and pull down the Christmas tree and decorations. I’ll rearrange the living room to accommodate the tree and place it where Margaret, my wife, can enjoy looking at it. It’s likely I’ll shed a few tears as I place Jeremy’s ornaments – both the ones he made and the ones we were given over the years – on the tree. I’ll brave the tangle of lights and let Margaret direct the decorating. Afterwards, I’ll turn on the lights for all of us and pray that I can be Mister Christmas this year. I’ll swallow my sadness and allow the grief to come when I’m alone. Christmas is about everyone else anyway and I’ll not deny them that.

I won’t lie about my feelings. God made sure of that. I was at a recovery meeting recently and met two other people for whom grief is all too real. One gentleman lost his wife. The other lost her seventeen-year-old son to an overdose in May. I can seriously relate, and I can offer support and an ear because I’ve three years of experience to offer. I don’t have any answers, but I can be present for them while they search for their own. God has a way of turning tragedy into something – I don’t want to say something positive – but an opportunity to show His love and grace – to love others better.

My sponsor and friend Jim told me a long time ago that helping others and being there for others was the best way to find peace. Maybe that’s what comes this year. I hope and pray it comes for all of us.

Merry Christmas everyone…

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