Category: Texas

Adoption, Children, Citizenship, Community, Emotional Health, Family, Gratitude, Growing Up, Immigration, Ireland, Letting Go, Love, Patience, Relationships, Simplicity, Texas, Uncategorized, Writing

Bucket lists…

gregoryjoel

I haven’t posted for the last couple of days. There’s a great deal going on at our household. Mostly, it involves trying to stay cool while getting things accomplished. Our poor air conditioner is having difficulty keeping up with the heat wave we’re experiencing and I feel a bit wind-blown from all the fans in our house.

Even with the triple-digit heat, the porch has provided some respite from the heat in the early mornings. I was able to enjoy conversation and coffee with Margaret for quite a while before the perspiration beading up on our foreheads said it was time to go in. Our conversation wandered around for a bit, talking about our kids, with their unique (and sometimes frustrating) personalities and what the future holds in store. I shared a blog from another writer in Northern Ireland and the pictures he posted from Belfast this morning. I’ve had a trip to Ireland at the top of my ‘bucket list’ for many, many years. His post this morning stoked that fire once again.

I’m not a ‘travel’ kind of guy. I’m quite content to live vicariously through the photos my friends post of their travels and prefer to stay close to home. Besides, I could spend a lifetime traveling around Texas and never see the same thing twice. Aside from the mountains in Colorado, I haven’t gotten around to very many other places. Still, I would travel to Ireland in a heartbeat.

The first time I entered a drug and alcohol rehab hospital I went through an assessment with the doctor on staff. He asked me if there was any history of alcoholism or addiction in my family. I told him that I came from a very conservative Christian home and even my great-grandfather was a circuit preacher in Texas, so I didn’t think so. I wasn’t sure it made any difference anyway since I was adopted. All I know about my birth parents is that I’m Irish. Without missing a beat, the doctor looked at me and said he’d just answer yes to the history question. I’m not sure how I felt about that, except it seems awfully stereotypical and extremely politically incorrect…

I’ve often thought about trying to locate my birth mother. I’d love to know something of my ancestry, as well as the family medical history. Now that I’m pushing sixty it’s growing unlikely that it will happen. Sometimes though, I wonder if I have half-siblings out there. I guess a lot of adopted kids from ‘closed’ adoptions have the same questions. I have an adopted cousin who found her birth mother and discovered she had nine brothers and sisters! It makes me wonder…

My mother and I were driving down from Fairplay, Colorado and out of the blue, she asked me if I’d ever thought of finding my birth mother. Although I was a grown man, I was a little freaked-out by the question. It was something that had never been discussed at home. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings because she was my mother, regardless of who gave me birth. Finding my biological parent wouldn’t change that. As I paused, she immediately followed up with, “Why haven’t you? I would.”

I remember telling her that it just wasn’t a big deal to me. I may have meant it at the time but that’s not an honest answer today. The reality is that I don’t want to be disappointed. Somewhere deep inside, that feeling of abandonment that has always been present comes u8p every time I think about trying to get court records unsealed. Don’t get me wrong, I’m eternally grateful to the mother with whom I share DNA. I know somethings about her from the profile my parents gave me when I turned twenty-one. I know that she was only sixteen. In the pre-Roe v. Wade years of the Eisenhower Administration, young women who were ‘in a family way’ were often shuttled off somewhere else to avoid familial embarrassment, to have their baby, and give it up for adoption. I know it had to be difficult for her. I often wonder whether she was forced by her parents to give me up. I prefer to think of her as courageous and wise; that she made the decision to adopt out of concern for my welfare. If I can’t ever ask her that question, I never have to believe otherwise…

If I were to meet her I’d like to tell her thank you for giving me up to such a loving home. My adoptive parents wanted a child desperately and I was loved by the very best. Dad always told me that everyone else had to “take what they were given, but that I was handpicked and specially chosen” to be their son. I came to know what they meant when they brought my little sister home six years later. She’s quite the women, my sister. I’ve led a charmed life, despite my adult struggles, and I couldn’t ask for anything better. I can’t tell you how grateful I am. God is so good…

The only negative I can find in the Joel family tree is that they are English. I have a friend who reminds me that “at least they weren’t French”, but he’s British and that’s another story. I truly would like to know about where I come from and how I ended up in Fort Worth, Texas. According to immigration records, most Irish immigrants in the 19th century came through the Port of New Orleans. What we know of the defenders of the  Alamo, the holy shrine of Texas Independence, is that most who sacrificed their lives were Irish and Scottish immigrants. I wonder when, and if, that was the case for my ancestors. Do I have an extended family I don’t know about? Do I need to know, for that matter? Who knows? Maybe there’s a genetic longing taking place…

I guess I’ll just have to keep saving until I can cross Ireland off my ‘Bucket List”…

 

Children, Christianity, Community, Emotional Health, Faith, Family, Gardening, Grace, Gratitude, Growing Up, Love, Marriage, Prayer, Relationships, Simplicity, Spirituality, Texas, Uncategorized

Farms and old green trucks…

gregoryjoel

It’s been a productive weekend. I hope it continues into the weekdays. Since they took my PICC line out I’ve experienced the freedom to sweat like everyone else. Believe it or not, I enjoy it. I get to work outside in the garden and go to the stables most days. I’m close enough to the house that I go in a cool off when it gets too much.

There’s something about the physical labor that calms my spirit and reconnects me to the things that are truly important in life. I pray a lot when I’m doing manual labor. We have a friend who calls it ‘dirt therapy’. I’m sure many of you understand.

I was telling Margaret this morning that I’ve been unusually nostalgic lately. It seems to be directly proportionate to the gratitude I feel. The more gratitude I have, the more reminiscent I get. I’ve recalled memories I haven’t thought of in years and I’ve noticed changes more acutely. Maybe it’s simply coming up on the ‘Big 6-0’. The reason isn’t important. It’s good to be reflective at times. My wife says it’s just because I’m getting old. I didn’t hesitate to remind her that she’s not far behind me. My bad…

I grew up in Fort Worth, but I spent my summer vacations with either my Uncle Carl on his ranch in South Texas or on my Uncle Roof’s dairy farm just northwest of Fort Worth. I may live in the city but I’m just an old country boy at heart. That’s one of the things I love about living on the westside in White Settlement. It has a small-town feel despite being a part of one of the largest metropolitan areas in Texas. The real estate developers saved the westside for last, I guess. Urban sprawl has favored moving north and south. The eastside is hemmed in by the ‘mid-cities’. Unfortunately, I spied several new developments on my last drive through the western edges of Tarrant County. It’s a little scary…

I don’t remember my childhood like many people do. I had a counseling professional tell me it was probably related to some trauma during my youth. I must’ve been abused in some way. I didn’t think that was the case, but I gave it serious consideration. The only thing I could come up with is the one time my Grandmother, who never engaged in corporal punishment, gave me a spanking because I was playing with matches and almost burned the carport down. Now that was traumatic…

I suppose that’s why I’ve come to cherish the memories when they come up these days. Unlike my right-wing friends, I don’t long for the ‘old days’, but I appreciate the little things I remember. One of my earliest, and favorite, memories is of my father’s 1951 Chevrolet pick-up truck. Trucks like that belong on a farm.

The truck was Hunter Green and had wooden side-boards so it could haul more papers. My dad had a third job ‘throwing’ a local paper called The Shopper on Saturday nights for a Sunday morning delivery. He’d often go straight there from his second job at a Striplings, a local department store.

I remember Dad coming home exhausted, around four-thirty or so on Sunday mornings. He’d crawl into bed for an hour and then get up, get dressed, and take the family to church. Sunday lunch always followed, and it was always a time to get with another family from church for lunch. If we were lucky, we got to go to Wyatt’s Cafeteria and eat out. It always seemed like a real treat, although I’d give anything to have Mom’s homemade Sunday dinner again…

Dad usually took a nap on Sunday afternoon. That meant I could turn on the matinee of old horror movies that came on every Sunday. There were always two of them and I hated to see the second one end. It meant that soon Dad would get up, pack his suitcase, and leave for the train station. Our primary income came from his job as a traveling auditor for the FW&D Railroad. He would take the train to wherever he was going along the line, work for the week, and return on Friday night in time to work his other two jobs on the weekend. The only thing I liked about his job was the occasional visits to the trainyard and the gift he brought me each time he was away.

If there really is trauma somewhere in my young life it had to be one Saturday evening when Dad was leaving to throw papers. He hugged and kissed my mother and I and headed out to the truck. I don’t remember the details and I’ve relied on my father’s telling of the story over the years. Apparently, I broke away from Mom, little legs pumping as fast as they could, and launched myself around my father’s legs. “Please don’t go, Daddy, please don’t go!”, I pleaded as tears ran down my face.

Dad picked me up and hugged me until I stopped sobbing. “I love you, Daddy”, I cried over and over. I eventually calmed down. Dad was late for work that Saturday night. He quit his job at Stripling’s on Monday. He continued to throw papers since he was gone while I was asleep. Not long after, he received a promotion from the railroad and only had to travel occasionally. He was home most of the time and I loved it.

What I didn’t know, until I was well into adulthood, was that my father worked so much so he could pay back my grandmother for loaning him the adoption fees for me. My parents couldn’t have children and wanted them desperately.  My sister and I were both adopted. My dad always told me that we were special because we were gifts and were chosen to be their kids. We were ‘handpicked’! He couldn’t stand to be away from us after that Saturday night so long ago.

Dad’s been gone since 2002 and not a day goes by that I don’t miss him. He’s the one that showed me what my Heavenly Father is like. His love was truly unconditional. Boy, did I test him through the years!

I wish he could see just how wonderful my life is today, despite the difficulties of my past. I’m sure he can. I love you, Dad and I hope I leave a legacy, as you did…

I guess that’s the trauma the professionals talk about. If that’s the extent of it, I’m a truly blessed man. Thinking about it today, I can’t help but pray ‘thank you’ over and over to a mighty God who has shown me so much grace. How can I refrain from loving others after receiving so much love, mercy, and grace?

Anyway, I’m just sitting here enjoying the cool of the morning and enjoying the memories. I still dream about that old green truck. Maybe one day I can run around on the farm…

Children, Christianity, Communication, Community, Emotional Health, Faith, Family, Friendship, Grace, Gratitude, Growing Up, Hope, Listening, Love, Movies, Neighbors, Patience, Prayer, Recovery, Simplicity, Spirituality, Texas, Uncategorized, Writing

An absolute must see!

gregoryjoel

Last week’s rain was a welcome guest during the hot Texas summer. Unfortunately, an obnoxious high-pressure system chased away the unstable air that brought lower temperatures and cooling rains. Thus, a week of triple digit temperatures and heat advisories lie ahead. It was a noticeable difference on the porch this morning, but the coffee and conversation with my beautiful wife made up for any discomfort due to the temperature I may have felt. I wish likewise for all of you…

It’s been a great weekend here in Fort Worth. I’ve been so busy I haven’t had much ‘desk-time’. Margaret had a procedure done on her back on Friday morning and the results have been good so far. She felt enough relief to get out and about Friday night and hasn’t paid dearly for the experience as usual. We’re cautiously optimistic…

Friday night, our son Paul came over and we went to see “Won’t You Be My Neighbor?”, the documentary about Fred Rogers and Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood.  I wrote about him recently, so I hope this isn’t too redundant. We’d been looking forward to seeing it since its release. I don’t pretend to be a movie critic. I know what I like when I see it. I don’t look for entertainment as much as I look for an emotional connection. That’s what good stories do. They reach somewhere inside and connect deep inside. If that appeals to you then this is a “must see’ film. Be prepared to be touched…

I was a latecomer to the whole Mr. Rogers thing. The Public Broadcasting System, of which I later became a huge fan, didn’t start broadcasting until 1969. I was in junior high school by then, but my sister, who is six years younger, would be watching Sesame Street and Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood. I was too old for such nonsense and just got ticked-off that she got to control the TV programming…

The only thing I knew of Mr. Rogers were the parodies of Eddie Murphy and The Firesign Theater. Even Mr. Rogers himself thought some of them were funny so long as they weren’t mean-spirited. It wasn’t until I became a parent that I began to take Mr. Rogers seriously. The simple message of kindness, of being special, and of being loved just as you are resonated with me. I wanted my own children to hear and internalize his message. Now that I’ve been down the road a bit, I find myself wishing that everyone, including myself, could feel that message deep inside.

I spent yesterday evening with a close friend who is going through a major struggle right now. I won’t bore you with the details, and it’s a private affair. What I can share with you is how I felt. It’s said that men are ‘fixers’ by nature (although I’ve known a great many women who have tried and tried to ‘fix’ me in the past… believe me, I needed fixing…). I can get with that. As I listened to his struggles and frustration with where he’s at, I wanted desperately to find the ‘right’ words that would miraculously make things better for him. I thought about the film and one of the children’s questions to Mr. Rogers, “What do you do with mad?” I still don’t have a good answer. The harder I tried to find the words, the more powerless I felt. I can’t take away his pain, his frustration, or his anger, but I can be present and walk through it with him. Sitting with him in my truck, I remembered a part of the movie I saw Friday. Sometimes we just need to be silent. Sometimes there are no words. Sometimes we just need to be there and ease the burden for one another.

We sat there in silence for a while. Finally, we said our goodbyes and we went our separate ways. I don’t know if he felt any better, but I know he felt a little more loved than he did when we first started talking, and when I talked to him later in the evening, he was going to bed so he could get up and do it again tomorrow. I said a prayer for my friend. Tomorrow’s another day…

I guess that was my take away from the movie. Be kind. Be loving. Be there and don’t try and fill the space between those you love with the constant buzz of words. It’s okay to feel your feelings, to walk through them and walk through them together. Above all, you’re loved and special just as you are. A pretty good message if you ask me, for adults as well as children.

There was a book by Robert Fulghum called, All I Really Needed to Know I Learned in Kindergarten, that was popular many years ago. It was a reminder that all the life skills I would ever need I learned when I was very young. I was reminded again as I watched “Won’t You Be My Neighbor?”. It saddened me to reflect on how much I’ve lost since childhood. I came to worry about what others thought of me early in life and stifles the child I was. The loss of innocence sounds so cliché but it’s true. Somewhere along the line I, like most of us, traded in that childlike wonder and innocent spirit for worry, self-importance, and all that comes with being grown-ups. I used to accuse my dad of entering his second childhood when I’d see him do childlike and silly stuff, especially with his grandkids. Now I wish I was like him…

Maybe I’m entering my second childhood? (Margaret says I am. She asks me all the time if my voice is going to change when I reach puberty.) I hope I’m more okay with being a kid than I was all those years ago. Back then it was so important to ‘keep up appearances’. One of the blessings of getting older is that you just don’t care what other people think as much. Such is the wisdom of a child. I find that I take things far less seriously and much more wondrously than I did in the past. I don’t feel a need to ‘fix’ someone else, but I can be present to walk alongside them today. Jesus said that to enter the kingdom of heaven, you must become as a child. I think you also should become a lot like Mr. Rodgers…

One of the most striking things to me about Fred Rogers is that he was an ordained Presbyterian minister. He may very well have been one of the first televangelists. He was ordained for the television ministry. Yet, he never preached a word (or asked for a “donation in order to receive God’s favor….”). He lived it instead. Talk about attracting others rather than promoting one’s self. No wonder kids flocked to him just like the poor and marginalized did to Jesus.

To paraphrase Fred Rogers, love is at the root of everything, or the lack thereof. I’ve seen what happens on both ends of the spectrum. All I need to do is read my newsfeed and the lack of love is apparent. So, I strive for the former rather than the latter. The Teacher I follow says that if I just love God with all my heart, mind, spirit and then love everyone else like I do myself, I can’t go wrong.

I don’t want to spoil anything for you, but there’s a line in the movie that left me with incredible hope. One of Fred Rogers’ friends said that many people think that Mr. Rogers was one of a kind, maybe like a fluke I guess. His opinion filled me with hope and gratitude when he reminded us all that there are a” lot of people out there just like Fred Rogers”. Yes, there are. I know some of them and for that, I’m so grateful.

If no one has told you today, please remember you’re loved – just the way you are. Pretty good words to live by. Thanks Mr. Rogers…

 

Christianity, Emotional Health, Faith, Gardening, Gratitude, Hope, Marriage, Neighbors, Prayer, Simplicity, Texas, Writing

Just another Sunday…

gregoryjoel

The days roll by much faster than they used to. It’s hard to believe that July is already here. The heat came earlier than usual this year and the yard is littered with dry leaves that have fallen from the Ash trees. I have a feeling that we all need to get used to warmer weather. It seems like every summer makes it into the record books in one way or another. At least there’s a strong southerly breeze this morning. I still have an hour or so of comfort out here on the porch…

It’s difficult to stay in the moment this morning. I get my little IV infusion buddy taken out tomorrow and I can’t wait. It’s been an annoyance for a couple of months now. My days are planned out around when the IV needs to be changed. The thing that really gets me is not being able to work outside. I know I’ve gone on and on about this before but understand that I don’t do well locked away in the house. Besides, the horses need their cookies and I’ve stayed away from the stables for way too long. Jamison and I both could use some long walks again.

The garden, except for the tomatoes and peppers, has surrendered to the heat. After I go to the doctor in the morning I already have my work out there planned. There’s something about working the soil that soothes the soul. I find a lot of peace and a great deal of joy working in the garden. Between the soil, the dogs, and the horses my life is complete!

It’s been busy this week and there’s really no news nor thoughts to share from the porch this morning. Margaret and I shared some time together. My son stayed the night and joined us for a bit, despite the fact he’s not much of a morning person. Life is simple. Life is good.

I skipped church service this morning. I wanted to steal every moment of cool from the porch this morning. When the sweat finally began to roll I headed inside for my morning ritual of daily news. The most beautiful thing about Sunday is that it’s a slow news day. I’m grateful. Everyone needs a day of rest.

I hope this finds you all well. I’m so grateful for the people God has placed in my life, whether family, close friends, or readers of these wandering thoughts. I spend a lot of time reading your blogs as well and I’m grateful for our community. May you all have a blessed Sunday!

Recovery, Spirituality, Texas, Uncategorized

Go Yankees?

gregoryjoel

I didn’t have much time on the porch this weekend. I was at my grandson’s first baseball game of the season (and of his) on Saturday. I never thought I’d be a Yankees fan, but his team is the Fire Station Yankees. So, I can wholeheartedly admit that I’m a Yankees fan, although I still choke a little on the words. My Grandson had two singles and an RBI and they won. Yes, they did keep score, but I’m sure everyone will get a participation trophy (because in an ideal world…). Go Yankees!!!

I wish I’d taken my coat. Another visitor from the Arctic northland crossed over into Texas Friday night and the mornings have been close to freezing. My long-sleeved shirt did little to take the bite out of a bone-chilling north wind (Note to self: just because the sun is brightly shining doesn’t mean the jacket can stay at home…). Such is the rollercoaster of Spring here in Fort Worth. Apparently, other parts of the country are dealing with the same up and down of the thermometer. While those in other places deal with snow, we deal with tornado warnings. At least we’re not shoveling snow, right?

Texas is known for many things, most of which I’m extremely proud of. I’m a native Texan, born in Fort Worth. I come from a very traditional Texas home. My father taught me early on to always be proud of where I was born. After all, I could’ve been born in Dallas. People from outside Texas think Dallas and Fort Worth are one and the same. I can assure they are not. One of local radio stations, The Ranch, says it best – “Fort Worth is where the west begins, and Dallas is where the east just kind of peters out”.

I’ve lived other places over the years. I spent high school and college in Colorado and my youngest son was born there. I loved the time I had there. I had an internship in Washington D.C. and soon learned I’m not an east coast kind of guy. I’ve lived in Houston and moved back to Colorado. They were nice places to visit but I’m glad to be back in Fort Worth. It seems God knew the perfect place for me. I’ll probably be laid to rest in our family plot a couple miles from here. I’m not sure what heaven is like, but I can’t help but think it will be a lot like Texas…

Yet, as much as I love my state, I’ve become honest enough to admit it has its defects, particularly in the political, educational, healthcare areas. For which I wish to apologize to the rest of the country. We’ve been egotistical and arrogant when we’ve ventured into other parts of the world (like Oklahoma for instance…). We’ve fostered a feeling of superiority, of “us and them”. Dad used to have a bumper sticker (the only one I’d ever seen him put on a vehicle) that read, “If you love New York, take I-30 east”. The immigrants to our beloved state, particularly those from north of the Red River, were different. They weren’t like “us”. They brought with them a manner of living that was different from ours. Too often, we have equated “different” with “bad”. I look back at my youth and not only was race or culture a dividing line, but religion as well. When we moved to Colorado, all our friends were ex-patriot Texans from the same church for the most part; everyone else was suspect.

I’m grateful to have been able to step outside of the state lines and look inside. I’m glad I can see my home, and myself, with a degree of clarity today. My perceptions of the world around me have changed. Dad always told me that if you could identify the problem, you were halfway to the solution. That’s been true for me: and the solution was a new lens through which to view life. I just hope it can be true for all of us…