It’s weekends like this one, when family and friends observe July Fourth traditions over hamburgers, junk food, and fire crackers, that many of us reflect on those who paid the ultimate price to give us freedom. For me the holiday is also filled with memories of my dad driving my mom, me, and my three siblings to St. Clair, Michigan, to spend the day with his parents, Grandma and Grandpa Blumer, and my many cousins, aunts, and uncles. My grandparents lived at 232 South 9th Street in a tan two-story frame house much like those around it. My dad and his four brothers grew up in this house (wish I had a photo of it). Unfortunately, the place has long since been sold after Grandma Blumer passed away on January 15, 2000, after a stroke at age 87. She knew her Savior and is surely spending days of wonder at…
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The notion of lost memories and the mysteries of the brain have always fascinated me. Even more so when my dad was diagnosed with stage-4 brain cancer (glioblastoma multiforme) in January 2009. Because my parents moved to my town for Dad’s cancer treatments and I sometimes helped out as caregiver, I got to see the ravages of brain cancer up close and personal. Sometimes when my mom needed to get groceries or run other errands, I sat with my dad and worked on my laptop (rather like I’m doing now) while he slept in a reclined wheelchair. Usually Dad slept soundly, but other times he mumbled words. Names. A smattering of mumbled speech. Something garbled from a dream. Normally, the soliloquy made little sense, but sometimes I recognized a name. Roger. Wayne. (Those are the names of two of my dad’s four brothers.) I heard only an occasional word, but Mom…
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Based on a true story It was the perfect summer day. Pristine blue sky. Simmering warmth. Just enough unobstructed sunshine to heat my pumping bare arms. I maintained a measured, quick stride up G Street past ranches and bungalows with my beagle, Patches. Nike running shoes? Check. Shorts and T-shirt? Check. MP3 player, earbuds, and playlist ready? Check. After being chained to the chair in my basement office, the prospect of being outdoors after a long day of editing was heavenly. My neck ached, and I longed for the solace only woods, fresh air, and sunshine could provide. I was walking my dog—or maybe she was walking me—toward that sun-dappled forest path that led beyond the subdivision and quite literally into the woods. Where the road ended, the path began—little more than two ruts carved between the trees by four-wheeling joyriders. Ahead lay the promise of sunny meadows, wild raspberries,…
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It’s hard to sum up a life in only a few words. And this offering certainly doesn’t do this amazing worker, provider, father, husband, and grandfather justice. Exactly one year ago today, my father, Larry, only 71, said good-bye to this life and stepped into a much better one after a two-and-half-year struggle with brain cancer. He left behind a wife, a daughter, three sons, a son-in-law, three daughters-in-law, and eleven grandkids. Beyond a few mementos and clothes that didn’t fit my brothers but fit me perfectly, all I have left of Dad, a GM retiree, are scriptural values and beliefs he instilled in my life. And of course precious memories—and what a treasure trove I have to draw from. Not only for my writing but just to remember Dad for who he was. Lest I ever forget. I’ll never forget the beautiful Revolutionary War-style muzzleloader Dad built from a…
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