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To see a World in a Grain of Sand And a Heaven in a Wild Flower Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand And Eternity in an hour. My mother arrived yesterday afternoon while I was out helping a friend troubleshoot the Internet connectivity in their new home. I took a plant, card, and bottle of housewarming over and was surprised to find out that mine was the only gift received. Maybe people don't do things like that anymore? When EL and I moved into our home, our next door neighbors baked us a pie and brought it over. A very traditional and perhaps the sweetest gesture a neighbor has ever offered in all the years of new pins on the map for me. When I got home, we sat out on the back patio with some wine and conversation. I began to make a fire in the chiminea. No sooner had it taken root and started to blossom, the rain came. It was when the intervals between sprinkles began to be punctuated with droplets that we were driven inside. The original plans to grill out were modified to grill in and our lapping open flame and fresh air soon became sizzling stove top and the lingering scent of impossible-to-have-too-many candles. I avoided looking at my flight information or checking in remotely. I knew approximately when I needed to get to the airport and that, for the time being, was more than enough information. It was a short, but nice evening. Last week, the father of a dear friend passed away. Not that it needs expounding, but when I say passed away, I mean died. Everyone, at least familiar with American colloquialisms understands what those types of easier to digest phrases represent. I topically understand why they came about and why they are still used, but for some reason I feel awkward saying them out loud. It feels like I'm misrepresenting truth when in fact, I am not. Anyhoo, fortunately, I do not feel awkward typing them so, as I was saying... Greg, whom I've known for the better part of 17 years now, was in my basic training (boot camp) company in the military. We were not the only two gents there by any means, but all the others have faded away down their respective paths in life and now are merely fuzzy memories save a name here or there when my mind agrees to be sharp enough to remember them... but not Greg. Greg and I grew to be great friends during those arduous and initial steps in our military careers. I was to be the best man at his wedding and he a groomsman at mine. Although we were not stationed at the same fleet command over the years spent sailing the seas, we remained close even still. Through the ups and downs of personal and professional struggle we remained consiglieres. He has gone through a lot of torment throughout his divorce and struggle to rebuild his life with the sole priority being the welfare, health, and love of his two darling daughters. Two little angels dogpaddling in a feeding frenzy of lawyers and custody disputes with only a father's unconditional love to help keep them afloat. It has been hard for me to observe over the years... hard for me to see my friend hurt and to witness the blind injustice our diseased legal system is capable of handing down due to out of date precedents and greed. In a similar way, it hurts to see him in pain now with the loss of his father. I shared the eulogy he wrote and I'm going to repost it here without his permission because I think it is quite beautiful.

The Eulogy for my Father Good afternoon, my family and I appreciate all of you for being here today. Your thoughts and prayers over the course of this week have been critical during this time of loss. And, for this we thank you Scott Merrell, my Father, like all of God's children was one of contradiction. He was very self-centered. But he was generous to a fault. He never denied anyone who asked for help. Indeed, he often offered assistance to those who weren't even looking for it or didn't know they could go to him. While I may have, on occasion, found him unreasonable he was always fair. There were times, that, to tide me over he would give me money. My three sisters would soon receive a check in the mail for the very same amount. Dad, like many of his generation was chauvinistic. But he openly stated that there was nothing his sisters, daughters, nieces, and grand-daughters couldn't do if they put their minds to it. My Father drank, he smoked, he cursed, he gambled. He was a Man's, man... but, if he were here today and he saw the looks on our faces and the tears in our eyes Dad would cry with us. Also, he would tell us, "This too shall pass". "This too shall pass" is sort of a Merrell mantra. Most of us were raised on these four simple words. When we were young they were a reminder that the hardship we were currently experiencing, without fail, would go away. As we got older, though, we became aware that these words were also a declaration that the good times are just as temporary and you should enjoy them, embrace them while you can. My Father lived these words. Not in some hedonistic life-style but very much in an unapologetic manner. He did very little that he would be sorry for in his life. He had even less regrets. He lived his life his way. He played it Sinatra. Indeed, at times, he found it more important to live life than to preserve it. But, he did live it. As you look upon the life of a person you see the obstacles overcome. You recognize the forks in the road where decisions were made. The connection points where other's lives intersected. You see the major events that made a person who they are. Scott Merrell's was no different. He was a sibling to four sisters and one brother. He was husband to two wonderful women. He was the Father of four. He was a veteran of the armed forces. He was a small business owner who almost gave up and worked for others when times were tight but persevered and would be able to retire at the young age of 53. Growing up in a democratic household sealed his initial political affiliation. Of course, eventually he decided that Republican fit well. Somewhere in his retirement he decided that Republican's didn't have the aptitude to be in charge of Medicare / Medicaid and thus returned to his more liberal roots. While sometimes Dad's family were employees my Father's employees were always family. There are several in this room whom at one time or another were on the payroll of Scott Merrell. Those of you who passed through the doors of Arc Sheet Metal had a profound effect on my Father. Dad always hoped that he had enriched your lives as well. Certainly, his greatest challenge was being the Father of four children. As most of us know…raising one is tough enough. In our home he never stopped discussing how fortunate he was to have been afforded the opportunities he had. Of course, we were well aware he was armed with a sharp mind, an incomparable work ethic instilled by his own Father, and good instincts for business. My Father did not lack in drive or determination and at his feet my siblings and I were taught that same work ethic. We learned ambition was not the goal of obtaining power and wealth but striving to be the best we could be at what ever the enterprise. The rest would sort itself out later. My father came from humble beginnings. My Dad's brother Richard once told a story of how a flock of blackbirds landed in a garden behind their child hood home. My Grandmother ran out back, shot the birds with a shot gun, collected them, cleaned them, and served them up for supper that evening. Like most parents Dad paid faithful service to that unwritten commandment that says we shall give our children better than we ourselves received. He did this. We wanted for nothing. But he made certain we understood it was blue collar work that put food on the table and a roof over our head. In a life full of accomplishments the only thing about him that failed was his lungs. It was the last five years of his life that his health became progressively worst. There were constant questions of his physical condition. When I asked him about it he would simply state, "Son, I could climb Mount Everest." This statement was irrefutable. He would say this with such conviction that…I began to believe him. In fact, I saw his portable oxygen tank as necessary equipment to survive the thin air of the Himalayas. In the last couple years, checking into the hospital became more frequent. January of this year was the last Hospital visit that he would get to go home from. This particular time as I spoke to my Father in his hospital room, a very cute African American nurse walked in. My Father began being…charming. The nurse actually began to flirt back. My Father, draped in a hospital gown, energy drained, and ragged of breath looked up at me and said, "Son, guess who's coming to dinner?" It is cliché' to state that we are not to mourn a life loss but to celebrate a life lived. But, that is a reason we are here today. That is what he would want. Because for him it is the truth. Shortly after my 18th Birthday my Dad pulled me aside for a man to man. He said to me, "Greg, I love you. Your mother and I chose to have you. We fed you, we clothed you, and we sheltered you. And for this, you OWE US NOTHING. But, now you are 18 and we don't owe you anything. Now, this has been an amusing anecdote that I have told my friends over the years. It didn't mean that he wasn't there for me. Quite the contrary, he was always there to support me in my endeavors. He was proud of my successes. He would help me to stand tall again in my failures. Which I am ashamed to report there were many. However, the message he gave me that day would take years for me to understand. The message was this, "Son I've always loved you but there was an obligation to provide for you. If you didn't before, you should now realize everything I've ever done or will do for you is out of Love." My Father had an immense capacity for Love. In later years as his health diminished and he rarely left his home, the notion of love was expressed over the phone. A phone conversation with Father ran the gambit of topics. If you're my sister Natalie, it might be work stories. Jenni might have been grocery shopping excursions, my sister Melissa's may have been taxes. Maybe he would discuss world affairs, landlord/tenant relations, or real-estate with my Brothers-in-law. I don't know. I don't know how often all of you spoke with him. I don't know what your conversations were about. I can just tell you mine. They were about the intelligence of his grand-children. He would chat about the devotion he had for my sisters. How well they were taking care of him. The gratitude he thought I should feel that I had a large family to rely on as he did. In a conversation I once had with my Aunt Gayle regarding family she commented, "Greg it isn't how often you interact with us it is knowing we are here when you need us." My Father was of like mind. So over the phone he would speak of the love he had for family. He would speak of the crookedness of politicians. We would debate the war. He would chat about the brilliance of Dilbert. He would call me to rant about an article he read in the paper. I would call him for his opinion on business and life. As Natalie reminded me, all large problems appeared small and all small problems became non-existent after a 10 minute conversation with Dad. Give him 15 minutes and you forgot why you called him in the first place. Eventually, Dad would tire. When Dad was finished talking to me, he would say, "Well, that's all I've got. Do you have any questions for me?" I would say, "No Pop, I will chat with you later." I wish he could ask me that today. Because Dad, I have so many questions…but I understand that's all you've got. I love you.

I am in Monroe, LA this morning. I wrote most of this post on the small turboprop I took over here this morning amidst the turbulent jostles and jiggles along the way. The hardest part of travel for me these days is the inherent downtime it provides the mind. When I am alone in the auto driving a distance or sitting on a plane at altitude, my mind starts to wander to her and I can't stop the tears from rolling out. I tried to preoccupy myself with the in-flight magazine, but that proved to be a difficult to read as a reality television show is to watch. There was a man sitting across from me, one row forward, who was 450 pounds if not more. He reeked with a sour stench that undoubtedly was a byproduct of his obesity preventing proper soap application to distant parts prone to being sweaty and such. If the air caught it just so, it would activate the gag reflex of adjacent travelers. The plane was old like the other I've written about from this flight in the past. So old, in fact, that there were no masks that drop from the overhead in the event of rapid cabin decompression. There were only oxygen ports that you would plug a mask into after you asked the flight attendant to fetch one for you from the supply locker. Other than nearly losing composure a few times, the flight was uneventful. I picked up my AVIS rental with all the radio presets set and saved to whatever Gen Y's equivalent of gangsta rap is... ebonic urban angst with a penchant for ho's, grillz, cars, and money. I understand about every third word and chuckle because I can't get past the images of the opening scene of Office Space. I'll likely be in meetings all day before my return flight this evening. Cheerio.