Zachman, #72 on Asheville High JV Cougar Football made this Texas Momma Proud

     Been absent from the blogger world for a while, but that happens. So a brief catch-up is necessary. In case you're interested.
     I've just had a 2nd corneal transplant and am healing and hopeful this next chance at sight is the blessing I've been waiting for since I was 9-years-old. That's when I got hit with a glow-in-the-dark super ball straight up in my wide open left eye while visiting kin in Texas City, Texas.
     And Zach is now a sophomore at Asheville High and has the whole world opening up for him and the opportunity to reach academic and personal achievements I'm not sure that kid ever believed he'd be able to do. But the academics story is for another time.
     This tale is about a born and bred Texan momma who gets rather peeved at football games when people don't yell enough at the kids, the coaches and anyone else who might get on your nerves. I got to see my 6'1, 210 teenager start at his first home JV football game.

     Zach looked SOOOO awesome on that field last night. He's HUGE!!! He's not a perfect player, but that's what JV is for - get him broken in. Tore my heart apart though when I saw him get upset and fall down on the field, mad at himself and then Coach giving him a going over. I wanted to kick the coach's you know what, but hey, if the man didn't think Zach was worth anything, he wouldn't be giving him a talking to. You're supposed to get on your players. But Coach also told Zach he'd finally got some things right, so he's not on my full kick-ass list just yet. Zach played the entire game on offense except for two plays that he got pulled out of for holding. It happens.
     The best part was at the end of the game when he came running up to us on the field with the biggest grin ever and grabbed us, about knockin' me over. Sweat, OMG. but it was wonderful!!! What an incredible momma moment.
     You probably know football in Texas IS everything. (Forget that Rick Perry dude.) So I started out yelling and screaming, making my eyeball hurt so bad that Alphie had to go beg someone for some extra strength Excedrin for me. And the field lights ... oh man... I had to put my blind girl sunglasses made to fit over my regular glasses back on. I looked like some dumb white ass Stevie Wonder woman wanna be sitting up in those stands with those things on. But I didn't care; there was no way I was leaving that game!!!
     And there was no way I wasn't going to get that slobbery hug.

Will Mom survive that milestone every teenager waits for - driving the car?

Man, oh man, oh man. I'm having a bit of panic attack. Okay, you can't have just a bit of a panic attack, now can you? It's either an attack, or it's not. But what if it's just ordinary worry that every mother or even father goes through when a child is learning how to drive? So, panic isn't the word. It's me realizing that my son has fully embarked upon his travels to becoming an adult. He has finally reached that milestone that every teenager waits for - driving the car.

Doesn't matter if the car is beat up and old or somewhere inbetween new and old. Of course, it would help if it's a really brand new 'fly' car, whatever teenage boys like these days, but the real issue is being able to finally get behind that wheel.

I don't know why I'm worried. I did fine. My dad wasn't worried about me. He let me loose in a pasture beside a church parking lot and said go. He didn't even get too upset when I freaked out and hit the gas pedal instead of the breaks and had the folks sitting in the baseball bleacher on the other side of the church pasture wondering if the Methodist minister's daughter was just about to wipe out the entire Baptist church's baseball team's parents. Hmm. Wonder if that was my Dad's idea in the first place? Wouldn't completely surprise me. He did love messing with the Baptist preachers in those small Texas towns. But, I digress.

My learning how to drive is what is totally freaking me out. I learned in the flatlands of Texas and where people believed in using their blinkers to let you know where they were actually going to go. Asheville drivers are not so great at using their turn signals. Perhaps that's because the public school's driver's education doesn't require that many hours behind the wheel. By the time Zach is let loose to get his learner's permit, he will only have about 10 hours of actual driving time behind the wheel. I had like two weeks total, and they taught me how to parallel park. Zach is not going to get that lesson from his school. Oh, but he will learn. That, I guarantee.

I also remember flying out to Lake Brownwood, which was at least a 30-mile round trip from my house. I'd hit 90 to 100 easy, particularly when I was given a 1976 baby blue and white Cutlass Supreme to drive. Yeah, that was one sweet drive. So, I guess I shouldn't be so suprised that I'm worried about Zach behind the wheel. I know what stupid stuff I did and that was in the flatlands in a small town with a population of about 20,000. Zach has hills, curves, mountains and 80,000+ drivers (just in the city) to have to figure out. (Although, I first started learning to drive in Ennis, an even smaller town of about 13,000, but only 30 miles south of Dallas, so my dad made me drive in Dallas also. And, if you didn't use your blinkers in the Big D to let other drivers know where you were going, you could just about kiss your ass bye-bye.)

Oh, and did I mention that we have to teach him how to drive stick shift? I love my stick shift. Once I learned how to handle a clutch and manual transmission, there has never been one thought about going back to automatic. I have so much more control over my engine and don't constantly hit my breaks. But ... I also remember learning how to drive that stick shift. On one very odd occassion, for some reason my older brother offered to let me take out his power muscle car ... I believe it was a Pontiac Road Runner. Anyway, he let me go for a spin on my own with maybe one trip around the block for a lesson. But Brownwood is one of those small towns that the saying "miles and miles of Texas" is a fitting description. And the *drag* was miles away from my house. I remember getting stuck at a red light and just could not get that damned cool car to go for nothing. Some guys from the nearby gas station had to come help me push that car to a start. As hip as that car was, I never asked to borrow it again. (I was in my 20's and living in another state before I learned how to finally master a manual transmission.)

As a teenager, I also had access to a huge ugly Chevrolet Impala my dad owned. It must have had like 20 different colors of paint on it, all in the shades of blue and grey. It looked like the car Robert Blake drove in the '70s tv series "Baretta." Named it "The Bomb." For that car, I had to carry jumper cables around with me so that when I stopped somewhere, I'd be able to get going again. I always had a gang of my best girl buds along with me; we really didn't care about the jumper cables. We were just happy to have any car and to be able to drive around and around and around, singing all of our favorite songs. We were tasting freedom. Just like any teenage girl from any generation, right?

So, maybe I've written my jitters away. I'll find some of the less traveled roads in the area, and help Zach learn how to drive my stick shift around the back and forth curves, down the slopes, up the hills and he will be fine. But will I? I guess that test comes when I start handing over the keys so the teenager with the learner's permit can continue his journey into manhood - with mom sitting watchfully at his side. While I still can.

Lunch with my bio sister - shocking, expected, mostly awkward

It took forever for her to look at me. Really look at me. Until we actually sat down to eat, she aimed most of her conversation at my husband. When I first walked through the restaurant, I noticed her right away; we’ve seen each other’s twitter picture, so I acknowledged her. She held out her hand, said “Nice to meet you.” I said, “Nice to meet you also.” She and her husband were waiting in line to check the reservation list. I had not made a reservation. Nerves took over. This was no ordinary ‘how do you do?’ meeting. No matter how casual we tried to act.

I’m adopted, have found my bio parents. Or at least I’ve found my bio mom for sure. Thought I had found and met my bio dad also, but some questions have recently been raised. This meeting was between me and my bio sister on my mom’s side to talk about some of these new questions. Husbands were invited. She took off her glasses, and I saw a smaller, slimmer version of myself. Her eyes are blue like mine, but hers are bright blue. Ocean bright blue. Mine? Well, one is messed up because of all my eye surgeries and the other one is more of a true blue. If someone had gotten a picture of us together, you’d be able to tell we were sisters. My husband noticed that immediately. I would like to have gotten a picture of me and my bio sister but it wasn’t going to happen. It wasn’t that kind of family gathering.

This meeting was set up to clarify some questions that don’t need to be exposed here, but she’s known about me since she was a teenager and has been perfectly fine with the relationship as it is. Or, rather as it is not. On the surface, you would have thought two couples had just met, decided to have lunch together. The usual ‘get to know you’ comments and questions were asked. How many children do you have? What’s the weather like where you live? Exactly what part of Texas is your town nearby? How long have you been in Asheville? So on and so on.

When the plates were cleared, it was time to get down to business. I brought up the reason for our get-together. Questions and comments were once more exchanged. These were more serious and personal. Some shocking. Some expected. All awkward.

No definite answers at this meeting, but we left with a better understanding of this very strange situation in which we found ourselves. Neither one of us had expected this in our lives. She’s the oldest in her family; she had just met an older sister. I’m the youngest in my adopted family, but I had just met my little bio sister.

When there was nothing more to say, once again she held out her hand and said “Nice to have met you.” I returned her handshake. We turned and left in our own directions. I’m not sure if we will ever physically be together again. Probably not. That is her choice. But, I do know that each of us left that restaurant a changed woman. Whether we care to admit it, or not.

A tale of two grandfathers .... 'you're number one'

Many of you know I'm adopted. Some of you know I've found both of my biological parents. Some of you have not a clue as to what I'm talking about. Sorry, but I'm not going into that tale right now. You're just going to have to deal with that little tidbit of my life and let me move on with my adventure. But, it's important for you to understand that fact so you'll appreciate this story about my dad. My adopted dad. My preacher daddy. My daddy.

My biological father and I lost touch for several years for various reasons. My son was about nine when bio dad and I reconnected. I knew he'd kill me if he ever found out he had a grandson and I had not told him, so it was time for new introductions. We were all waiting for bio dad to show up at my dad's house.(My adopted dad ... I know it's gets confusing, but try and hold on here with me. How do you think I feel?) Daddy kept us entertained with his ever colorful stories of his everyday life.

He and a woman were driving - in separate cars - on one of the gazillion of freeway miles somewhere between Dallas and Fort Worth. And, although my 80-something father liked to drive no less than 80 miles an hour, that speed was too slow for her. She finally passed him, sailed by, showing him her middle finger held high. The bird. The big 'ef off. Daddy smiled at her, laughed to himself, then decided she must have really liked him because "she was telling me I was number 1." My son lay on the floor, at the feet of one beloved grandfather, waiting to meet a new grandfather and had himself a fierce giggle when he saw his grandpa give the bird sign.

The doorbell rang as soon as the story was over. (My dad had great timing.) He answered the door and greeted my bio dad (they had met several times years before). Bio dad walks in and Daddy says, "Hi there, how have you been? I'd like you to meet our grandson, Zach." Bio dad bends down to shake hands with my well-mannered 9-year-old and tells him how nice it is to meet him. Rather than a handshake, bio dad is greeted with an upheld middle finger. "Hi. It's nice to meet you, too. You're number one."

Left eyeball in corner pocket

Here's the short - and I mean short - version of my eye story: I got hit in my left eye when I was nine-years-old with a glow-in-the-dark super ball one summer while we were on vacation, visiting my dad's oldest sister in Houston. My favorite aunt, I'd like to add. I spent the rest of that summer, flat on my back, in the Ennis, Texas hospital with both eyes shut tight with surgical tape and gauze. Eyes are quite regenerative and can heal themselves. My eye doctor, recommended by the Mayo clinic, thought mine might do so. It's pretty darn hard for a very active 9-year-old to accept laying flat on the back for the entire summer.

My eye did not heal and I had to have a surgery. That's caused several surgeries since. I had a cornea transplant 9 years ago and that cornea has gone bad. I need a new one. Before I can get a new one, the glaucoma in that left eye needs to stabilize. I had a surgery in early January to help do so. It ain't working. My eyesight is worse. I wear an eye patch because the vision in that eye is so cloudy, it literally makes me more dizzy than I am already. j/k. But, it does mess with my vision and eye muscles, and does make me dizzy, so it's best to sometimes just wear the patch.

I saw my glaucoma doctor today and the pressure is *somewhat* stabilized. Of course, it could be sky high tomorrow and my eyeball will feel like it's going to explode. There's no way to monitor my pressure on my own. I am to see my corneal surgeon soon to find out what he thinks. I'm going to talk with him about these new studies coming out that corneas can be made new again from certain *good* eye cells. I'm going to offer myself up for research. What do I have to lose? An eye? Well, that's pretty much happened anyway. What do I have to gain? Perhaps everything.

Is that the pope?

So, today's the day. The day that would have been my dad's 88th birthday. Blows my mind that he's gone. Even if he did live to be 84. He was just always young in my eyes. And in the eyes of many others. But time does march on and and we do get called back home, whatever home may actually be. Yes, I'm a bit down, touchy, sad and all those other negative feelings no one - particularly myself - really wants me to feel or talk about, today. Besides, I've felt enough of that crap for the last four years since he passed. I'm working on finally getting back to the light.

But, I will share a story he and I had about home. Heaven. He was looking forward to finding out what Heaven actually looked like. He'd been preaching about it for more than 50 years, and now he was finally going to learn the secret, see the glory. He didn't believe he'd be able to contact me after he left this world. I believed he could. So we a made deal - if he could, he would.

He planned his own memorial. No picture on the front of the funeral takeaway. No singing 'Amazing Grace.' No body. Literally. He gave that to science since he wouldn't be needing it anymore and they'd pay to have him cremated. Smart, really. He emphatically did not want an open casket. He hated those kinds of funerals. While those of us in the pews could see part of the body sticking up out of the caskets, my dad had prime view from the top. He hated that and joked about how some dearly departed might just sit up one time and cuss my dad out for making up such good stuff about them just to make the still living feel better.

And, most important, his minister friends were not to wear their robes. He made them promise and I was to make sure they followed through. He did not believe a robe made a minister a man of God. In fact, if it hadn't been part of church doctrine or tradition, he would have never worn a robe. I don't recall him wearing them at early morning or evening services. And, I remember several summer months, he'd decided to go without. He knew God didn't care, and he figured the "elders" in the church would just have to deal with it.

There was a picture in his house of him in a robe that had been taken sometime just after I left home in the late '70s. It was placed in a prime location over the fireplace mantel, in the den, where no one could dare miss seeing it. It had been put there by my stepmother, who, of course, made the rules about decorations. So there it stayed. My dad, my husband and I laughed about that picture. It was a story shared only between the three of us. Daddy said that picture made him look like the pope. Step mom would give us 'the look' every time we talked about the photo, but this was one area she could say nothing. My dad let the picture stay; she had to let us laugh at it.

He had, however, agreed to let my step mom place that picture in the hallway outside of the sanctuary at his service. He knew she loved that picture and had wanted it on his memory giveaway. Sitting outside of the minister's office was the compromise.

One of his friends, with almost 60 years of stories about my dad, choked his way through several parts of the memorial service, the parts that require you actually acknowledge your loved one is gone. However his eyes lit up when he told this story and looked directly at me. He told how he and the other preachers had gathered in the hallway before the service to go over their parts and pull themselves together. A mother and child came to the office, she needing to pay that week's childcare. The child was told to wait outside, to stand beside my dad's over-sized photo. When his mother returned, the little boy asked sincerely, and purely, as only a small child can do, "Mommie, is that guy the pope?"

After the service, I asked my dad's friend why he had chosen to tell that particular story. He said he didn't really know, that it just seemed appropriate because my dad loved little kids and they adored him back. He said it also came to him that for some reason, I might understand what that story meant. And, I did. Daddy said good-bye to me, and only me, in that moment of storytelling. I've never felt his actual presence again, although I know he's laughing it up in Heaven. So I guess we were both right. His spirit was able to hang around just long enough to let me know he could communicate with me. Then he hightailed on up to Heaven where he so belongs.

Happy Birthday, Daddy. I love you. I miss you. I don't have that picture yet, but I do have your robe hanging in a closet.