Things To Be Glad About

If Dad had to go (and I guess he did), there are a few things I'm glad about how he went.

#1 - Honestly, I'm glad he went first. Nobody expected that to be the case with my mom having cancer but I realize it's for the best that it happened this way. I know my mom is so sad that he's gone but when I think of how things would be if Dad were the one left behind, it's not a pretty picture. Dad wouldn't have been able to reach out and rely on other people the way my mom can. The idea of him standing in a line at a viewing, thanking people for coming would be laughable if it weren't so sad. When it comes right down to it, Mom is more capable of handling being alone than Dad would have been. It's good he went first.

#2 - I'm glad he went quickly. One moment he was here and the next, he was entirely gone. There was no lingering, no waiting around. Dad was not what we experts refer to as "patient." He was entirely unsuited to die slowly and, I think, was afraid of doing just that. I know for a fact that the idea of being put in a home or languishing while being unable to do things for himself would have been his personal idea of hell. As was his way, when he was ready to go, he went.

#3 - I'm glad he went while doing something he loved. I think it would have made him mad if he had passed away in his sleep or watching TV. (Although maybe watching Law and Order would have qualified as doing something he loved.) He died while working, with bits and pieces of plumbing stuff in his hands. I know he didn't want to die and certainly wouldn't have wanted to die in front of me, but I also know that, if he had to pick, leaving while doing something useful, productive, and helpful is something that would have satisfied him.

The Awesomest Awesome of All Awesome Time

Somebody buy me something from this website. Please.

Is it just me...

or does this one look kinda dumb?



Seriously, I'm usually on board with whatever comic book adaptations come down the line but this one, whether it's just the fact that its Green Lantern (one of the lamer superheroes) or the smirking presence of Ryan Reynolds, looks kinda high on the Stupidometer.

The Shootist, Super News, and Sadness

Suzanne is at the adult session of Stake Conference up in Joliet, the girls are all in bed, and I'm here half-watching The Shootist, John Wayne's final picture. For the last few weeks of my film class, we're focusing on major Hollywood genres. We've done musicals and melodrama, and now it's time for some manliness with Westerns this week and Film Noir next week.



There is very good news in the world. My mom visited with her oncologist earlier this week and he said he can't find a single trace of cancer in her body. She's gone from having terminal, stage four cancer to not having any evidence of it in her at all. The doctor said that 98 or 99 percent of everyone who gets the kind of cancer she had die of it quickly. Instead, my mom has actually gone into what appears to be remission. The doctor labeled it "miraculous." I talked to her the day she got the news and she sounded so happy and enthusiastic, it was wonderful to hear.

On another note, I need to retract something I wrote about a month ago. I said this blog wasn't going to turn into an ongoing rumination on my dad's death and that I find people who talk about their dead parents "boring." Mostly, I was trying to convince myself that I wouldn't need to write or talk about it on an ongoing basis. Plus, I didn't think that any of the five or six people who read this thing would want to hear me whining. Grief is hard to experience but it's also uncomfortable to read about when it's coming from someone else. Naked sorrow (like any other kind of nudity) generally makes regular folks a little antsy.

The fact is that I need to be able to talk and write about what I'm experiencing. Frankly, I'd rather not but I need to. There are days when I feel when I feel like my insides are being squeezed by a giant hand. There are nights when I feel alone in the universe. Some days things are just bad and that's all there is to it. I've developed this weird tick in my neck - I twitch when I think about what happened to my dad or when something reminds me of that night.



I tried talking to a therapist. She had a PhD in analytical psychology and, after ten minutes of me telling her about Dad and about my childhood, she explained that my tick was probably the result of repressed anger at my parents over raising me in such a sexually repressive church. After thoughtful, insightful help like that, I decided I didn't need to visit her ever again.

What I've found is that my grief just sort of compounds everything else. A day when I might normally have been sad or discouraged feels practically cataclysmic. A bump in the road like Maryn losing her glasses or the van needing new brakes seems like a sign of the last days.

(Side note: I just laughed out loud watching The Shootist. John Wayne's character, a gunfighter dying of cancer, falls while taking a bath. Lauren Bacall, his landlady and friend, goes in to help him. As she's helping him up and giving him another towel, he says, "Hell! Damn!" She says, "John Bernard, you swear too much." Without missing a beat, he says, "The hell I do." Made me laugh.)

Anyway, I guess my point is I don't want to pretend like everything's fine. It's not and I don't know when it will be. I don't like not knowing. The thing is, part of why I'm having such a tough time is that Dad was always the one who assured me that things would be okay. He wasn't big on rah-rah pep talks but his practicality and his perspective always shrunk my fears down to size. He was always plainspoken and direct and had a way of calming me down when I thought the world was going to end. Now, here I am facing this massive internal crisis and, wouldn't you know it, he's not around to help.

There was a time when I was attending ISU and my life had pretty much fallen apart. I was failing classes, was an emotional mess, and was moving home to Rexburg as part of my efforts to salvage what had become of my post-mission life. Dad knew I was in the dumps and he said, "Well, why don't we go someplace before you move home? Where do you want to go?" He suggested a road trip and so we took four or five days and went up to Couer d'Alene, Moscow, Wallace, and Boise. We talked a lot and it wasn't as though Dad said some kind of magic words that changed my life but just the fact that he was there, he was supportive, he wanted to help and did what he could really did make things better. It's kind of selfish but that's a big part of what I miss. I miss Dad helping me feel better when times are bad.

The frustrating thing is that there is no neat, tidy answer to all this. I can't end this post saying, "But now I know everything's going to be fine in time." I suppose it will but but that's something my brain knows, not necessarily something my heart feels, you know?

So, instead, let me just say this: The Shootist is pretty good. Obviously, John Wayne playing a Western hero dying of cancer even as he was actually dying of cancer adds a lot of gravity to the viewing experience. It's a character piece and not an action film by any stretch. It is definitely a shift away from more classical Westerns that were about bringing civilization, order, and honor to the wilderness. The Shootist is a meditation on the passing away of old myths. Nuanced is not usually a word one associates with John Wayne but his performance really is pretty layered and great to watch. It's not a happy ending but it's a good movie.

This Cracked Me Up

Movie Trailers - Movies Blog

A Recent Exchange

The Players:
Nathaniel Nelson, a 12 year old from my Sunday School class.
Me, a 36 year old Sunday School teacher who recently shaved his goatee into a silly shape.


Nathaniel: "Brother Brown, did you do something different with your beard?"

Me: "Why do you ask?"

Nathaniel: "Because you look more like a Civil War general than usual."

One Small Thing That Does Not Make Me Happy

Gentlemen Broncos.



Ever heard of it? Probably not. You may be surprised to find out that it actually had a theatrical release and that it was directed by Jared Hess, director of Napoleon Dynamite.

Now, there are films that aren't widely seen because they don't appeal to everyone. (Nacho Libre was not to everyone's liking, for example.) Some films disappear quickly simply because they're too niche and never get the widespread acclaim they deserve. (Richard Dutcher's States of Grace disappeared from some theaters after two days.) But some movies remain unseen simply because they're awful. Downright, unabashed, unapologetically bad.

This, my friends, describes Gentlemen Broncos. It's positively craptacular.

The story is about an awkward high schooler who writes science fiction novels. He takes one to a writers' conference where he meets a big time SF writer who ends up plagiarizing his book.

Not a bad idea, right? Certainly, there's potential for something of interest there.

But no.

Instead, Jared and his screenwriter wife, Jerusha, amped up the awkward, sealed-off, inexpressiveness that worked in Napoleon and made appearances in Nacho Libre and made a film so utterly divorced from reality that there's nothing funny or even interesting about it. It's like it doesn't even take place in the same universe. Of course, movies are heightened/altered reality but there's got to be something human, something universal for that reality to be somehow applicable to its viewers.

But no.

There isn't a single character that even remotely resembles a real person or a funny facsimile thereof.

Why did I see it? Because it was on the 5 dollar rack at Wal-Mart and I thought to myself, "Hey, an unappreciated gem!" Oh, how wrong I was. Jared Hess should send me a check for ten bucks. Five to replace what I wasted on this piece of garbage and five more for emotional damages. No thanks, Jared and Jerusha Hess, no thanks.

A Few Small Things That Make Me Happy

When it's bedtime and I hand Parker her favorite blanket (Anna - short for anesthesia)and she hugs it to her chest with a big, broken-picket-fence smile like it's a long lost friend.



The song "Relator" by Scarlett Johanson and Pete Yorn. I know, I know - a movie actor doing an album - it's a giant cliche that has led to some awful things. (The Bruce Willis opus The Return of Bruno and Don Johnson's Heartbeat to name just two.) But I really like this song. It's poppy, dancy, and nice to listen to.



The cast of Castle. The show itself, meh. The murders and solutions are boilerplate (like most TV cop shows)but the chemistry among the cast members is a treat. They seem like they genuinely like each other and get along. It's probably because of Nathan Fillion's off-handed, likable performance and how it meshes with Stana Katic's reserved, slightly-annoyed-slightly-amused portrayal. It's fun just to watch them talk.

Bloomington, IL. It's a cool college town with lots to do. There's a kids' science museum, a comic book store, and a Chicago dog restaurant all within one block. Isn't that the definition of heaven?



The fact that my brother, Dave, is taking a family picture tomorrow with his wife's extended family and everyone has to dress like a character from the Nativity scene. Yeah, you read that right. My brother will appear in a family photo as a wise man or shepherd or something. That very thought just makes me smile.

The fact that Christmas break is fast approaching.

The fact that I made it out of an hour-long conversation with my dissertation director with my head still attached to my shoulders. I was terrified of what she might say. (She is not what normal humans would call "warm" or "nice" or "warm-blooded," etc.) It turned out to be very useful and not excruciating. Always a bonus.

Action figures.

A good haircut.

The fact that, at parent/teacher conference this week, both of our older daughters' teachers praised them as excellent readers, independent learners, and students who always have something to contribute to the class. Music to my ears.

Watching TV with Suzanne.



The fact that, on the day we had to fly with my mother and three children across the country to attend my dad's funeral, Suzanne set out my traveling clothes the night before and she picked my lightning bolt superhero t-shirt for me to wear. She gets me.

Scrabble.

The smell of burning leaves.

Pixar movies. Seriously, what production company can claim 11 artistic and commercial hits in a row? Their level of success and quality is unmatched. I can watch The Incredibles or Ratatouille or UP anytime, anywhere and be perfectly happy.

Saturdays.

Sleeping in.

Writing. (Sometimes.)