I am publishing this with my now grown daughter's permission. I originally wrote this in a private letter to her, but it is worth noting that when we do cool things for our kids, often times it is we who accidentally benefit the most.

The Athletics
 
I liked sports when I was younger.  Not “normal” sports mind you, as I excelled in bowling, and later in ping pong.  As a parent, I was an enthusiastic observer of my children’s sports activities.  Now, so many years later, I am amazed at my involvement as a coach for my kids.  I never aspired to coach, but the position presented itself due, in part, to the occasional incompetence and unenthusiastic work of some (not all, of course) of the coaches.  Having three children, and being a believer of equality in giving time to my children, I concluded my “career” by coaching each of my three kids twice.  Basketball, soccer, and softball coaching was my mediocre legacy.  I was never good enough to make a “winning machine” team, but I was a fun, enthusiastic coach.  I coached my son twice in basketball; my middle daughter once in basketball, and once in soccer (where I learned the wisdom of the advice:  “never coach a sport you don’t know the rules to”); and, my youngest daughter twice in softball.  As she entered the eighth grade, Adele informed me she was going to quit softball.  She cited her reasoning:  the coaches don’t show up for practice; when they do, they always wanted her to pitch, and “I haven’t hit the ball out of the infield all of last year”.  So, contrary to my intentions, I made her a deal, “If I come out of ‘retirement’ to coach one extra time, would you play?”  She countered, “If you promise to never to put on the mound.”  I agreed and we began the most memorable sports experience of my life.
            We needed a pitcher, and there were two great ones:  Stacy and Destiny.  I was fortunate to get Stacy.  I know the sport of softball, but I do not know how to teach kids how to hit.  However, our local psychiatrist had the reputation of being a batting guru.  And, his daughter Jessica was a great ball player.  He was happy to be my assistant coach.  Early on, little Jessica confided in me, “My Dad really likes coaching batting!  He has a thousand dollars of videos on batting!  My Mom says if he buys another video, she’s going to divorce him!!”  Obviously, I chose wisely. 
            My counseling business was really hopping.  Scheduling practices was going to hurt.  I solved the dilemma surprisingly easily by declaring: oh well.  I noted to my dismay and disgust that the boys’ baseball practice fields were the good ones.  The girls got the lousy fields.  A good hit to left field meant we spent five minutes looking for the ball in the high grass.  So we invented “steal a field”.  We started our practices a little earlier, and played wherever we wanted to.  This occasionally resulted in a little friction with other coaches.  Once, when the coach of the Reds (boys Little League) wanted to fight because he had to wait fifteen minutes for us to finish, my little 8th grade girls rallied behind me and prevented the squab.  I also assigned music detail to the girls.  Each practice a girl would bring a CD for us to jam to as we practiced.  We also scrimmaged a mini game at the end of each practice to make it more fun (for me as well, as I got to play).  Once we had a Saturday morning practice and it started to lightly snow.  Man it was cold!  I decided to call off practice.  The team protested and insisted we continue.  The compliment was not lost on me. 
            As we began the regular season I told the girls, “I have only two wishes for this season.  One, I want this season to be the most fun y’all have ever had in any of your sports experiences.  Second, I would love just one double play.  Just one. Now it’s not likely, and it’s ok, but if we can, a double play would really be cool.  Regardless, let’s have great fun.”  And we did.
            With Super Stacy as our pitcher, most of the other teams struggled to hit the ball well.  With Dr. Scott as our batting coach, everyone on our team was hitting well.  My daughter, who rightfully complained about her poor batting turned into a slugging machine.  She begged me not to put her in the batting lineup as clean-up batter (4th).  Fortunately, Dr. Scott’s daughter Jessica, also the only switch hitter in the league, transformed into a slugging monster.  She was our clean-up batter.  Although our catcher was cursed with a poor throwing arm, her glove was practically magnetic.  I don’t remember a dropped pitch the entire season.
            In preparation for the “big game” with Ben Shackelford’s team, we asked Stacy’s Dad, also the high school girls’ softball coach, if we could use the batting cage.  He was kind enough to oblige.  As a result, when my girls faced Destiny, the other great pitcher, they could hit a mighty fast pitch.  We won the big game.  However, the season was not yet over.
            As the season was drawing to a close, we were in first place by one game.  The final game was against Shackelford’s team.  My sister and husband were down visiting from the cool weather San Francisco Bay area.   Although the grand finale temperature was 107 degrees, my sister joyfully joined the large crowd for “the game of the season”.  Man, it was hot.  All we needed was the final win, but we lost.  Now we had a tie for first place, and an unscheduled 107 degree double header.  None of the parents or families left, but the girls were tired.  Then Stacy came over to me and broke the news.  “Coach, my shoulder is hurting.  I don’t think I can pitch anymore.”  Doomsday.  We had no back up pitcher.  I promised Adele I would not put her on the mound, and I couldn’t do it now.  Then I remembered—I had a tube of a topical anesthetic (Myoflex®) in my bag.  As I got it out, Stacy rolled up her athletics shirt and jabbed her shoulder at me, “Rub it on coach!”  So I petitioned Adele to apply the ointment, and she was cured!  Just before we began Stacy again came over to me and advised me “Coach, it’s the final game of the season and we need to sing the Star Spangled Banner”.  You gotta be kidding me.  Plus, I don’t know if I remembered all the lyrics.  So I told her, “Stacy, if you want to sing it, you do it”.  So she stood in front of the bleachers in a scorching 107° day and began.  “Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh say can you seeeeeeeeeeee....… byyyyyyyy the dawwwwwwwn’s earlyyyyyy liiiiiiiiiiiiiiight………. Two minutes later, as she began the second verse, the ump, insane with rage, frustration, and heat exhaustion stomped up to me and threatened, “Start the game or you’re going to forfeit!”  I told him if he wanted to stop a little girl from singing the National Anthem in front of all these parents, he should tell her to stop.  He stomped back to home plate and, like all of us, anxiously awaited the distant conclusion.  After what seemed like the longest minutes of our lives, the game began.
            The game promised to be the best game of the season, and all of these girls did not disappoint.  Although they were ready to drop, both teams duked it out.  We inched our way on top, and by the bottom of the final inning, we were ahead 9 to 4.  Then it was 9 to 5, 6, and then 9 to 7.  With runners on first and second, Stacy walked the next batter to load the bases, with only one out.  With Shenekia, their cleanup batter coming to the plate, we were poised to lose the season.  Shenekia, one of the strongest batters in the league smashed the first pitch towards left field.  My third baseman, Sarah, a little tall for her age, stabbed her glove up and miraculously snagged the fly.  Adele, the shortstop, yelled, “Touch third Sarah!  Touch third!”  Boom.  Double play.  Game over. 
            After the girls joyously dumped the cooler of the coldest ice water I have ever seen all over me, and I was getting my heart rate down, we had our final team meeting.  All of us knew that we had just finished the best sports experience ever, and were all overjoyed and a tiny bit sad at its conclusion. 
            So many years later I am still a little amazed that the purpose of my final coaching stint was to give my daughter one last good sports memory, but even today, it ended up being me who benefited the most.  

I have a retired counselor cyber-friend from Israel. A few years ago I was putting together my web page, so I asked Rona for some ideas. One of her suggestions was to look at other therapist’s web sites to garner some ideas. I was amazed that their blogs were full of personal political rants, opinions as to the state of the world; basically on online diary. Yow! What a weird thing to publish. So I opted for what I knew best: a counseling-based web presence. However, this week’s blog is a departure from my web philosophy. Specifically, a remarkable friend of mine just died after a long battle with cancer. Andy didn’t get out much, so most people did not know him, and that’s too bad. So this week is a tiny glimpse into the life of William Andy Wade. It’s not much, but it is the least I could do for this amazing human being.
 
William Andy Wade (Andy) just died. I wanted to come out to his place last weekend for our usual every other Sunday visit, and he texted me he was too sick to have company. Tuesday night I got another text from him informing me he was in the hospital. As a stubborn “tough guy”, going to the hospital had meant things were grim. I saw him twice Wednesday and the same on Thursday. My last visit Thursday night was indeed grim. He was in a lot of pain, and seemed to not be aware of much else. A bunch of people came to say goodbye during the day. His friend of 42 years, Gary and I stayed with him at night until the meds finally relieved the pain and knocked him out. Gary and I left about the same time, but Gary went back for a while later that night. I received notice the next morning (Nov. 2, 2018) that Andy had died. He was 68.

Through all the stories I have been privy to, it is clear I knew Andy in his “calmer” years. He lived in Brownwood for 21 years, and I knew him for about the last 15. I always felt like I was holding onto the tail of a comet as it was finishing its orbit. As a metallurgist / quality control expert / international pipeline inspector plus numerous other titles, Andy was regarded as one of the best in his field. He once slept in a large pipe lifted off the ground with a crane in Iran (“the scorpions will definitely kill you in the night”), and inspected pipeline hundreds of yards long, deep underground on a mechanics sled. The only air to breathe had to be pumped into the pipeline. He lived in Brazil, Indonesia, Nigeria, Paraguay, London, and Hong Kong to name about one third of the countries he lived and worked in. Everywhere he went, his work was held in extreme regard. One person said, “Whatever job Andy took on, he became the master of it.”

He worked hard, and from the numerous stories shared with me, he played hard. He was a tall, Shakespearean actor-looking guy. Long silver hair, a handlebar moustache and pearl white teeth, he attracted attention wherever he went. Sometimes positive attention, sometimes not. Someone recently shared this little glimpse into his past: “We were in the airport and Andy never took his sunglasses off. Once we were in the plane, Andy was sitting across the aisle from me, and I asked him why he kept his shades on. He took them off to show me a really huge black eye. He told me last night he was at a ghetto bar (they were in Rio de Janeiro), and he whipped everyone at the pool table. When he walked outside with all their money, six of them jumped him. The last thing he remembers was a boot coming down on his head. When he woke up it was dark and he had no idea where he was. And it smelled bad. He reached up and opened the lid: they had tossed him into a dumpster.” There are many stories, including his throat cancer, misapplied radiation “therapy” that destroyed every one of his teeth and slowly killed his right hand and arm, and other ailments he had to deal with.

But here’s the story we all needed to know. He came over our house to introduce to his great friend Gary a few years ago. After enjoying listening to them reminisce, I asked Gary how he first met Andy, and he began, “Do you remember the old telex machines?” [single line of paper coming out of a machine- the precursor to the fax machine]. Andy got inexplicably got mad and walked out of the room muttering, “I don’t have to listen to this shit”. Gary continued, “A telex came through the office that one of our guys in Indonesia was in a horrible flat boat accident. Everyone: men, women and their children were drowned. Everyone except Andy and a young newlywed couple. He was able to get to them and swam seven hours, all night long and saved them. I decided then that I wanted to meet him when he got back.”

Although I am pleased to share my friend’s greatness, I am so sad as I close this. William Andy Wade, all of us that knew you well knew we were the privileged few that got to be your friend. I will always be grateful to having been a friend of yours. I close by quoting you when you wrote a kind note to Denise shortly after she shared that her Mom had just died. “Head stones are for those left behind. As a child of God she is free of all earthly things and now is basking in the glory of the Lord.”
As are you my fine friend. Faretheewell.

It happened to me while in the middle of a forced starvation at my college 25th reunion. Although St. Ed’s (Austin) had charged us fifty bucks per person to attend our reunion, the pickin’s were slim. Two foodie dudes in a closed off large circle were custom cooking orders one or two at a time. Counting the number of reunionites awaiting a chance to order, I quickly calculated we were going to have to stay there approximately eleven days to get our food. On top of that, I found I was surrounded by strangers. Then I remembered: most of my college friends quit prior to graduating, flunked out or were kicked out. I ended up being the semi-sole survivor of our group of friends. So my wife and I found a vending machine with tasty, though nasty pork skins, a cold Dr. Pepper, and embarked upon our own private journey into amazing nostalgia.
 
It was this hungry journey that taught me the great value of occasionally allowing ourselves to enjoy memories of days gone by. The problem is that some people devote too much time and emotional energy in recounting experiences. “Living in the past” for some, takes the place of living in the present. If we allow ourselves an occasional evening, or even a few minutes to re-enjoy our experiences, we get to practically live them a second time.
 
We walked by the great oak tree next to the Student Union and suddenly I was seventeen, trying to coax down a friend who, because he was denied admission to a movie deemed 18 and older (as was I), he climbed way up the tree, leaving his date (their only date I might add) down below. When we stood at the entrance of Moody Hall, I was transported to the moment in my second month in college when I stood in the same spot and realized I had really left home for this new place, 1500 miles away. I knew at that moment so many years before, there was no going back. On the south side of the Union I became so stupidly tongue tied trying to ask Denise out for the first time, I changed the subject, said goodbye and walked off. I was tempted to beat my head against the wall in frustrated dorkiness.
 
And although difficult memories are not the place we want to spend too much time in, if an important thing was learned by the experience, it may be worth revisiting occasionally as well. We shy away from living in the past, but amazing times should perhaps be experienced more than once.
 
As a final note concerning manners with memories, different recollections surrounding the same event are common. Unless it was a detail of great importance, there is no reason to correct the memory of someone else simply to be right. I have begun to enjoy great experiences more than once, but still happily live in the present, and always consider the future.

 For you un-religious folks, you might want to slide on over to another entry, as this one, as we approach Christmas, appropriately enough, has some religious content to it.
 
If part of this essay looks somewhat familiar, it because I'm reusing some of my first essay of this blog-thing of mine. With all the activity around this great holiday, it's really hard for me to stay focused. In the Great Old Days with three massively excited kids running about, getting ready for Christmas there was little left-over thinkin' time. So many years later, with the adult kids set to arrive with a bunch of next generation children excitedly running amok, there still exists little time for reflection. Although I find myself almost giddy with the joy of everyone coming home, I really need to also process this religious event. Celebrating the day Jesus was born; a day that, two thousand years later is remembered and widely celebrated is a mind-boggling joy and privilege. If you're not a believer, you might want to be happy for all those people who are joyously celebrating. If you are a believer, perhaps we can remind ourselves: Jesus? Really? For us? Thanks a lot.
 
Picture this scenario: you're a sixteen or seventeen year old girl, snuggly asleep in your bed, and you wake up and there's a huge angel with big ol' wings standing next to your bed. Yow! It'd scare the dog out of you. So he says: "God has sent me to tell you that you are chosen to be the Mother of Jesus, the Savior of the world. She somewhat fearfully agrees, and zzzzt! she's just conceived God. Nine months later she gives birth to baby Jesus. Does she know what the Father knows? Out of love for us, he gave us his son, that in thirty-three years he would be beaten almost to death, then agonizingly nailed to a cross. For us. To save mankind. Unbelievable. What a deal. What a gift. The birth of Christ. Merry Christmas world.

Thanksgiving 2015
You know, the pilgrims were probably brave and slightly crazy pioneers, but the more you learn about the history and subsequent demise of the Indians, the less cool the tall hats and tossing a fish into the corn stalks were. Not wanting to flush this holiday away due to my slightly aging cynicism, I instead decided to mutate Thanksgiving into a day of, well, thanksgiving. Simple rules of this day: no bitchin', no whining, no negativity. Rather, I remind myself, possibly 600 times throughout the day of the things I am grateful for. It's interesting that this takes a fair amount of effort, meaning I must be spending a lot of time the other 364 days complaining. Man! What's wrong wit' DAT picture?! Happy Thanksgiving all, especially my family. What numerous things are you contemplating about on this day of thanks?

Thankgiving 2016
[John Wayne voice please, nice and slow] Well pilgrim, did your Mamma and Daddy raise a hard workin' schmuck, or didja grow up to be a lazy bum? This is a day, li'l pilgrim, it’s time to work hard at thinkin' about what we're grateful 'bout. It could be your gran'ma, or pa, that nice teacher that shoulda flunked ya, put didn't, yer Ma and Pa who taught ya manners and how to work 'till the job was done, yer kids who come back to see you on  holidays - you know: all sorts of things. Yer Ma and Pa didn't raise no snivelin' crybaby. Time to count yer blessin's today. And pass that turkey leg over here, pilgrim.

     I know our actions don't represent anyone other than ourselves. Still, it's hard to remember that. For example, if someone has seen a counselor they didn't like, then their Mom wants them to come see me, I have extra work to do at the start to "prove" I'm different then who they saw before, because they think their previous counselor represents all counselors.  So, nine years ago when I met this gentleman I knew this man didn't represent the Irish nation, but he embedded such a memory with me, it's hard to remember it was him that did this, and not all of Ireland.
     It was our last day in wonderful Ireland, and we were in Dublin. Just like the old days here at home, Sundays are primarily a day of rest over there. Thus, few restaurants were open Sunday morning, and we were starving. We went into a packed restaurant, and when a waitress told us they had no more room, I went into tragic-begging mode. Out of kindness and pity, she found a tiny spot for us to sit. We were seated only a few feet away from a family of four: a mother, father and their two daughters. I guessed the girls were about thirteen and sixteen years old. We had a brief conversation with them, and when I told them we were from the States, specifically Texas, he told me his agent advised  him that he should visit the "cultural" part of Texas: Marfa. Marfa? So I gave him a few additional recommendations of places he could also visit. Basically everywhere else in Texas.
     Denise and I began eating our beloved breakfast, and I noticed almost everyone else had long since finished. That’s what they do: they visit. I had noted the sixteen year old daughter had basically never stopped talking with her parents. No earbuds. No scowl. Just talk. It was a pleasure to behold. I really wanted to say something to the parents, but I was a long way from home to be so uninhibited, so I didn’t. When they finally left after a two hour breakfast, we all said a quick farewell. A minute later the waitress came over with two flutes of champagne. It was a little early to enjoy champagne, and besides, I didn’t order it. When I told the waitress, she said, “oh, the gentleman at the door ordered it for ye”. So I jumped up before they could all get out the door to thank him for his kindness and generosity. So I told him what I had been thinking: “I was a little hesitant to tell you this because I thought I would appear a little too strange, but I am a counselor in Texas, and work with a lot of teenagers. To watch the interaction of your family, and particularly your older daughter who never tired of talking to you, speaks highly not only of your family, but you as a father.” And he tipped his derby slightly towards me and replied: “that, sir, is worth far more than a glass of champagne.” With that, he shook my hand and left.
     When I got back to the table, the waitress returned to ask us, “so how do ye know Mr. Banville?” I told her that we had just met him in the restaurant, and who was he? She seemed genuinely surprised and answered: “Mr. Banville? He’s the most celebrated author in all the UK. Why just recently  he received the highest honor in literature, the Booker Prize.” Yow! A Really Famous Person. And a fine gentleman and father. We left the restaurant and found an open bookstore. Not only did they have John Banville, but they had an entire section for him. He is a prolific and renowned author. It was a fine way to depart this beautiful country.
     So years later, even though I know our actions only represent ourselves, nevertheless, I think of Ireland as a whole bunch of John Banvilles, showing  kindness and class. It’s not logical or necessarily accurate, but I suspect it may be a universal truth: right or wrong, our actions represent a great number of people. I think I’m going to have to start working harder at showing kindness, generosity and a lot more class.

Music Review
Let's get the negative stuff out of the way first. At the amazing Paul Simon concert at the Winspear Opera House in Dallas, Paul had a newbie on the lighting. There was a panel of near laser-like lights at the rear of the stage that were oddly aimed directly in our formally dilated pupils. So, for the first four songs or so, we were all forced out of self preservation to listen to the music with our arm  and hand outstretched to block the painful assault on all of our eyes. Does anyone remember what the songs were? Is anyone still seeing dark spots everywhere? So there's the stupid part of the concert.
As for the rest, the ten man band coupled with the greatest acoustics I have ever heard in my life made this a concert worth driving six hours for (although we did stay overnight in Ft. Worth). This 74 year old (!) performer was all-pro. New songs, old songs, a little chatter and an absolute WALL of sound made this unlike any other concert I have ever seen. I have never experienced a handful of songs with FIVE percussionists. The acoustics were so perfect, I could easily tell you where on the stage each instrument was being played. Did I mention the ultra plush carpeting? How about the joyful attendants every thirty feet? The outside patios to enjoy the amazing view of Dallas? Indoor parking? Easy departure?
Two encores and a conclusion of ten performers lined up, hand in hand taking a bow capped off a spectacular show. Job well done.

Dad had been stricken with pancreatic cancer for an amazingly long time. We were back in California in the summer of 1995, and I sat on Dad’s bed and asked a question I had never asked him before. Dad was a pretty private man, so asking personal questions was rare. His Dad, Grandpa Henry Sommer died when Dad was only seven years old. So I ventured into uncharted territory and asked: “do you remember your Dad?” He weakly said, “John, that was a long time ago….”. But I asked again, “still, do you remember him?” He paused and very quietly said, “no”. Three weeks later, my Dad died.

If Grandpa Henry Sommer had known he would die so early in life, leaving behind his wife and two young sons, I wonder what he would have done. Would he have taken numerous pictures of him with his family? Would he have started a diary, or written a long letter for his sons to read one day? Would it have been important for him to have been remembered so many years later by his seventy-two year old son lying in bed, himself dying?

This Easter, I was blessed with an extended time with my grandsons, the eldest two themselves now seven years old. I wonder if I depart earlier than I anticipate, will they remember me when they are seventy-two? What can I do to help them not only remember who I was, but perhaps a few lessons imparted to them? Should I take more pictures? Should I write them a long letter? Should I fill our time together with conversations and experiences?

One thing is for certain: I should do something.


 
This note is dedicated to my Dad, Ralph Sommer, and his Dad, Grandpa Henry Sommer.

I was raised 25 miles from San Francisco. Then, at age 28, I was working at a children's ranch, working with a bunch of abused, neglected children. We had nothing in terms of materials to work with, and really, back then, with nothing much to do. Thus, I was thrust into the semi-extreme world of very "rural" Texas. This 15 hour Sunday, I took the nine teenaged boys in my care on a little hike:

This Calls For Brief Solution-Oriented Therapy

I was working at a kid's ranch with mainly abused, neglected kids. My group consisted of 9 boys, ages 12-15. We worked 48 hrs in 4 days, with hell day being a weekend day, a 15 hour workday. Man! All this for an amazing low salary....... This was in the summer, about 1981.

One Sunday we agreed on a nature journey down the Pecan Bayou (central Texas). Though it was hotter n' hell, it beat hanging around the "ranch" doing nothing for 15 long hours. The kids stayed within sight for about the first 45 minutes, but the older kids started to get further and further ahead. A few kids walked along the edge of the bayou (a slow moving muddy creek of sorts), and the rest of us were up on a slight ledge, about 10 feet from the waters edge. As I was about to yell my warning for the "scouts" to slow down and let us catch up, I heard THEIR yell for help. We ran for 30 seconds or so to catch them, and I was horrified to see Drew pulling himself out of what appeared to be a muddy hole, but James still stuck. As he struggled to get out, he sank from his knees to mid-thigh. He was clearly sinking in front of my eyes! I yelled for him to stop struggling, but panic ruled, and he put it into overdrive to extricate himself. This resulted in his sinking further. I might have seen this on Bonanza or the Rifleman, but hey, I'm a cityboy from California, not Pa Cartwright. I was having a stinkin' heart attack. I grabbed a dead tree branch off the ground and fed it to James, all the while assuring him to calm down and everything was going to be alright. However, when the rotted branch snapped in half two seconds after he grabbed it, my credibility was seriously diminished. This caused him to thrash about again, and he was down to his waist. As I broke off a long tree branch, he sobbingly informed me he thought his feet were touching something. He stopped sinking, I started pulling, and he slowly came out. He lost both boots in the struggle. His jeans turned to very stinky cement on the painful journey back, and he couldn't even bend his pants at the knee when we arrived at the ranch. We ended up throwing away the pants, and he didn't sleep a wink that night. Some of the older countryboys told me they had always heard the bayou had pockets of quicksand somewhere about, but they had never seen any. I sincerely hoped I would never see any more.

​What an introduction to my profession.........

Parallel Universes
Background: Although I preferred Marvel comics (Spidey, Thor, etc.), I didn’t totally shun DC comics. One of the many differences between the two was DC’s use of “parallel universes”. It was when something big transpired, like Superman getting caught in a super-nova sun explosion. When he’d get back to earth, everything seemed completely the same, but then he’d spot Lois……. married to Jimmy Olson!  Almost everything was the same, but with some huge weird stuff going on.

The super nova: My wife’s family was unlike any I had ever met before. Back in the day, they would have pretty much intellectual debates rather than arguments. I used to marvel at the contrast between them and practically any family, certainly my own. No way could we Sommer children (and parents) could remain so, I don’t know….. intellectual. So it was no surprise when Claude had a slight disagreement/debate with one of his daughters (age about forty). Things never got noisy, although they were in disagreement with each other. Suddenly, she had to rush out of the house, late for something, and I was alone with Claude. I made my “uh oh, I hope I don’t get in trouble for saying this” noise, followed by my honest, though in retrospect perhaps the tiniest bit rude question. Paraphrasing the conversation, I asked Claude, “At what age do one’s children have to be before the parent no longer tells them what to do?”

​Claude responded: “I wouldn’t assume to tell my adult child what to do. However, it is not a parent’s right, but their duty to continue to try to provide guidance to their child, no matter what the age.”

It was one of those bizarre radical moments that I felt everything shift ever so slightly. It was as though I had been blown into a parallel universe where everything looked exactly the same, but something was permanently different. Instantly, I was shown my possible future: rather than just being needed as the father of my children, I could be an important contributor to them as grownups. Always important. Always their father. Years later, I still happily inhabit this wonderful parallel universe, and I will always be grateful to my father-in-law for taking me here.

Dedicated to Claude Nolen who died March 2, 2015.

As I was penning the lobster story, I was amazed that I was simultaneously reminiscing about my vacation in St. Kitts and visiting with my father in the back kitchen of our Holiday House banquet room when I was a teenager. After I finished the lobster tale I realized why this memory was rekindled: it’s a similar theme separated by twenty years. Even today, both examples continue to provide me guidance.

​Part One:  The Busboys
My best friend, Jack, and I were busboys at my Dad’s huge banquet facility during our teenage years. We spent most Saturday nights moving bus trays of dirty dishes from the banquet room to the dishwasher. By midnight we would then haul the incredibly heavy trays stacked tightly with clean dishes to the back kitchen. At 17, Jack told my Dad that his father was needing him at his paint store, so he gave his two week notice. After he left, my Dad declared to me, “You know, when an employee gives me notice, I’d just as soon pay them and have them not bother to come in.  Every person’s work turns to junk after they give notice—everyone except Jack. If it’s possible, I think he worked harder those last two weeks than he did before.  If he called me needing a job and there was nothing available, I’d create one for him."

This teenage lesson stuck with me throughout my lifetime of work.  I would like for all my employers to mourn my departure.  I want to set a precedent that no one could match.  So many years later I think—thanks Dad for the lesson, and thanks Jack for setting the bar so high when we were so young.

Part Two: The Lobster
Actually, truth be told, it was what happened to me on the way back from a lobster.  It was Denise’s and my tenth wedding anniversary celebration, and we had saved up for the last five years to take a vacation.  So, there we were, sharing a large patio area with only one other couple, and drooling about ordering my first (and only) lobster.  We saw a branch with a half dozen coconuts break off and crash to the ground.  Beyond the trees a woman was feeding her goats on the meager grass area leading up to the sea.  It was peaceful and incredibly beautiful.  After our long and delicious meal we began the hour drive around the west side of the island to our hotel.  As I was mentally recounting that evening’s events, I had a strange “vision”.  I found myself viewing my three children.  The eldest, who was currently eight, was all grown up, sitting at the table Denise and I had been sitting with his two younger sisters.  To my amazement, they were all long past being “grown up”; actually, they were old.  Very old.  Justin was in his mid-eighties, still tall but a little stooped over.  He had bottle of Red Stripe beer near his left hand.  I was shocked to see his aged and wrinkled face; though still handsome.  Monique, only a year younger, still looked like my little koala bear—but gray and a bit wrinkled herself and still quite adorable.  Adele was around 80, sitting upright with uncommonly good posture.  Rather elegant I thought, and beautiful.  Both girls had drinks on the table with little umbrellas in them.

The girls were leaning over the table laughing so hard they could barely talk and Adele was begging Justin, “Justin, please.  Stop.  I can’t breathe!”  Justin, looking innocently at his sisters replied, “What?  I was just asking… remember what Daddy said after coaching Monique’s soccer team?”  Both girls howled in unison, “Daddy said, ‘Never coach a sport you don’t know the rules to!’”  Then Monique shared a memory about my squeezing into her Volkswagen “Thing” to test drive it with my knees practically in my face, followed by a story from Adele recalling the last year of city softball she played with me as her coach.    

Then their voices grew fainter, and as they became more distant I realized it was an image I was “seeing” from heaven.  I had been dead for a number of years—that’s why the children were so old.  What a strange “vision” of sorts.  What’s the deal here?  Then the answer came to me:  How do you want to be remembered? Will I be long gone and never be thought of again?  Will I evoke memories or lessons that are passed on to generations who never met me?

In my years of counseling I have encountered an amazing array of people’s experiences and memories.  I have met children and adults who have recounted fathers who never kept their promises, and angry, stressed out mothers who kept the house in turmoil.  I’ve also visited with people who need help in dealing with the sadness of losing a father who was always protective and provided guidance all their lives; and mothers who went out of their way to nurture and unconditionally love their child—even well into their adult years.  Included in people’s recollections are endless stories of loving, kind grandparents who “taught me so much and were always there for me”.  

​If a parent (or grandparent) finds themselves coming up short, the time is overdue to refocus on what it is they need to do push themselves to create their legacy.  What kind of memories do we wish to impart?  How do we want to be remembered?

I wrote this note last year, almost to the day. Like the children he worked with, I was also blessed by our relationship. He was torn up with his first stroke (which also left him with a West Indies/Jamaican accent). Two years later the second stroke left him slowly withering away in a nursing home. I had the inspiration to read to him, and now a year after his passing, I know it was me who gained the most from the experience. I still think of him on a daily basis. The following was written on Feb. 14, 2015.

An extraordinary man just died.  Charles Webb, father of four and miraculous counselor of thousands of children, died after a long and most difficult existence following two strokes. 
 
I met Charles in 1978 when we both began our counseling work at New Horizons Ranch, a residential treatment center for abused, neglected children. We were hired only two weeks apart.  Previously, we had both worked, unknown to each other, at the State School (for incarcerated kids) for a year or two.  Both of us were city boys, me from the San Francisco Bay Area, and Charles from Port Arthur.  Way out in the country, we were introduced to occasional snakes, foot-long centipedes and me, unfortunately, to a brown recluse spider. 
 
In 1980, as I lay dangerously ill from my spider bite, the only co-worker to come see me was Charles.  When he came in my hospital room, due to his size, he had to wear a gown on his left side and another on his right.  Although I was racked with pain, the giant yellow combination accented by a silly looking surgical mask had me doubled over in laughter and love for my friend. 
 
I left the Ranch in 1982 and began counseling different populations and different ages. For twenty-something years, Charles worked only with the most severely abused of children.  The Ranch owner, knowing the power and beauty of Charles’s magnificent voice, asked him to create a children’s choir.  He created one of the most beautiful and amazing choirs in the state.  They toured numerous cities, calling attention to not only the needs of children in residential treatment, but also the joy and wonder of magically performed music. 
 
He finally retired, but was always drawn to the aid of children.  He was hired by the local MHMR, but the stroke of the previous year disabled him too much.  He finished his long and illustrious career with me as a therapist in my office.  I felt then, as I do now, that our final opportunity to work together was our gift from God. Shortly thereafter, he was felled by the second stroke.  He lay in the nursing home, with occasional trips to the hospital for a year and a half.  He was immobilized and his already weakened voice became inaudible.  His caretaker and love, Jane Cadena, was by his side throughout the terrible ordeal.  I’m certain his final months were made so much more bearable by being cared for by Jane’s nursing abilities and her great and loyal love of Charles.
 
Charles once told me that he was at Wal-Mart when a twenty-four year old man shouted out for everyone to hear, “There’s Charles Webb!  He’s the man that raised me!  He’s the man that saved my life!”  Although embarrassed, he was thrilled to the bottom of his heart to have succeeded in saving this young man’s life with his wondrous counseling.  I wonder what the other thousand grown children would say. 
 
It is likely that Charles Webb’s work with kids was some of the most gifted and blessed of all men.  We have lost a great man.  God bless you, my loving friend. I will miss you for the rest of my life.

I was 19, and in college in Austin when I joyfully was reunited with Belaire fruit popsicles while shopping. When I was a kid, a box of six popsicles and four children in the Sommer family meant two lucky kids would get two popsicles apiece, while the slower-to-the-freezer kids would get one apiece. As I loaded the treasure popsicles, I realized all six were mine. Six popsicles! Then, a few moments before I was to check out, I was struck with the Popsicle Awakening. I breathlessly left the checkout line, went back to the freezer section and snagged another box of popsicles. Greed? Negative. With an amazing enlightened view of my life, I realized that regardless of my previous life experiences, I was now graced with the ability to make my own decisions. This fantastic revelation has impacted almost everything in my life. Raising children? I (well, really we) can write the book of clever, joyful parenting. This includes clever, not so joyful discipline. I don’t have to follow the former rule of my parents, or with some limitations, even society. It’s my call. Marriage? Same inspiration. Why be like everyone else? Do I want to be a romantic old man? Sip wine, exchange stories, and play new board games? How about as a therapist? Yesterday I plugged in a kid’s phone into my good stereo to sample his taste in music. It was mainly enjoyment with only a touch of suffering. Today a teen and I transplanted an angel leaf begonia, peeled a luffa sponge and had a good conversation along the way. Plus he got the luffa and about 200 seeds. Hey, I’m an adult, and now I get to make the rules. Why mindlessly follow a worn down path when you have the ability to make your own? I love being an adult and writing my own book of life. After all, it all began at nineteen with two delicious boxes of popsicles. Yum.

I was 18 and new to Austin, and the Armadillo World Headquarters seemed like a smaller and “Austinish” version of  San Francisco's  Fillmore West. Even back in 1970, my freshman year of college at St. Edwards University, Austin had its own hip, simple, southern flavor. You'd go to a concert, sit on the floor, share crowd commodities (such as large bottles of inexpensive wine passed around, etc.) and absorb the music.
 
One always feared that their car, regardless of size, might fall into one of the sinkhole “potholes” in the back of the Armadillo. Although unconditioned in Austin, the huge fans near the ceiling provided enough oxygen to keep us from suffering too much. As we grew older, we realized the Armadillo’s existence from only 1970 to 1980 was a short-lived era of inexpensive and energetic music for we lovers of music to enjoy. If only we had known of the tiny, temporary slot in our lives we were living at the time……
 
Roy Buchanan was a spellbinding magician of the "crying guitar. Cheech and Chong were amazingly funny for virtually no props. The same was true with the fabulously and insanely funny Committee Theater from North Beach in San Francisco. Jerry Jeff Walker, Willie, even Frank Zappa (who later shared it was his favorite concert venue to perform at). Hundreds and hundreds of performers for a mere couple of bucks. Still, Freddie King was the King of the Armadillo. Every time he played, he performed like it was Carnegie Hall. He and his music were massive, hypnotic and almost overwhelming. It was an awesome experience for Denise and me. We should have gone to the ‘Dillo more.....
 
My wife of forty-one years, Denise, reminded me of our post-wedding reception as we walked into the Armadillo beer gardens the evening of our morning wedding . We were greeted with cheers and a standing ovation from the entire outside beer garden crowd, led by our family as we arrived as the newlyweds of only a few hours. Beer, nachos and family on a warm, humid evening in Austin was a fine start to our blessed marriage.
 
We will both always remain grateful for having the opportunity to experience music in a now sadly extinct manner: simple, naïve, cheap, and simply for the pleasure of loving music. Armadillo World Headquarters: a permanent place in our hearts.

 For you un-religious folks, you might want to slide on over to another entry, as this one, on Christmas night, appropriately enough, has some religious content to it.
 
Here it is, Christmas night. I sit writing an entry in my blog while the rest of the family watches my favorite movie of all time, Smoke Signals. I'm only partially involved, as I have seen it numerous times. I really want to never tire of it if possible. Great Indian flick or not, my thoughts are on Christmas, and what it's really about. Hard not to be grateful.
 
Picture this scenario: you're a sixteen or seventeen year old girl, snuggly asleep in your bed, and you wake up and there's a huge angel with big ol' wings standing next to your bed. Yow! It'd scare the dog out of you. So he says: "God has sent me to tell you that you are chosen to be the Mother of Jesus, the Savior of the world. But you have to agree to have this child." So, despite her great fear, she agrees, and zzzzt! she's just conceived God. Nine months later she gives birth to baby Jesus. Does she know what the Father knows? Out of love for us, he gave us his son, that in thirty-three years he would be beaten almost to death, then agonizingly nailed to a cross. For us. To save mankind. Unbelievable. What a deal. What a gift. The birth of Christ. Merry Christmas world.

Having grown up in the S.F Bay Area in the sixties, I was probably somewhat influenced by the young cultural environment. Some things perhaps not so healthy, but some permanently etched into my existence. I still keep a copy of the Bay Area's Country Joe and the Fish song, "Who Am I" on my work desktop for easy access to remind folks (especially teens)  of the important and permanent search for one's self (I just play the quick refrain, not the whole song). Who are we? Who do we want to be? This particular experience shook me to the core, as I was losing me.

            Early in my career I was a bartender (arguably my first counseling job) at my family’s bowling alley.  One of the afternoon cocktail waitresses, Cynthia, came in with an unusually bad attitude.  In between slamming her purse and other articles down, she told me her seventeen year-old son had accidentally shot himself in the leg while in the custody of the State juvenile system.  She was furious that this wilderness program had been so irresponsible in letting kids handle loaded guns.  I was equally amazed and disgusted.  What kind of juvenile detention system could be so stupid?
            Cynthia had a wealthy boyfriend with whom she flew on trips every weekend in his private plane.  Coming from a rather poor background, it was an incredible treat for her to fly each weekend.  Her son was incarcerated in the northern part of the state, making it a four or five hour drive for her to see him.  We took a break in our cussing the foolish state juvenile system to plan a change of schedule for her.  When I asked her if she needed to leave today (Monday), she told me that Bill was going to fly her up there on Thursday.  That miserable rescheduling chore cancelled, we continued our tirade about the juvenile authorities until I left for my commute back home at 6 pm.  An hour later, as I got out of the car, anxious to share this incredible story of negligence with my wife, a wave of nauseated disbelief washed over me.  For the past eight hours I joined my co-workers in blasting the juvenile system, and never, not once, did it occur to me:  What kind of a mother would have her son shot through the thigh and wait four days so she could have a convenient flight rather than immediately drive to see her injured son?  I was so horrified at what had happened to me, I put my hand on the hood of my car for support.  I was dizzy with horror:  I was becoming my environment.  Eight hours a day, five days a week I worked with people who were transforming me—or rather, I was allowing them to transform me into one of them.  By not thinking independently, by not weighing my values, morals and even merely my individual tastes, I was absorbing my environment.
            In the years that have followed, I have noted many environmental influences.  You can go to a conference and be surrounded by people who like to “play” when they are away from home.  You can work a job that everyone does the bare minimum of what is expected.  Your co-workers may make moral compromises to enhance their reputation or income. Rather than providing leadership and inspiration for one's  family, you could surrender to an “every man for himself” environment and have no family unity, activities, or even time together.  The only defense against becoming an Incredible Absorbing Person is to know what’s important to you.  Who are you? What do you stand for? Know what’s right and live your life accordingly.

You know, the pilgrims were probably brave and slightly crazy pioneers, but the more you learn about the history and subsequent demise of the Indians, the less cool the tall hats and tossing a fish into the corn stalks were. Not wanting to flush this holiday away due to my slightly aging cynicism, I instead decided to mutate Thanksgiving into a day of, well, thanksgiving. Simple rules of this day: no bitchin', no whining, no negativity. Rather, I remind myself, possibly 600 times throughout the day of the things I am grateful for. It's interesting that this takes a fair amount of effort, meaning I must be spending a lot of time the other 364 days complaining. Man! What's wrong wit' DAT picture?! So here's only one little sunbeam: WaHoo! I am finally blogging! Even if I am the only one to read this stuff, I have grown to enjoy writing (grateful #2), and this is an enjoyable forum. Happy Thanksgiving all, especially my family. What numerous things are you contemplating about on this day of thanks?

          I sure wish I was a fast learner, but sadly, plenty of important lessons are processed long after the event has passed.
          My wife’s terrific parents were in from Austin for a weekend visit.  Late Saturday night there was a strong knock on the door.  11:30 at night?  Uh oh.  To my surprise it was my Korean lady neighbor, a single parent, “Sam”.  She was in a panic. “John Sommer, please help me!  The neighbor boys are trying to get my 13 year old son to leave with them.  I want them to leave, and they are ignoring me.  Please help.”  I knew these little knuckleheads.  They were likely the ones who, a few months back, had written “rape” on Sam’s back door.  They weren’t gang bangers, but a group of three bullies.  So, mad as a rabid dog, I tucked my “doggie knocker” (bicycling protection stick) into the back of my belt and started to head out the door.  Before I got out the door, my kindly professor-ish father in law told me he wanted to come with me.  As I was intending to perform a major intimidation to these teenage bullies, I really didn’t want a kindly gentleman to nurture these boys.  Regardless, I couldn’t tell Claude he couldn’t come with me. 
          So, we charged across the street and stomped into Sam’s kitchen where the three little tough guys were hovered over Sam’s son, still insisting he leave with them.  I immediately had the upper hand as I angrily burst into the room confronting them, scaring the hell out of them.  I threateningly ordered them out of the house with the dire warning to them that Sam had better never have to come get me again.  Tails between their legs, they slinked out the back door where Claude was stationed.  As they crept out the back door, Claude advised them individually, “Be kind”.  Be Kind?!  Oh man.  I had a vision of the Terminator (me) generously allowing three kids to depart after deciding to not dismember them.  As they leave, Mother Theresa (Claude) gives them a blessing.  I was displeased that Claude’s “kind” advice was watering down my imminent threat.  “Be kind”.  *sigh*  I never told anyone, but I was unenthusiastic about the interference. 
          It was many months later that I realized the depth of Claude’s advice.  What he was telling the boys was exactly correct:  be kind.  If that principle was applied in this bully-boy example, they, in being kind, would immediately leave at Sam’s request.  In being kind they would not have written “rape” on her door. 
          I have since taken Claude’s simple advice into the realm of my counseling.  It applies to a majority of circumstances.  Recently I began working with a very troubled married couple.  In their many angry moments, they were being extremely verbally critical of each other.  Can they resolve their numerous issues?  We shall see.  Still, even in angry moments, what if they applied the principle:  be kind.  Being kind in our anger means we temper what we say, we are not cruel, and are not inappropriate.  An endless barrage of criticism is not kind. 
          A teenage senior was in trouble for vandalizing someone’s car.  His rationalization was that the other kid “was a smart ass”.  We applied the principle here.  What would you do if you were being kind?  We used this principle in his treatment.  With his consent, we agreed on his rather simple treatment plan:  be kind.  He went out of his way at talking to lonely-looking kids, offered rides to some students in need, sat in the cafeteria with the nerdy kids, etc.  As he graduated, he said he was liberated from his misplaced anger.
          It seems that the advice offered by my father in law is almost too simple, but nothing could be further than the truth.  At times, being kind is tremendously difficult.  Nevertheless, should we not hold ourselves to a high standard of conduct regardless of anyone else?  Perhaps we can be a positive model for others by our proper behavior of being kind.