As the ancient Hopi Indian sages used to say: Much travel means meager bloggage. Sorry.

On Friday, I delivered the eulogy at Poppa George’s home-going service and said a few words at graveside.  As I mentioned on Twitter, there are far worse duties one can be assigned than to a provide a voice of tribute to a man who lived well; saw more than the psalmist’s “three score and ten”; loved God, and is now a resident of heaven.

Drove home on Saturday, leaving the spousal unit in Oklahoma City to support her mother in transition. Cared for sick child over the weekend and tried to catch up on work.

On Tuesday, I drove up to the ancestral homestead in eastern Oklahoma so I could drive my mom to a doctor’s appointment Wednesday morning. (Dad isn’t supposed to be driving any more.) And I was overdue for a visit anyway, even though this was going to be a very short one.

On Tuesday evening, Mom was supposed to be fasting, so Dad and I went to town for dinner with one of his best friends–a gentleman who lives about a quarter-mile up the road. Dad, who turned 80 back in June, is the young whipper-snapper of the duo. My other dinner companion on this evening turned 90 last month.

He is Dr. J.N. Baker, one of the most distinguished and respected living Oklahomans. He is also one of the finest men it’s ever been my privilege to know.

“Dr. Baker,” as everyone in little Wilburton, Oklahoma has known him for the last five decades, was the President of Eastern Oklahoma A&M back when my father was hired to be the head of the biology department there in the mid-60s. To many other Oklahomans, he was “Major General Baker,” the former commanding officer of the legendary 45th Infantry Division–the “Thunderbirds.”

Dr. Baker had served in both World War II and the Korean conflict. Later in the 50s, while still commanding the 45th which, by that time, had been repositioned as the Oklahoma National Guard, he became the Dean of Student Affairs at Oklahoma State University (then Oklahoma A&M).

Dr. Baker may be the most others-oriented person I’ve ever known. Even at 90, he is a serving, giving force of nature. His treasured wife, Helen, died a few years back after several years of blindness and declining health. In that season he cared for her, attended to her, and doted on her at a level that was a wonder and inspiration to everyone who witnessed it.

When, on many occasions, someone would remark to him about how heroic he was in his efforts, he would wave off the compliment. “She took care of me for more than 60 years. The least I can do is take care of her now.” When she passed away, my mom and dad started looking after him. Now, that they’re struggling, he’s looking after them.

In a recent conversation with Dr. Baker, I discovered a fascinating little bit of detail worthy of a Paul Harvey, “The Rest of the Story.”

In 1958, Oklahoma State University had no “official” mascot. Since about 1924, they were officially the Oklahoma State “Cowboys,” but no mascot had ever been formally adopted. There was an unofficial mascot however. Back in 1923 a group of OSU students had caught of glimpse of this guy leading an Armistice Day parade:

It was Frank Eaton, the legendary gunfighter and lawman who at one time was known as “the fastest gun in the Indian territory.” After the parade the students approached Eaton and asked his permission to use his likeness to represent the “Cowboy” of Oklahoma State University. He agreed and a caricature was produced. Over the years that caricature has evolved into this:

After 1924, the Pistol Pete character started appearing on countless shirts, stickers and signs associated with Oklahoma A&M, but Pete still wasn’t the official mascot of the school. That’s where my dinner companion, Dr. Baker comes in.

In 1958 a group of students approached him about the need for a sideline mascot character for football games as other schools had. Dr. Baker took steps to make Pete official and started figuring out how best to make the cowpoke manifest in a bigger-than-life way on sidelines. He ultimately found a company in Dallas that made paper-mache’ heads; sent them a photo of Frank Eaton and a drawing of the most widely used caricature; and this guy was born:

And now you know, “the rest of the story.”

Here are two pictures which will give you instant insight into the man who passed away night before last. About ten years ago, Female Offspring #1 participated in a walk-a-thon to raise money for her school. Her Poppa and Gramma drove down from Oklahoma City so he could participate…and do so with joy and enthusiasm:

And when she got tired toward the end of the walk. He carried her.

That’s who he was.

Two years ago i posted some thoughts about my dad’s recent diagnosis of Alzheimer’s (here) and then some additional words on Father’s Day last year (here). What I haven’t mentioned is that Mrs. Blather’s stepfather, “Poppa George” to my girls, has also been in a health-related battle over the last several years. George was diagnosed with Multiple Myeloma, a particularly nasty form of bone cancer, and then, if that weren’t bad enough, later COPD, a degenerative respiratory disease. In natural, medical terms, neither of these conditions is curable. They only treat symptoms.

Over the last months I’ve watched both men take care to say the things they wanted to make sure got said, while time remained. Those of us who love them have done the same.

On my last visit home, just as I was walking out to my car to leave, my dad fought through his verbal roadblocks and found the words tell me he was proud of me–something I’ve never once doubted but had never heard him say. Just a few days ago, my wife and her brother spent some time with Poppa George and had the most amazing conversation about life, death and eternity. And last month, right before Daughter #2 headed off to Kenya for four months, she visited Poppa, laid on his chest like she used to do when she was little, and he prayed over her and blessed her. It seemed clear to him that he knew they would not see each other again this side of heaven.

In recent weeks I’ve been thinking about all this and calling it, in my mind, “the season of the long goodbyes.” Yesterday afternoon that phrase kept rolling around in my head so I stopped and did something I haven’t done in decades.

I wrote a poem.

It’s built around the metaphor of a human life as a single day–sunrise to sunset. And around the idea that our parents start out seeming so amazing in our eyes; then in midlife, so human; then at the end of life, so frail. For better or worse, here it is:

Season of the Long Goodbyes

We knew them strong; when their climbing sun
had scarcely risen much above the trees.
They sang us “hello,” and “welcome little one,”
with jostled, nonsense words and rhymes on quieter knees.

Just as freshly opened eyes must squint at morning glare,
so for a blessed time we saw them only strong and wise.
No mystery unsolvable, or broken thing beyond repair
for long-leg’d heroes in sweaters and bath-robed disguise.

Then with some acclimation, we grew to see them as they were in fact,
as midday’s tactless light put all frailty and flaw in harsh relief. With clear
vision came the astonishment of seeing all the power they now lacked.
Yet we, in hard-won disillusionment, held them all more fiercely dear.

We knew them strong, but along the relentless arc of blurry years
came a sudden grasp of just how long the shadows now had grown.
One, with stolen nouns. Cruel, creeping bewilderment. And tears.
Another, slowly robbed of strength and hope; Of breath and bone.

So begins this season of the long goodbyes. And on its cooling air
floats a severe urgency to speak all our prideful hearts have long held bound.
The whispered thanks for sacrifices made and countless acts of care.
The tardy repentance. The finally finding of some common ground.

Bless’d we count ourselves, for many get no farewell time at all.
Just a crashing fall of night that leaves a thousand vital words unspoken.
Robbed of opportunity and days, these now must call
and wait on Heaven’s second chance for hearts so broken.

And so it goes, this subtle aching sunset treason—
failing light yields, in degrees, to twilight skies.
Hurry not, yet hasten now sweet, bitter season . . .
tall-shadowed season of the long goodbyes.

© 2009 David A. Holland

 As I was working on the final lines last night, we got a call. Poppa George had just passed. At home, in his sleep. We thought we had a little more time. But then, we always think that, don’t we?

A few months later, Dad was gone, as well.

The new header above is an official welcome to the fall season–even though it’s sunny and 91 today. That’s tailgating 1940s style.

Herringbone jacket and tie? Check! Thermos o’ coffee? Check!  White bread sandwiches? Got ’em!  Just like I do it today.

Fall is my favorite, except for the ragweed pollen, which tends to stay around in full strength until the first hard freeze, which usually doesn’t come to North Texas until right before Christmas, if at all.

I’m working on several things I hope to unveil over the next few days, including my first webcast. Stay tuned.

Meanwhile, enjoy some breathtaking photos of our amazing soloar system. (Our solar system takes a back seat to no other in the galaxy for natural beauty. The camera loves it.)

I’ve seen Discovery Channel specials about all the stuff that’s buried under New York City streets, but I still thought this pic from 1917 was remarkable.

This is Beekman Street down in Lower Manhattan–not far from where a new transportation hub is being built at Ground Zero. More of these pics here.

I can’t describe (or explain, really) how much I like this.

Some clever geek took a short Bach canon and did the following:

Played it.

Played it backwards.

Played it backwards and forwards simultaneously.

Played it backwards and forwards simultaneously as a Mobius strip.

And created a visualization of all of the above.

Here you go!

CNN yesterday: “Insiders Sell Like There’s No Tomorrow“

Me? I’m out, with the exception of some gold mining stocks which have tended to rise when everything else was cratering.

Just noticed that the Dow closed at 9605  yesterday–the 8th anniversary of 9/11. Would you like to guess where the Dow was when trading was halted on that day eight years ago?

9605

Weird, huh? Not to mention discouraging for buy-and-hold stock investors.

Eight years after the fact, there is still no better resource for understanding the history of militant Islam and the specific events that led to the 9/11 attacks than Lawrence Wright’s The Looming Tower: Al-Qaeda and the Road to 9/11.

It is also, unintentionally, a devastating refutation to all the “9/11 was an inside job” kookery that represents a sort mental swine flu pandemic in this country.

Get it if you haven’t read it. If you have children teenaged or older, have them read it as a vital, fascinating history lesson and as an innoculation against Charlie Sheen fever.

It’s available as an audio book as well–probably at your public library.

Submitted for your consideration . . . Here are the home search pages for Google and Bing today.