I remember my dad talking about how he felt when his uncles and aunts got older. The urgency to connect or re-connect. How it felt when they transitioned/changed addresses/left this earth. I wish I’d have paid closer attention to that navigation process.

John Blakeley made that big move several days ago. Growing up as his niece, he seemed larger than life so this one makes me wish I had a map to follow because I just feel lost.

My Uncle John gave the best bear hugs. NO, HE DID. I will stand firm on this hill. He’d say, “Ready?” And you knew to suck in some air and hold it because your ribs were about to meet your spine. He’d wrap his arms around you and hug you as tight as you’ve ever been hugged. And you’d giggle and squirm and feel so loved.

His son, my cousin Aaron, does this too. At Rick Baldwin’s memorial service this last spring, I saw AJ and went over to give him a hug. He said, “Ready?” 

Oh yes.

Uncle John had a wicked sense of humor. (He’d not be pleased I described it that way!) If you found yourself in a car with him you’d better protect your knees because at the most unexpected moment, he’d reach over and clamp his hand on the ‘funny bone’ of your knee. 

I do not know of another way to describe it…but it was both hilarious and crazy-making at the same moment. 

He will forever hold the title of Master of Efficiency in my book. From the way he walked, to washing his car at the crack of dawn, to a 20 minute (all encompassing) sermon, to vocally speeding up a hymn he felt was lagging - he did not drag things out just to belabor a point. He was way beyond his time in the ‘this meeting should have been an email’ group.

As much as I say my dad could have been a cowboy, I can equally assert Uncle John could have been a pioneer. Grit, determination, stubbornness, focus on a bigger picture - he had all that. 

He is resting now. A well-deserved, beautiful, complete rest. And to him, I love you the most, no matter what you say.

In Memoriam

 

(The above photo is from our 1995 SCPD Christmas Party. Lola reposted it a couple days ago before she left us. She's the tiny, non-smiling blonde in the back row. Yes, I was wearing heels.)

If you are fortunate, you encounter giants in this life. They are not always large in stature, some are small and feisty and take zero grief from anyone.

If you are really lucky, you will find a personal giant. That giant will come equipped with a fire and determination to drag you into the best iteration of yourself you can be. Usually despite your best efforts otherwise. 

Giants accept no excuses because they’ve lived it. Done it. Handled it all. They only know to create a way forward when the rest of us are still scattered. Their impact is felt in the moment and far, far beyond.

I don’t know that I can ever encapsulate this particular giant of mine with mere words but I need to try…

When I left SCPD dispatch - in the midst of our local police department joining with the county and becoming Netcom -  I wrote something for Lola and had it framed to commemorate the significance of my time with her. When I gave her what I’d written, she teared up. Then was immediately annoyed because she never made me cry in training. (That she knew of.)

She challenged my naive 20-something self to be so much more than a job. In enumerable ways, she taught me about life. To show up and do your best. That excuses are for the unprepared. How to be generous with people but give no quarter. (She would totally use other words there.) And above all else - do the right thing. If only because it is the right thing.

She demanded these things in no uncertain terms.

I loved working for her. Even when I got in trouble for not knowing where an overpass was in a verbal pop quiz. Thank you Mike Pruger for graciously accepting the spur-of-the-moment patrol ride along. Driving me to said overpass and waiting while I walked across it as instructed. Despite the fact that when you went in service you announced over the radio there was a “banished dispatcher” with you.

PS I’m also pretty sure that was the night I saved your sunglasses as they slid across the dash towards my open window during a pursuit. You’re welcome.

Personal calls were not allowed in dispatch because all lines were recorded and potentially could be material in a trial. Lola was the one who had to weed through the audio, capturing the pertinent sections as required. Sometimes though, ahem, personal calls were made and we took great delight in the midst of said calls, shouting “Hi Lola!” just so she wouldn’t be bored while listening. 

She was especially understanding when she found me dancing and lip syncing on a graveyard shift to a boom box we had in the corner of dispatch. To my credit I finished the song despite our super awkward eye contact. To her credit she merely shook her head and went back to her office.

There are people who come into your life and alter it forever. Usually you don’t recognize it in the moment with the impact only becoming clear later on. But oh, sometimes you know it right then and you relish every margarita and tortilla chip, dance, and story you are privileged to share together. 

Lola Crain, there will never be another human being like you.

She Still Looks For Me

 A millisecond is less than an eye blink. Science-y people can address this in greater detail and in ways I cannot fathom. My sociology/criminology degree only goes so far. 

What I do know is this: in the instant registering victory or failure, my daughter looks for me. In a moment demanding response, my girl checks to see I am there. 

It’s quicker than the catch of a pop-up. Or its drop. Faster than a solid hit. Or the last swing of a strike out. More rapid than a stolen base. Or bunt. Or getting called out.

It is an infinitesimal shift disguised as a glance. To find me. To make sure I see her. And I am there. I see her. Every time.

I can write a bunch more words about all this - lord knows I have that capacity and inclination. But somehow this particular exchange between us seems sacred and I will honor it.

Very soon she’ll realize she can validate her own self and doesn’t need my presence nor approval. It’s going to absolutely crush and delight me in equal parts.

That time is nearer than I’d like but that’s how this all works. I adore the honor of watching her evolve and grow. Even as she moves beyond me…because, oh, that’s the good stuff right there.

It all feels so fast. And I’m nowhere near ready. But it’s not about me at all. 

For now, for today’s game, she still looked for me. That is enough. 

Words and Moments

My dad and I loved what he’d call ‘visiting’ with each other. I’ll be real, we both just enjoyed talking and we could certainly each hold our own. Whether at the kitchen table, a restaurant, or especially at a book store with a coffee after some book purchases!

Some talks were anecdotal and humorous. Dad: “Did I ever tell you about…?” Family stories passed down and I was never quite sure what was actual truth and what was embellished in the interest of a good story. I enjoyed them all the same. Still other conversations as adults were deep, meaningful, and sometimes unwieldy. 

In those challenging discussions, we didn’t always agree but it made the interaction more significant. When someone you love and respect presents an opposing viewpoint, you probably should take a pause. At the very least, quit planning the next thing you intend to say and simply be open. Breathe.

I treasured the times dad asked for my opinion because he really wanted to know my thoughts. We’d share quotes and poems from our favorite authors. One was Frederick Buechner. Look him up for his vast CV. Most importantly, Buechner wasn’t afraid to dig deep and question. That immediately made him one of my ‘top ten.’

I sent this quote to dad a few years ago and just re-read it before a wonderfully healing yoga practice:

Dad’s response? “Buechner does it again! I love you the most, Jules.”

Note to self today? Timing is everything. Thanks daddy, I hear you loud and clear.