The Wednesday Pop - Vol. I

Seventy four years ago today the world changed.  It really did.  You may not know the significance, so I'll explain.  When I first explain, you may think I'm exaggerating, but I plan to spend the next year explaining how the world changed for the better for all of us.

On this day in December in 1938, a little baby was born at home to the beautiful young Lorena Butler Murphy.  He was named Donald Clarence Murphy.  He would do great things, but they didn't know that then.  They just knew he was a blessing and he was precious and he was healthy.

Last spring when I wrote about my amazing mother, I made a promise (mostly to myself) that I would write about my father and I would do it while he was here to read it.  I intend to make good on that promise.

I've been thinking for a while about how I'd like to tell you about little Donnie who grew up to be Donald C. Murphy, Ph.D.  I've been wondering about the best format, the clearest way to tell you about him.  I think I've got my plan.

I have a lot to say, to write and to remember about this man.  It's hard to sum him up without some time.  I intend to give it just that.  I've decided that I'll spread out my memories and stories about him over this next year, on the blog, in a segment called The Wednesday Pop - Wednesdays because that's the day and Pop because it's his grandfather name and because it sounds really cool.

Prepare to be moved.  Prepare to learn and to listen and to join me as I recount just some of why I am so fortunate.  I cannot imagine how the stars aligned and Jodi and I got picked to be Dad's daughters, but I thank God every single day.  It has been a journey that continues now.  The rest of you seem to be making it, but I'm not sure how you're doing without a Dad like mine.

I have many things to tell you, so it will  take some time.  I'll tell you things he taught me about people, God, the world and feelings.  I'll tell you about my memories of growing up with a Dad like Dad.  I'll tell you about quiet times and times full of laughter.  I'll tell you touching things that you won't believe. As a parent, sometimes I look back on my father during my childhood and use it as a guidebook and other times I look back and just feel amazed.  My childhood wasn't perfect.  I won't say that.  No one's is, and that would be a dishonest waste of time.  My childhood was real and wonderful and hard and exciting and frustrating and scary and loving, just like most.  But I went through it with someone I want you to know better and I can't wait to tell the stories.

I hope you'll enjoy them with me.  I hope you'll think back on your own memories, remember the dear ones who make your journey worthwhile.  I'll love this romp through the past and this closer look at the present.  I hope you will, too.

I love you, Dad.

Whitwell TN, paperclips and a plea from an 8 year old . . .

If you're not sure how these three things relate, please read on.  You may call me Oprah if you'd like, because I'm about to tell you about one of my favorite things.  My son reminded me of it Sunday night when he pleaded with everyone in our house (we had a Pop, a Baba and a Gigi visiting) that we stop what we were doing, sit down together and watch the movie, Paper Clips.

Usually an eight year old's plea to parents and grandparents doesn't involve a serious documentary film, but this one is different.  This film, this project, worked its way into Harry's heart when he first saw it and he can't let it go.  I admire him for it, and I thank him for the tenacity with which he hung on to get the family assembled to see it together.  

We were busy.  Folks were coming, folks were going, showers were starting, Sunday night was ending and the whole gang was tired from a wonderful weekend.  Harry got it in his mind, though, that we were long overdue at showing the movie to his grandparents.  He wasn't letting it go.  I watched as we all ran through the laundry list of reasons that late Sunday night wasn't the time to start something new. I heard my own voice reminding me that I was tired, that my children were exhausted, that we had put the grandparents through enough for one weekend.  No one was excited about the movie.  No one had it in them.  Harry wouldn't stop.  I saw the determination in his eyes.  I heard the urgency in his voice.  He took a shower with no nudging to ready himself for the cinema experience.  I began to realize that this was a time that the young shall lead us.  I began to know that we had to listen.   

A few years ago, my dear friend Dan, introduced me to the movie.  I'm glad he did.  We showed to a group of young folks and they were mesmerized.  One of them just brought it up to me recently and told me that she had never forgotten it.  Eight year old Harry has been the same.  He was curious about it, but we dragged our feet on letting him watch it.  I was afraid its subject matter was too hard.  I feared he wasn't ready to hear about the atrocities of the holocaust.  I didn't want him to hear how bad it had been - didn't want him to know that humans could be so horrible.  

We have our own copy now.  Sadly, I found it for a dollar at the bottom of a beat up bargain bin at an ailing video store.  Harry noticed it right away and continued to be curious about it.  He begged to see it, to know what it was about.  

It finally dawned on me that I couldn't keep my young son from evil any more than I could erase it from history.  My children will know about it, they will read about it in all its forms and they will be eye witnesses to things I cannot imagine.  I can't keep evil from creeping into their lives.  They can turn on the tv or log onto instagram and see things I hoped they'd never witness.  It's out there.  Maybe showing them what happens when people don't think for themselves is an important enough lesson to teach.

Perhaps, I thought, Harry should see it so we could all talk about it together.  I can't erase evil but I can tell my children what I think of it, I can tell them about how their ancestors felt and I can brainstorm with them ways to make things better.  My kids saw the movie; and I'm not exaggerating to say that they were transformed.  I watched their faces and I saw as they moved to another place in life.  I witnessed them graduating to a place of awareness.  Hopefully, they won't ever forget what they learned about what one person, or a small group of determined individuals can do.  Hopefully, they will remember.  

If you haven't been fortunate enough to see the movie, Paper Clips, I hope you will make it happen.  I hope you will learn about Whitwell, TN and the unlikely individuals that marked their little corner of the world forever.  I don't think you'll ever forget it.  The story of what happened in this little forgotten town will make you think.  Aside from being a beautiful example of incredible film-making, it will change you forever.  Grab a friend or a child, rent the movie and be astounded at courage and thinking outside the box and transformation.  I dare you.

Thanks, Harry, for making us slow down.  Thank you for demanding that we remember together how important it always is to practice thinking for ourselves and how lucky we are to live in a place where we can do just that.  

Why the blog? - you ask. Because we can't rewind.

Good question.  I've been thinking about my blog lately.  Last week was my first planned week off from the blog and it had me wondering.  Had me looking back over the last year, little snippets and pictures from the year's stories and reports.  Some days, as I stared out over the vast ocean expanse or heard my kids giggling and splashing in the surf or quietly paddled the back waters of the low country, I let myself wonder about the blog, the stories, the tales and the work.  I silently asked myself what I thought about this new form of communication - the blog.  I listened as my mind went to work, recalling the thanksgivings and the muses about writing and using pictures to mark my time.

I like it, I heard myself say.

I think it's important to tell my stories.  It's not that my stories are any more important than anyone else's - that's just it.   We all have to do it.  If we don't, they get lost.  And that makes me sad.  Over this year, I've begun to hear a running discourse in my head.  Usually it feels productive and mildly entertaining.  I seem to be writing the blog as I maneuver through my days.  I try out different phrases or wonder about a myriad photographs and I consider the ways to transfer an idea to my friends.  It's like my own little storybook, happening all in secret.  Maybe that makes me sound crazy.  I'm fine with that.  It gets on my nerves sometimes, too, though, and I wish my brain wouldn't keep thinking about how to show it with pictures or how to tell it with words.

But I'm beginning to believe that it is what it is.  It's my stuff, awaiting its chance to get out, to tell the world, to be heard.  We all have it - it just gets told in various ways.  For now, it seems to me the blog is working.  One of the most rewarding dividends of Press Pause  has been what you all give me back.  I've received the most awesome letters, heard your amazing tales and been swept away by your comments.  If what I write, what anyone writes, stirs something in you to tell your stories - we all win.  And little pieces of what makes up our lives get sprinkled a little farther and a little longer.  It's important.

I remembered a lot of folks this past week - thought about old friends, past co-workers, loved ones who have left this world - and it filled me with a greater sense that our telling and our listening are vital.  If the stories die when the worn out bodies do, then too many amazing things are lost.  I can recall bits of stories that my grandfathers told and I can remember that I laughed and laughed and laughed.  I don't remember the details, though, and I didn't ask enough to keep the stories alive.  I wish I had.

Hopefully, in years to come, my children will read back over some crazy lines from some plain ole' day in 2012 and get a little clearer picture of who I was when I was the forty eight year old mother of three.  Hopefully.

I think it might work.

A few years ago, my Dad was witness to a line from my son Harry that completely explains our need to know.  Dad was whistling, as they rode along in the car on a day of errands.  'Pop' is a whistler extraordinaire, and it's difficult to describe him without adding the whistle.  My son is a thinker, a wonderer, and I treasure that about him.  Harry, in the back seat, asked Pop how he first learned to whistle and Pop explained that his father, Pappy, had been a whistler and Pappy had taught him how.  Harry pondered on that for a few minutes and then came out with the wish - words I'll never forget.  "You know what, Pop?"  he said.  "Don't you sometimes wish that we could just rewind?"

You got it, kid.  I wish we could.  I wish I could rewind, with a magic button with a two left pointed triangles, just like on the dvr.  I wish I could sit Harry down with Pappy and I wish they could laugh together and tell each other stories and that Pappy could teach Harry about whistling.  I wish Pappy could tell about how he learned to whistle and about how it was when he was growing up and about his multitude of adventures, growing up poor poor and parentless from his young teens.  He could tell the awesome stories about hiding in the train cars and hiding under the hay - the ones whose details I cannot remember.

I bet Harry's big brown eyes would be wide open.  I bet he wouldn't move a muscle.  I bet he'd never be the same.  And . . . I bet after the sad stories and the tales of adventures and mischief, Harry would take Pappy out to the driveway and teach him a thing or two about how to do tricks on a pogo stick.  They'd switch stories and it would be grand.

Yeah, my sweet Bear, I do wish we could rewind.

The stories . . . the funny ones and the sad ones, the serious and the silly - we have to tell them, share them and keep wondering and listening.  We don't have a rewind button, but we can sure press pause
on little bits of times.  I figure it's when we are telling and listening, sharing and remembering, crying and laughing that we are really awake to all that's around us.  I don't want to forget those moments and I want to hear about yours, too.

We can't rewind, so let's wake up and share the good stuff while we are here.
I'm listening.

A Window's Reminder . . .

I found this photo on my computer recently.  It was taken a few months ago at a cabin up in the North Georgia mountains.  I like the photo because of all that it symbolizes for me.  This photo, this window, reminds me to keep looking at the possibilities and to remember that the clear light of the sun just keeps on shining through.  This symbol works for me this morning.  I hope it's helpful for you.  I think I'll file this one away in my brain for a rainy day or a confusing moment or a time I forget about all of the possibilities.  

I think pictures tell stories, and this one says a lot.  

I wanted you all to know that the Monday Morning Contest of the last few weeks was won!  My friend, Glenn, was the first to identify three of the photos.  It looks like I'll be photographing on Saint Simon's Island before too long!  

Here are the answers:

THE LINCOLN MEMORIAL

LOVELY LANE CHAPEL ON SAINT SIMON'S ISLAND, GA

A QUAD AT VANDERBILT UNIVERSITY

EXPEDITION EVEREST AT ANIMAL KINGDOM

Keeping cool . . .

Sometimes I like to consider peaceful things.  I like to remember places I've been, things I've seen.

(A long time ago) when I did a lot of SCUBA diving I would work hard to be conscious of what I felt.  I would move along in the water - flying, really - and carefully file away the scenery.

I wanted to remember that what I was seeing in the ocean, the peaceful and dreamy ecosystem, was happening all of the time.  I wanted to be able to bring those 'pictures' to my mind's eye whenever I needed calm.

When I'm having a stressful day or feeling overwhelmed, it works for me.  (Well, not all of the time, but I won't talk about that in the blog.)

If things in reality get TOO REAL, it helps me to stop and think about peaceful settings, places where I've known God's presence, where I've heard such calm, such quiet.

The colorful lands under the sea are just that - the beings there are moving effortlessly through coral and the sea fans are waving slowly with the currents.  I might be worried about the next hour or the traffic or the next shoot, but under the water's surface the same quiet still exists.

I like to look at these photos I took years ago.  I like to remember, to consider all of that happening still, right now.

 

I hope you enjoy.  Maybe you need to remember something quiet, too.

What helps you remember calmness?

Listen up!

As I looked at this yesterday afternoon . . .

I remembered the four, yes four, times that the nice man at Carmax asked me if I needed to get anything else from my car.  

It went down as follows:

I drive into the bay for my car repair.  I scan the car to get all of the things I need.  I will be leaving it for a few days.  I grab a few items.  I do not think about, nor do I grab, the 'clicker' for the garage that lets me into my home or my house key.

I go into the office.  The nice many says, "Mrs. Graham, do you need to get anything out of your car?"

I think about it.  'No, thanks, I've got it all.'  That's number 1.

I complete some paper work.  The nice man asks me about my insurance information since I will be getting a 'loaner' car.  I need to go to the car to find my card.  The nice man says,  "You can have another check to see if there is anything in there that you need to grab."  I go to the car to fetch the insurance information.  I find it easily.  I look around.  I do not think about, nor do I grab, the 'clicker' for the garage that lets me into my home or my house key.  That's number 2.


We finish up the paperwork.  Another nice man is washing the loaner car.  The first nice man says, "I'll go bring your car around to the repair area.  Is there anything else you want to get out before I leave with it?"  'No, I'm good.  Thanks.'  I do not remember, nor do I grab, the 'clicker' for the garage that lets me into my home or my house key.  That's number 3.


The second nice man comes to tell me that my loaner car is washed and ready to go.  I laugh and say, "The car you're giving me is a lot cleaner than the car I'm giving you!"  'Oh, no problem, ma'm.  Speaking of your car, is there anything you need to get out of there before you leave?  "No, thanks, though.  I've got everything."  I do not think about, nor do I grab, the 'clicker' for the garage that lets me into my home or my house key.  That's number 4.


And so today, my friends, from inside my home (that my children helped me break into) I consider this . . . are there times that God, the universe, luck, providence, and fate are all working desperately to get me to notice something?

Snap. Got it!

I love it when something wakes me up, pulls me out of wherever I am and grabs me, makes me pay attention.  The other day, as I was readying my equipment for a shoot, I saw this.  I wasn't there to take this shot.  This little guy was on his way to ball practice, not part of the photos. 

But something made him stop, turn around and stand right there in the doorway for just a second or two.  My head was busy scanning the area for the perfect light, when my eyes caught sight of him.  He just got me, standing there, doing whatever it was that he was doing.  

I grabbed my camera, hurried to put on the lens and snapped as quickly as I could.  Just as soon as my finger hit the shutter, he was gone.  I don't know why he stopped there, stalling for just a moment on his way to practice.  I just knew that I wanted to capture it, knew that was a moment that wasn't coming back.

There is nothing remarkable about this photo.  Technically speaking, it's not superb.  The reason shots like this are special, at least to me, is that they represent moments.  They are tangible pieces of history that we can look at and touch later, when this little leaguer is a man.  

He must walk in and out of that door fifty times in a day.  It's all very average.  But years down the road, he won't look like this.  That little uniform won't fit.  He'll have moved on to bigger things.  I wanted this shot because I scanned the area and my eyes stopped to focus on a moment - an average old moment when a five year old slugger was about the important business of growing up.  

I pressed pause for just a sec and we can stare at that later for as long as we want.

What will you see today?  What might your eyes focus on while you are busy doing something else?  Is there something you might want to press pause on today?  

You could take a photo, write it down, say it out loud or laugh about it with a friend.  Try that; it will last longer that way.

Check out these dreams . . .

A few months ago a friend sent me some photos that touched me, photos she found on the web of a baby, snapshots that a mother took while her baby slept.  Many of you may have seen these; they're a treat.  If you have not spent some time on this special blog, I hope you will today.  If you've seen a few of the photos before, you might like checking out the 'behind the blog' explanation and watching the YouTube video.

Remember the post about my dear friends who made their kids a firepole?  (http://deana-pressingpause.blogspot.com/2012/01/how-to-install-firepole-ive-known-this.html)  This story, and the love behind it are similar to me.  This is a story about a mother who actually pressed pause on a fleeting moment, savored it, took time for it.  I think it's a story for us all.  We don't have to be mothers or photographers or artists or anything special . . . we just have to be in the moment.  

Look what this mother did while her sweet new baby slept.  Think of the love, the creativity, the savoring that went into this.  Enjoy.  Take a moment yourself to daydream, remember, imagine.  

What might you do to press pause today?  

Use this link and spend a few moments.  You'll be glad you did.  Enjoy Mila's Daydreams.

http://milasdaydreams.blogspot.com/p/about-blog.html

Something good to remember . .

A special event of this weekend took me back - way back.  My kids had their first swim meet, and it was a happy occasion, to be sure!  In just a few short hours of our Saturday morning, I found myself wanting to cram 'a whole bunch of wisdom' into my children.   A swim meet does that, I presume; throws in your face many options for covering your child in what one believes and does not believe about winning, losing, trying, persevering and the like.  The meet started quickly and made me realize I hadn't spent adequate time talking to my kids about winning and losing, about attitude and spirit.  I worried for a moment, and then I decided to relax and enjoy the festive air.

My kids and their friends are not serious swimmers - this is their first year of 'swim team.'  They've never participated in a meet before and all they know of what makes a swim a 'meet' are the force fed memories I have recounted for them on many occasions.  You see, my swim team experience is one I wish I could give them, and it has absolutely nothing to do with perfect strokes and extensive practice.

In the neighborhood where I grew up, we had a pool.  As far as I knew, every neighborhood where everyone grew up had a similar pool.  And, as far as I knew, every child in each of those neighborhoods swam on the swim team.  That's the way it was, I thought.  I don't know how it came to be that my sister and I swam on the team; that's just the way it was.  And I'm thankful.

I'm sure I'm missing a few of the negative details, for surely there were some, but what I remember of it was quite wonderful.  Our summers were eaten up with swimming and the pool was the central focus of our kid lives.  Each weekday morning we jumped on our bikes and rode (often with no hands on the bike) down the hill to the pool.  We joined other friends of all different ages from the other areas of the neighborhood and jumped off of our bikes in unison, throwing them into a pile of colorful medal and banana seats.  I mention this pile of two-wheeled treasure for I picture it perfectly in my mind - it's an illustration of a great time, a time with no bike locks, no perfect order, no helmets, and no vigilant  accompanying parents - it's picture of a big mess of simplicity.  The only worry associated with time at the pool was in needing to leave early for some reason and realizing that you had the bike at the bottom of the pile.

My memories of being on the Cedar Creek Swim Team are these:  early morning practices filled with lots of laughs as we complained that the water was too cold - hard work as coaches and friends pushed us to try harder, to do our best - charts where our times were posted and glee when we watched our numbers get better - lots of fun for the remainder of the day as we went about our days all in the confines of this Athens, Georgia eastside subdivision pool.  Many of our meals were eaten at the pool, we played cards at the pool, we swam in the rain, in the dark, all day long.  I remember putting my towel beside the teenagers and spending whole days learning every word to Philadelphia Freedom and such.  We huddled in the 'chemicals' building when it stormed and hoped it would clear up in time to get back out for more fun, we took turns giggling as we answered the pay phone just across from the shallow end, we taught younger friends how to play Spider and Marco Polo and all of the other staples of summertime in the seventies.  It was fun.  Really fun.  And the only thing better than any old summer day was Thursday nights . . .

Thursday nights were when we had the meets!  Thursday nights were when our friends' swim team came to our pool or we went to theirs, where we painted ourselves with the names of our races, donned our stars and stripes racing suits, proudly wore our swim caps and shouted for our teams.  Thursday nights were 'what it was all about.'

I've thought a lot about those times since my kids' meet on Saturday, and I've marveled at what I remember.  What I remember is what I wish most to give my children, what matters most.  What I remember is a feeling, a full feeling of happiness and love and excitement and a time when I shared simple fun with most of the people I knew best in the world.  Thursdays were awesome, though I know that isn't the word we used at the time (I'm trying to remember what we said, but I know it was good.)

On Thursdays everyone ended up at the pool; the mamas and the daddies, the folks who stayed at home and the ones that worked in an office, they all ended up at the pool on Thursdays.  On Thursdays we didn't eat 'real' food - no way - we snacked all evening on pure junk (this was just before we learned that pure sugar wasn't actually the best way to fuel a body for hard work) and each family had a home base - that was where a parent sat, guarded the towels and the chairs, and watched over the candy, the treasures.  And the parent who wasn't at the home base was either at the end of a lane as timer or working at the concession stand or manning the ribbon table.  There were folks watching over us everywhere.  I didn't think about that then, I just reveled in the fun, in the belonging.  Parents gathered us in the bullpen and coaches gave us last minute pointers and we laughed - a lot.

What I've thought about most in the last few days is what EXACTLY I remember from those times.  And what I DON'T remember.  I have absolutely no idea about the particulars, no clue who was best at which race.  I have no idea who won each heat, but I often see the face of the sweet girl who almost always came in last, and I remember how her spirit and her smile made her the hands-down favorite of all of us.  Though I know I loved breaststroke best, I don't recall which distance I swam most or which heat I liked to be in or which friends I swam against most.  I don't remember any of that.  None of that is part of the magic in my mind.

I remember the feelings, the security, the routine, the knowing about what to expect.  I remember the faces of the all of the folks around the pool, the sights of the parents - mine and my friends - who cheered us on, who wanted us to succeed, who wrapped us in big, dry towels and hugged us and squealed with us about how wonderful it all was.  I remember all of that; I remember exactly what it felt like, how it sounded, the noises of the races in the background, the loudspeaker calling the names of the next racers, the giggles of the babies who ran from their parents.

I remember it all, and I am thankful for those experiences.  I'm thankful for the days of fun, of belonging, of feeling like I was on my own while in the caring, watchful eyes of many.  I remember those times and I smile.  They are good memories, and I regret that I may not be able to afford my own children those times, those early morning practices, those Thursday nights.

My mind drifts back to where we are now, to the present, and I smile as I think back to Saturday and to the faces of my kids and their friends.  I remember how we cheered for each other's children and how we filled the cement at the end of each lane and how we screamed at the top of our lungs and how we sent out as much love as we could for each child in the pool.

It was different, this first meet.  It was inside and there were lots of unknowns.  Our children are just learning and there weren't many kids in the pool alongside them.  But they swam their hearts out and they had a first lesson in looking over, realizing they weren't ahead, and knowing they had to keep trying.  Us adults had our first attempts at shouting out encouragement, at yelling our hopes and wrapping them in the towels at the end of the lane.  We all had our first run at the swim meet.  There wasn't any junk food, save the generic Gator-ade from QuickTrip and there was no pile of bikes.  We brought the kids in our mini-vans and Subarus and we watched their every move.  There wasn't a ribbon table, but everybody got a bright green participation ribbon to keep.  It was different from the old days, it was.  But I'm thankful.

I think we all learned a lot.  The kids aren't quite ready to star in a YouTube video how-to on stroke steps, but they swam - they swam hard and they were proud.  We screamed and we were proud.  It was good.  I can't make it the way it was in 1979, but it's 2012 and my children loved their first swim meet.

I cannot know what they'll remember, but I'm pretty sure they've already forgotten where they placed in each race.  And now they know what it feels like to push and try with all they have and they know what it looks like to come up for air and gaze into the many eyes of caring folks, people who want them to succeed and grow up in love and happiness.  And that is good.  

That's something good to remember.