Jim dandy

Jim McMurry and I were political opposites. He was a Democrat and a steadfast supporter of Barack Obama, and I a libertarian Republican and Ron Paul backer.

Jim was a firebrand, just like me. We both joined in on political discussions on Facebook and other online sites, and were convinced we were right and those who disagreed were wrong.

Jim was a prince of a guy

Almost everything about us would suggest we were mortal enemies. Nothing could be further from the truth.

I miss my friend Jim. Two nights ago, while on his way to work at the local newspaper, Jim began having chest pains. He turned his pickup truck around and headed to the hospital.

Jim never made it. He died of a heart attack behind the wheel. Jim was 50 years old.

I learned of Jim’s untimely death from another Facebook friend. The news was like a punch to the stomach. I immediately went to Jim’s Facebook page to confirm what I was reading was true. Sadly, it was. Jim’s many friends already were posting tributes.

These last few days I’ve been thinking a lot about Jim.

Our odd couple friendship began in 2008, when I posted a comment on a newspaper online forum about Obama that Jim had started. The thread originally was intended to promote a local fund-raising event for the Obama campaign that Jim was organizing. The thread lived on long after the event was over and Obama was elected, and evolved into a general meeting place for anyone interested in political discourse. Some posts were incendiary, with the usual name-calling and tit for tat that’s common in politics today. Jim was right in the middle of it all, refusing to back down. He dished out as much as he took.

Jim remembered me at Christmas...

In time I found myself a regular contributor to the thread. Although Jim and I exchanged opinions many times, our conversation never turned negative. For reasons I can’t explain, we had an unspoken agreement to keep our discussion on a respectful, intellectual level.

As Facebook became more popular, Jim and I moved our political dialogue there. Our change of online venue did not change how we treated one another. Even in the political din surrounding us, we remained civil with each other.

We continued to discuss politics online, but more often we would post messages to each other about the more important aspects of life: family, faith and friendship. He would “poke” me on Facebook and I would “poke” him back. We sent each other birthday greetings and joked about our shortcomings and the frustrations of making ends meet. When I was honored with a local volunteerism award, Jim said he was proud to be counted among my friends.

Actually, the pleasure was all mine.

...with a heartfelt message

I had several contacts with Jim in the days leading up to his death. On Dec. 10, in a private Facebook message, Jim asked for my mailing address. I provided it, along with this: “Are you planning to send a team of Obama 2012 campaign workers by to work me over? Ha ha!” Jim responded with “No, no one named Carmine or Big Louie.” He placed a winking emoticon at the end of the sentence.

Several days later a Christmas card arrived from Jim. Then a few days before Christmas I got a call from my friend, asking if I’d like to join him and a few other amateur political wonks for a drink at a downtown watering hole. I told him I had other things going on that night, but asked to be included in any future get-togethers.

I wish now that I had cleared my calendar that night and joined them.

My last correspondence with Jim came on Christmas Eve. I finally got around to acknowledging the card he’d sent. In a Facebook post on Jim’s wall I wrote, “Thanks for the nice Christmas card. I hope you and yours have a wonderful holiday season, as well. Sometime soon let’s meet for coffee – my treat.”

I owe you that cup of joe, Jim. Maybe on the other side we can sip a mug together and have a nice, long talk – friend to friend.

We can discuss politics as long as we want. Even if by then it doesn’t matter at all.

The Christmas lights

I was a little later than usual getting to it this year, but I finally strung Christmas lights on the outside of my house.

It’s a tradition in our family. Every Christmas season since my son and daughter were old enough to enjoy them I’ve put the colorful lights around the garage door, windows and shrubs. The kids probably think I go to all the trouble just for them, but I don’t.

There’s another reason I brave the chilly air and fumble with knotty 25-bulb strands and extension cords. I do it as a luminescent memorial to the first – and last – time my father hung lights on my childhood home.

Dad's memorial

Dad wouldn’t get another opportunity to decorate our house in a radiant glow, and he probably knew it, too. His stomach was eaten up with cancer. My sisters and I didn’t know just how close he was to death. He and my mother kept that information to themselves. They didn’t want us to worry.

So on that sunny December day in 1975 Dad pulled a brown insulated coat over his frail 125-pound frame – a body that at one time was 220 pounds of blue-collar muscle – and a winter hat with ear flaps onto his head, and walked into the garage. He emerged with an eight-foot stepladder, several sets of outdoor lights, a hammer and a box of penny nails.

I watched as he carried the ladder to the farthest end of the front of our one-story brick house, a task that would have required little effort years earlier but now was a struggle. It was as if Dad was carrying the ladder with a refrigerator strapped to his back.

He gathered up the lights and tools and walked them over to the opened ladder. He was breathing heavy but I could detect a determined look in his blue eyes. Dad was not going to let his pain-wracked body stop him from making this a special Christmas, complete with outside illumination.

Dad wrapped a strand of lights around his neck and slowly ascended the ladder. He stopped a foot short of the roof, took a nail from between his lips and drove it through the light cord and into the wooden façade below the guttering. He stretched the strand a little farther and hammered another nail.

He repeated the process until he couldn’t attach any more cord to the wood without losing his balance, then moved the ladder several feet to the right of where he started and began again.

A job that should have taken an hour took somewhere between two and three. Dad would stop to catch his breath – sometimes even when a nail was only half driven – with his head bowed and chest visibly heaving. After a few moments he’d raise back up and continue his work. I don’t know if Dad ever had a day at the factory as hard as this one.

When the final strand of lights was attached to the house Dad turned to me and said, “Let’s plug it in and see how they look.”

I pushed the plug into the electric outlet and the red, green, blue and yellow bulbs came to life. They were beautiful, just like the smile that broke out between the sunken jaws on Dad’s face.

Today, I'm the one climbing the ladder

We enjoyed those lights through Christmas and New Year’s Day, and they stayed up past the third week of January when all the neighbors had already taken their lights down.

Those lights were still hanging from the house on Valentine’s Day 1976, the day Dad died.

In the difficult days that followed we forgot about the lights. Weeks went by, and then months, and winter gave way to spring. And still the lights adorned the front of our home.

One day that summer I noticed the lights. I grabbed some tools, intending to take them down. But when I carried the ladder to the farthest end of the front of our house as Dad had done months before, I couldn’t bring myself to pull out the first nail. As long as those lights stayed up a part of Dad lived on. The lights were to me like the child’s room parents leave untouched when that child dies.

The lights went undisturbed the rest of that year, and then deep into 1977. Others began to take notice of our permanent light display. Our “year-round Christmas lights” soon became a joke in my high school’s newspaper. I explained to my friends that I kept forgetting to take them down. I was lying.

Another year went by before I finally could finish the job Dad started almost three years earlier. Those strands of bulbs, new when he nailed them to the house, now looked weathered and old.

Yet in those soiled lights shone the spirit of my father – a spirit that would not allow a terminal illness to deprive us of a memorable Christmas.

It was Dad’s final Christmas present to us. And I’ve never received a gift that meant so much.

Point, set, match, career

Has it really been two years?

Got to looking at some old sports memorabilia the other day, and realized that an important anniversary was approaching. On this day in 2009, I attended the final high school game played by one of my children.

It was in Noblesville, Ind. My daughter Alissa and her Indy Silver Lightning homeschool volleyball team were taking on the Hamilton County Tigers. The evening was one of pride, joy, excitement and, yes, a tinge of sadness. While I was happy to see her go out with a win – Alissa led her team with 11 assists and set up the match-winning kill – I realized a special period in both our lives had ended.

The morning of that match I wrote Alissa the letter that follows. The words ring as true today as they did 24 months ago. I'm still cheering her on, urging her to keep on fighting, and grateful God brought her into my life:

Dear Alissa,

Well, sweetheart, here we are. In a matter of hours you will step onto the volleyball court for the last time in your high school career. It’s hard to believe we’ve reached the last match. Time has passed far too quickly.


This Lightning always struck

Before you and I put our game faces on, there are a few things I want to say to you. I might not get to say them prior to your match, so I’m going to say them here. It’s also easier this way. I’m not sure I’d be able to get through this face-to-face without my emotions getting the best of me.



I’ve been privileged and honored to share these past five volleyball seasons with you. It’s been a highlight of my life watching you compete and, more importantly, develop into a fine student-athlete.



We’ve shared a journey that has taken us to more than 100 matches, easily three times that number of practices, and way too many trips to the doctor and physical therapist. We’ve traveled to big cities like Indianapolis, Fort Wayne and Terre Haute, and out-of-the-way hamlets like Linton, Mexico and Covington. I don’t know how many miles we’ve logged along the way. Whatever it was, it was worth every tick of the odometer.



You’ve come a long way in a very short period of time. I saw you start as a complete novice afraid to make a mistake, and become a two-time All-Conference player and team captain.


I’ve witnessed the grit you exhibited as you played the better part of two seasons on what we thought was a chronic ankle sprain. Little did any of us know the true nature of your injury: a torn ligament. How you managed to run down balls, dive for point-saving digs, make precise sets to teammates and jump for a kill with that serious foot condition, I’ll never know. But you did. You played in pain more often than you did not. There’s something to be said for that kind of determination.



I’ve observed your competitive fire – a fire much like my own. You were never satisfied with second, and often said so. Sometimes your words got you into trouble, especially if you thought teammates weren’t as dedicated to excellence and worked as hard as you did. They might not have known where you were coming from, but I did. If you expected maximum effort from yourself, you were going to expect it from them.

Senior night with dad and mom



I remember how, when others were happy finishing a surprising runner-up in the state junior varsity tournament one year, you were devastated. You didn’t even want to look at the second place medal they draped over your neck. Although I outwardly spoke to you of being content with having done your best, inside I could relate to your deep disappointment. Championship opportunities don’t come along often, and you have to seize those moments when you can. At your tender age, you already understood what that meant.



This season presented a new challenge for you. A new team, a new cast of characters, a new coach, a different philosophy. You jumped right in, ready to contribute. Although I knew it would be difficult starting with a new team in your senior season, I believe you’ve made the most of the situation. You probably disagree. It’s that never satisfied character trait, I’m sure.



As this chapter in your life draws to a close, I have but one regret. I regret that as the athletic director for four of your five teams, I was unable to deliver you a championship. With the hard work and energy you invested in the sport of volleyball, you deserved to stand at the top of the winner’s podium. Perhaps that will happen in some other aspect of your life later on. I hope so.



When your brother played his final high school basketball game a couple of years ago, I felt a deep sense of loss. My only consolation was that I still had your volleyball to look forward to. In a little while that, too, will be gone. It will be hard, and I probably will shed some tears.



I guess what I’m saying is that as much as you needed volleyball, I’ve needed to be a part of your volleyball. Some people might say I’ve lived vicariously through you. I don’t know, maybe that’s true. What I do know is that when your final match ends later tonight, there will be an empty spot in my heart.



Somewhere down the road I hope you are able to look back on these years with fond memories. I know I certainly will.



So go out there tonight and enjoy your final match. Win or lose, I’ll be sitting in the stands as proud as ever.



Thanks once again for giving me the gift of you. I’ll treasure it always.



Love today and forever,


Dad




Alissa's final set, and assist (http://youtube/H_c7c9MSbB0)

Revisionist history

I've rewritten my résumé. After reading the previous version from beginning to end I decided the emphasis was all wrong and important information was missing.

The new résumé comes much closer to reflecting my background and who I am.

I’m not sure how the revised version will play on my LinkedIn page or Monster.com. I’m not even certain the new résumé could land me a job interview.

That’s okay. My résumé finally reflects the most important “work” I’ve ever done:

Steve Leer

Lafayette, IN

SUMMARY:

A veteran communications professional, and proud father of two children who recently left the nest. Experienced in writing and editing, and all forms of parenting, including providing basic needs, teaching right from wrong, playing an active role in their lives, listening to problems, and offering support now that they’re on their own.

    LABOR OF LOVE

WORK ^ HISTORY

February 2000-Present

    University writer/editor

·      Produce news releases and other communications materials. Won numerous awards that are collecting dust on a shelf.

     Devoted dad

·      Teamed with wife to raise our children to be honest, responsible, law-abiding citizens. Instilled in them a love of people, country and God.

My proudest career moments

·      Encouraged the children in their academic pursuits, and helped them when appropriate and/or knew enough about the subject to be a help.

·      Supported son’s violin lessons despite my possessing no musical talent. Did the same for daughter’s gymnastics interest, although barely able to differentiate a balance beam from uneven bars.

·      Formed a sports program for the children and other local homeschooled youth. Served as volunteer athletic director and coach during the program’s first five years. Attended more than 200 basketball, soccer and volleyball games, hundreds of practices and dozens of planning meetings. Program grew to more than 100 children. Received a prestigious local volunteerism award for founding the program and a more coveted honor when the children said, “Thanks dad.”

·      Saved money, helped plan and carried out annual family vacations. Took children to see Grand Canyon, Florida beaches, New York City, Philadelphia, The Bahamas (cruise), and most of the Midwest and South. Fell short of visiting California and Mount Rushmore.

·      Participated in children’s high school graduation ceremonies. Smiled broadly and choked back tears.

·      Drove daughter more than 1,000 miles to visit colleges in Virginia and Indiana. Gave son our old van to use at nearby university, feeling badly that it couldn’t have been something better.

·      Limited work-related travel, overtime and other business activities to a minimum, in order to be at home at night as often as possible. Decision likely cost potential promotions, but worth the sacrifice.

·      Gave children unconditional love, generous praise, occasional correction and the shirt off my back (to the son).

July 1989-February 2000

    Newspaper reporter/editor

·      Wrote and copy edited hundreds of news stories, and assisted in daily news planning. Won myriad awards that are but a faded memory.

    Committed father

·      Attended birth of both children. Awestruck and deeply moved.

·      Aided wife in teaching children to walk, tie shoelaces, ride a bicycle and other skills too numerous to mention.

·      Took children to church and, on various occasions, served as teacher and activity leader. Supplemented church with at-home religious training.

·      Attempted to be good role model. Sometimes failed.

·      Attempted to give children as much quality time as they wanted. Sometimes failed.

·      Gave children unconditional love, generous praise, occasional correction and the shoes off my feet (way too big for either).

SKILLS:

·      Proficient in computers and office technology.

·      Hopefully good enough at caring, protecting and nurturing children. Would like to think I exhibited trust, compassion and patience, and played no favorites.

AWARDS: Received many made of wood and metal, but all pale in comparison to the honor of being a dad.

EDUCATION: College graduate. Learned much more from fatherhood.

REFERENCES:

·      Present and former employers.

·      Two great young adults my wife and I have sent out into the world.

·       God. He knows my paternal intentions were good even when my decisions and actions were far less than perfect.

The pursuit of app-iness

If there’s an app for that, I wish someone would show me where.

A few weeks ago I became the proud owner of my first smartphone. That’s barely enough time to begin calling it a “mobile device” like all the other smartphone snobs do, but sufficient time to determine that the pocket-size computer/entertainment center can’t solve all my problems.

Granted, it comes pretty close. My phone came with about 50 preinstalled “apps” – what the snobs call applications. There are apps for news, weather, Facebook, maps, music, Twitter, photo archiving, YouTube, stock quotes and Google. I’ve got an app to turn my phone into a voice recorder, television, library, radio, camcorder and flashlight. One app lets me plan car trips which, incidentally, is an app I’ll never, EVER use while driving, just like I never send text messages when I’m behind the wheel.

Android makes living a sn-app

Cough, cough.

Another app in my smartphone lets me chart GPS coordinates, so I can no longer claim I don’t know where we keep the household cleaning supplies (in the house). Still another app allows me to rent movies from Blockbuster, which might be a challenge since practically every Blockbuster has a large “For Lease” sign in the front window.

If all those gigabytes of information designed to make life easier aren’t enough, I’ve even got an app to add more apps. A lime green R2-D2 lookalike named Android (snobs drop the “An”) has thousands available that he/she/it is peddling.

They’ve thought of almost everything. Perusing the app store I’ve come across a marijuana encyclopedia, phlebotomy certification exam study guide, do-it-yourself Catholic confessional and Morse Code trainer, for all those times I use a telegraph machine.

If I want eBooks and documents read to me I can install Katja, the Russian voice app. I can add Fake Call Me, an app that gets users “out of awkward situations by giving yourself a fake call”; or Metal Detector, which apparently converts a smartphone user into an agent of the Transportation Security Administration, minus professional groping skills. Or even download Pocket Girlfriend, although I don’t want any female – real or imagined – getting that close to my wallet and car keys.

All those apps probably meet some important need for someone else but not me. If I could find them, I would immediately download apps that perform the following functions:

* Identifies the frozen bricks of whatever they are in the refrigerator freezer. Are they beef? Ham? Venison? Jeffrey Dahmer leftovers? I’d like to be able to take phone photos of the objects in question and then have the app compare the images against a database of frozen food pictures, and offer possible matches. I might find the stuff is edible, if I’d consumed it seven years ago.

* Alerts me to gas price increases and decreases before they happen. A couple of years ago I could count on prices dropping on Tuesdays and going up on Thursdays. Now on a single day they can fall six cents a gallon when the Dow Jones Industrial Average opens sharply lower, rise nine cents a few hours later after we bomb a fruit stand in the Middle East, come down a nickel 45 minutes later on news OPEC can’t agree on oil production cutbacks and then soar a quarter for no apparent reason other than I pulled my car up to the pump. And then, as soon as I’ve paid for my gas and left, the price plummets 50 cents.

* Wakes me when I fall asleep in front of the television. Far too often these days I nod off sometime during the 11 p.m. news and wake up as Jimmy Fallon is telling the studio audience goodnight. Certainly an app could be developed that picks up clues I’m catching unintended Z’s: the senseless mumbling, the jackhammer sounds blaring from my nasal passages and the pool of saliva collecting on the armrest. The app developer could add a snooze button for business conferences.

* Stops me from making fashion faux pas. Okay, I know stripes and plaids don’t go together and that you should never wear white athletic socks with a suit. But what about a polka dot necktie with an Argyle sweater? Sneakers with an Oxford shirt? Pastels after Labor Day? Corduroy BEFORE Labor Day? I’m not expecting to walk out the front door looking like a GQ cover model – just not a cover model for Mad. As an added bonus, I’d like the app to set the record straight on how far above the top of my shoes the pants legs can go before they’re considered “flood waters.”

Steely Dan lyrics always leave me reelin'

* Translates bizarre pop music lyrics. I’ve loved Steely Dan for years, but I couldn’t explain the lyrical musings of Donald Fagen and Walter Becker if I tried. I have no idea what it is Steely Dan wants “Jack” to “do again.” If I’m “Reelin’ In The Years” do I use a fishing pole? And in “Rikki Don’t Lose That Number,” wouldn’t it make more sense to write the number down in an address book than “send it off in a letter to yourself”? Then there’s the Beatles in their later years. I’m completely lost when listening to “Come Together.” “He got joo-joo eyeball”? “He bag production/He got walrus gumboot”? “He one spinal cracker”? I need either an electronic lyric dictionary, or a hit of acid.

* Kicks me off when I spend too much time browsing the app store. 

I doubt Android would take too kindly to me limiting my app shopping. I’d probably need one more app: One that lets me remove a plate from the back of Android and then yank a few wires to disable him/her/it.

An anniversary message to my wife

Happy anniversary, honey. You’ve made me the luckiest guy in the world these last 26 years.

I don’t say it often enough, but I got the best end of the deal when we exchanged vows. You’re so much more than I deserve.

We’ve enjoyed a comfortable, if not spectacular, life together. Two kids, a mortgage and memories of special times shared. It’s better than many get to experience but, I must admit, not quite the Camelot I envisioned the moment I said, “I do.”

Steve and Margie Leer then...

When I walked you down the aisle as mister and missus that first time, I was ready to conquer the world and then hand it to you on a silver platter. I thought I’d be Ward Cleaver, Jim Anderson and Mike Brady all rolled into one.

Boy, was I wrong. Reality and human foibles soon set in, and that knight on a white steed I was sure I’d become looked more like a migrant on a donkey.

What I wanted to be and do for you didn’t turn out exactly as planned, but you let me know it was all right, anyway:

I wanted to give you the moon and stars. You were content with a three-bedroom home on a tiny piece of property in the Midwest.

I wanted to climb the career ladder so you would be proud of me. You were happy to be stuck with an average guy who works an average job for average pay.

I wanted to be a hopeless romantic who swept you off your feet every day with roses, chocolates and whispered sweet nothings. You were satisfied with a daily embrace, a quick kiss at the front door and a mumbled “I love you” seconds before snoring.

I wanted to make all the right decisions so you’d never have a moment of worry. You accepted a man who often chose unwisely, even after carefully considering all the options.

I wanted to say funny things so you’d laugh whenever we were together. You smiled at a lot of poor attempts at humor.

I wanted to compliment you morning, noon and night on your inner and outer beauty. You settled for occasional praise from a well-intentioned, but forgetful, fellow.

I wanted to read you poetry and sing you love songs. You heard me go through the bills and grumble when they were too high, and understood that’s just how I am.

...and now

I wanted to whisk you to faraway places like Paris, Rome and Rio de Janeiro. You made the best of vacation budgets that usually got us only as far as Florida.

I wanted to exude confidence, bravery and strength, so you’d feel secure with me. You never wavered in your devotion to a guy who routinely battled self-doubt, fear and weakness.

I wanted to write a “they lived happily ever after” ending to our story. You were fine with bliss but more interested in commitment.

I wanted to be the ideal husband, providing you the best of everything. You recognized that no one can measure up to the ideal, and that doing my best was good enough.

In short, I wanted you to be my wife then, now and always. And you? You wanted the same thing.

Looking back on it now, that’s all I ever should have wanted. Thanks for showing me the way.

I love you.