Happy Birthday, Mom!

Today, my mother turns 57. We saw her at Thanksgiving when she drove down from Iowa. She lives with a friend of hers outside of Des Moines, but manages to come to Springfield a few times a year.

The older I get, the more I appreciate her. Mom has always been something of a free spirit. My parents got divorced when I was 8-years-old, and she never remarried, often saying that she didn't need the hassle. She was always prone to unexpected trips to see the relatives or some old friend of hers my brother and I didn't really know. In fact, if there is one place where she feels most at home, it's probably her car. There is just something about the road that calls to a free spirit like mom.

Since it's her birthday, and I love her so much for all she done for me over the years, I thought I'd get her something really special.

It's a picture of a new BMW-M3. Love you, mom!

Down with Bears in 2012!

I'd make a lousy politician, but that doesn't stop me from daydreaming about all the fun it could be to run a campaign. The campaigns I dawdle about, admittedly, are ridiculous.

I've joked before that I don't understand why predators are allowed to live among us. I'm not talking about sexual predators (a fine and easy target for your average politician), I'm talking about real predators like lions, or stealthy pumas, or giant black bears. Though I'm not sure bears are technically predators -- they're more like hairy fisherman -- they still can be pretty big and scary. Even the little cubs could stick a paw on you and leave some nasty scratches. In my opinion, the whole species is not to be trusted. We're right to put 'em behind bars in zoos. But, is that enough? I don't want to be an alarmist, but there's still a few roaming Ozarks' woods. Let the birds free I say, but lock up all the dang wolves and bears!

"Down with Bears in 2012!" could be my slogan. No one would vote for me. Then again, I don't want to be elected.

There are other things to be afraid of, of course. Like pigeons. I know I seemed pro-bird just a moment ago, but pigeons creep me out. All their cooing and fearlessness and germs. Something should be done. I like the idea of donning a military hat and ranting and raving from a pulpit about the dangers of pigeons. It's funny to me. 

These days, the things others say and think and feel and promote have been on my mind a lot. I'm sure the tornado in Joplin has had something to do with it. It's been all over the news, part of my work and seems to be dominating casual conversations.

I feel horrible, as so many people do, about the ones who died and the people who were injured, lost homes or were close to the ones that died. To think about what those most directly impacted have gone through is both deflating and disheartening. As a result of all that chaos, many in our area seem to be reflecting on the meaning of their own lives. Those who believe there is meaning. Some have used and will use the tragic event to reaffirm their own world views, regardless of whether those views have any objective merit.

Case in point: Topeka, Kan.-based Westboro Church is coming to Joplin to show support for tornadoes. The church's Web site, www.godhatesfags.com, believes, apparently, that God's wrath is both present in our everyday lives, and totally awesome! It's disturbing, of course.

I've heard and seen a lot of talk about God in connection to the EF-5 tornado since May 22. Most of it has been inspiring: People turning to God for strength; Citizens helping one another feeling compelled by their belief in a higher being and purpose; and mothers and fathers thanking God for what wasn't destroyed.

I get it. I understand why people believe in God, why they pray and why they come together when times are tough. I also understand why they wouldn't.

It's hard, but natural, to try to make sense out of something so brutal, mindless and destructive. The world is a scary place.

Happy Mother's Day!

The years go by, don't they? Today, I felt the sun penetrating a spring breeze and realized that my birthday is only about a month away. This summer, I'll take the fam on a quick trip or two, go swimming a few times, and then, before I know it, I'll be helping to pick out school clothes. Football and new shoes turns into Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas. Before long, the rains will bring back spring breezes.

These seasons are our fate. We're babies, then toddlers, then grandparents forever dancing and spinning around the sun.

As the summer of 1975 approached, my mother went into labor at the age of 20. From the pictures I've seen of her around that time she had long, dark hair and big glasses. She looks different now, but not too different, you know.

As a kid, what I remember most about my mother was that she was there. She was involved. She took me to my soccer games. She saved things I brought home from school.

I remember mom singing a lot. She was always very spontaneous, and very mobile. She was prone to unplanned trips to look at homes in neighborhoods we couldn't afford to move to for no reason after going to the grocery store or wherever. It's a trait I've noticed in myself as I get older. If I have time to take the long way home and turn up the radio, I do. She's the one who taught me how to drive. Now, I'm teaching Chase.

She lives in Iowa these days, but comes down to see me and my peeps, my brother and her friends three or four times a year. This last time she came down, she slept on the pullout couch she gave us. We played poker with the kids that night. She looked at a couple of my stories, and asked Val and I about work. I wonder how long it will be before Val and I are visiting our kids. I know mom really enjoyed it when our boys were still babies. We're already missing that ourselves. They're getting older.

I know what we have to look forward to. Summer's around the corner. Then fall. The long cold winter. And then it starts over.

Mothers know it, too.

That's why the good ones, like my mom, put school work on the fridges and band-aids on bruises. They come to weddings, and graduations. They pinch cheeks and take photos. They make our favorite meals. They play poker, and they ask about work.

Mom, we won't dance and spin around the sun forever. I'm old enough to know it now. Today, I just want you to know that I'm here for you. As life pushes us through the seasons, I'm here for you, too.

Love ya, mom.

Mr. Friend

The devil is a dollar bill.
Green, not red.
Its face of death
Regal. Androgynous.
Gaze at his strength.
So formal, this ugly courtship.
A queen in her ballroom gown.
Knowing no love.
Shining God's light.

The death of Mr. Greven

The highly visible and active local disability advocate Greg Greven, 42, died when his van caught on fire in his driveway Thursday night. I heard about his death from a city press release on Friday that expressed the condolences of city leaders for the chairman of the Mayor's Commission on Human Rights. I learned more about his death and its local impact in the News-Leader story that followed.

I met Greven when he was still working with the Southwest Center for Independent Living. I wrote a small feature on him for the Community Free Press as an intern called "Advocate, Volunteer, Advisor" (Page 19, Oct. 10, 2007 issue). Since being on the city beat at the business journal, I have seen Greven at every council meeting. He sat in front of me toward the back of the room. I said "hi" to him once recently, and he said "hi" back, but I don't know that he remembered me.

When I read that he'd died, I automatically said to myself, "That can't be--I just saw him Monday night." As if, my seeing him ought to have prevented his death, somehow.

My sit-down interview with Greven in 2007 left an impression on me. First of all, he could care less that I was featuring him. He was more interested in talking about issues that touched the lives of disabled people. Second, I came away from the experience sobered by the reminder that life has severe consequences.

Greven became disabled from a 1989 automobile accident. The details are fuzzy now, but I recall that he said he loved to drive fast. At the time of the interview, he was preparing to take a group of disabled individuals to Lucus Oil Speedway. His brother, Kevin Greven, was the track manager. Cars, Greg said, were a big part of his young life. He seemed genuinely excited when he talked about the track.

For whatever reason, I fell into a brief daydream looking at Greven's limp hand hanging by the side of his wheelchair on Monday night. He was directly in front of me. I tried to imagine his hand as mine. I wondered how much of it he could feel, and how often he must have been frustrated by its limited usefulness.

Greg Greven got out in the snow Monday night and went to a council meeting. He wasn't there to speak or be a sounding board for an ordinance related to accessibility. There was no such bill, and I can't think of any reason for him to be there or at any of the recent meetings except that he wanted to be.

Many may have heard about Greven's story and thought it was tragic. While his death was horrible news, I think Greven's story itself is inspiring. RIP, Mr. Greven.

Willy time, y'all

Happy Birthday, Will!

My step-son turns 19 today, and though I doubt he'll even read this, wishing the boys a happy-happy on the blog has become something of a tradition.

Lil' Will Duncan was almost 3 when I started dating his mommy in January 1995. I noticed then that he was abnormally strong for his size. These days, he beats me up at least once per visit when he's on break from MU. He likes to catch me laying around watching T.V. in my room and jump on me before I have a chance to react.

Like a fool, I normally try fight back to salvage some pride, but honestly, he pins me down with ease. I told him recently I should have been meaner to him when he was small. He agreed, and said I missed my chance.

Will is living in Columbia now, and Chase has taken over his old room. I thought Will might try to take it back on breaks, but I think he wanted Chase to have it. Will chooses the couch or stays with his Mee Maw at night, now.

When he visits, he plays his old X-Box or watches NFL Network--we agree that Deion Sanders and Rich Eisen are the best analysts around. When he's at home, he'll go for a walk around the block at least two or three times a day. If he doesn't become a computer programmer or engineer, I'm willing to bet he becomes a personal trainer. I wondered after he left for school if our neighbors noticed they weren't seeing him as much.

Will is a full-fledged grown up these days, and frankly, it's a little sad to think about. I'm not sure why, though. He's smarter, stronger, healthier and more well-rounded than I was at his age. Heck, he's got me beat now.

As he pushes his way through college and then finds his way into the working world, my hope for him is that doesn't ever feel defeated by all the morons and crazies out there. In other words, I'm proud of him. He's headstrong, smart, tough, funny and fair-minded. I couldn't have picked a better big brother for Chase, Andrew and Mason if I had tried.

Happy Birthday, Willy. M.I.Z-....