tommy

Lori called him dad.  I called him Mr. Hayes...and later, Tom.  The kids called him Papa.  All of his close friends called him Tommy.  This is the eulogy I delivered during his funeral mass at the Church of Our Savior in Jacksonville, IL last Tuesday, the 29th of January.  We'll miss him.

Tommy Hayes: July 26, 1948-January 24, 2013

A few years ago Tom had recently returned from his Canada trip, and had some fish to fry.  I remember watching him as he sat on his concrete patio in front of that fryer, cautiously covering each fillet in just the right amount of cornmeal and then dropping it ever-so-carefully in the oil.  After a certain amount of time Tom would remove each fillet and place it on a plate covered in paper towel.  Each piece would then sit on that plate until it reached the perfectly safe temperature when it could be eaten.  Not too hot, never too cold.  As I watched Tom fry that fish, I imagined him up in Canada on his beloved fishing trip, surrounded by his closest friends.  I knew very little about the trip, only that he loved it.  So I imagined what it was like.  Him in a boat, patiently casting and floating, reeling, removing fish from the hook. Laughing, smiling.  Not wasting any words.  And cherishing every second.  I stopped my imagining and went out to get my first bit of fish.  It was, of course, perfect.  I began to tell him how good it was.  How tender, just the right amount of cornmeal and seasoning.  He gave me a look that said, “Just eat the fish kid, you know I don’t like a big fuss.”  And so I stopped talking and just ate the fish.  I told him how much I liked the fish by eating over 2 pounds of it that day.  I think he was pleased.

I won’t make a big fuss about Tom today.  I think this too will please him.  But I will tell you a little about him, because like you, I too love him.  And his good life deserves at least a bit of fuss.

One of Tommy’s closest friends, Dick Anthony, “Coach,” shared this story with us.  “Tom, Danny Arthalony, Jim Phalen, and I went to Canada fishing for several years.  I believe this was the first year that I went with these fellows.  We flew into a place on the Ogoki River.  As we landed on the water, we noticed that the plane was pulling up to a dock anchored a long way from shore.  At this point we were told that we had to transfer the humongous amount of equipment from the plane onto the dock and then move it by boat to a cabin on the shore.  None of us were real happy about this, but what are you going to do?  We loaded the boats with as much as we could and headed to shore.  Tom was running the boat and I was visually checking things out.  At about 100 yards from shore, Wham!  We hit the bottom of the lake.  The boat went sideways but did not turn over.  Now what do we do?  Well, we strip down and pull the blankety blank boat to shore.  The whole time we were verbally thanking the people back in base camp for not telling us about all the problems we were facing when we got to the lake and I’m wondering what I had gotten myself into.  What I had gotten was years of wonderful friendships.  At least once a year Tom and I would be sitting at the KCs, and the strip down story would get a little more embellished.  I still can’t believe we didn’t get a picture of 4 guys pulling those boats in their undies.”

Over the past few days we have heard stories like this and learned things about Tom that were previously unknown to us.  Tom wasn’t one to toot his own horn or tell a story as evidence of his kindness, or strength, or thoughtfulness.  But those stories exist, in the words of others.  Multiple people have said, “you know, I didn’t know Tom all that well, or talk to him that much, but he always said hi and smiled when he saw me.”  Tom’s simple gestures spoke the words he so often left unspoken.

Lori’s first college roommate didn’t have much money.  Tom picked up on this while he was moving Lori into the dorm her freshman year.  The extent of his interactions with this roommate was a simple, “nice to meet you,” and yet every time he talked with Lori during that year he would ask, “does your roommate need any money.”  He wasn’t being nosy, he was asking because if she was in need, he was ready to give.

Like his thoughtfulness, Tommy’s strength was also often silent.  In this way, his silence became even more pronounced after his diagnosis.  We know that many of you missed seeing him at the KCs, or at the bowling alley, or on the golf course.  While we don’t know all of Tommy’s reasons for this, one reason for this absence was his daily determination to perform a set of exercises that often took him all day to complete.  During the disease, he retained what strength he could through his daily routine of green tea, pomegranate juice, exercise, and of course walking Irish.  It was rigorous and often difficult.  But this is how he brought some control and comfort to a situation that was so uncomfortable and out of his control.  He didn’t forget us.  He loved us.  He was just living, and staying strong, in his own way.

The day before Tommy passed away, during one of his final exchanges with his devoted mother, Eleanor, he said to her through his tears, “I guess this is to see just how tough I am.”  Her emotional response was, “Tommy, you’re plenty tough.  And you just gotta keep being tough.”  I’m sure similar conversations occurred when Tommy was a kid with a scraped knee.  “Tommy, you’re plenty tough.  And you just gotta keep being tough.”  Eleanor, through genetics and deliberate lessons, made Tommy strong.  Strong enough to be a soldier.  Strong enough to be a father.  Strong enough to be a fighter.

Beyond his strength, his compassion, and his thoughtfulness, there was also a side to Tom that many surely remember—his ability to have fun.  In his younger years this included roller skating—not just rolling around the rink, but as I found out yesterday, gracefully dancing on wheels, skating backwards, and going in circles.  It was during these younger years that he caught the attention of a young nurse-in-training, named Maryann Watts.  They got married, raised two great kids, and established a relationship built upon dependability, loyalty, and commitment.  Maryann knew she could count on Tommy, and that without judgment, he would provide what she needed.  And Tommy knew that Maryann would always be by his side, loyally committed, no matter the circumstances.  I won’t give you details about the circumstances of Tommy’s last 5 weeks on earth spent in the hospital in St. Louis.  But I will tell you this: the loyalty and commitment between these two was never stronger.  For 5 grueling weeks, as Tommy fought, Maryann remained vigilant and hopeful, literally never leaving his side.  In moments of despair, Tommy’s consolation was Maryann.  He knew she would do everything she could to keep him alive, keep him hopeful, and keep him comfortable.  And she did do everything, and more.  Every minute of every day.

We’ll all remember Tommy in different ways, and recall the way he enriched our lives.  Coach put this nicely, “Tom Hayes is probably the only person I have known that I could sit in a boat with for hours with very few words exchanged and feel perfectly comfortable with the silence.” I count myself lucky, because I live with five people whom he loved deeply, who carry his good blood and a portion of his good spirit with them.  Each day, they remind me of him.  In my wife, his daughter Lori, I see all that is good in him.  Strength, kindness, a quiet dignity that like Tommy, speaks measures without saying a word.  Lori knows how to throw a baseball correctly, because of Tommy.  Lori is loyal and dependable, just like Tommy.  In Brennan, the grandson he loved, I see his thoughtfulness.  His desire to be inclusive of all people in all situations.  In Zoe, his first granddaughter, I see his kindness.  His willingness to help others even when it might not be convenient.  In Ava, I see his determination.  Setting his mind to something, and focusing with intensity and strength.  And in Hayzel, Tommy’s smile.  Mouth open wide, tilting the head back a bit, enjoying the moment and the people in that moment.

* Each of us makes sense of death in different ways.  Religion, art, and our own consciousness inform our ideas and beliefs about what happens to those who pass on. We are left behind, but where do they go?  What is it like?  Today more specifically, we ask, “Where is Tom Hayes?  Where is he?  What is it like?”  I can offer nothing more definitive than what has already been presented by Father Tom, Father Nelson, and the readings, but I can tell you what I choose to believe, and paint a picture of what I hope is happening.  I believe in a place where we reunite with those who passed before us.  I believe that these reunions are real and defined by relief.  Relief that what is ‘real’ is not confined to life on earth, but that ‘real life’ continues, in some incredible way, after this one.  And so, just as I could imagine Tom up in Canada, I can imagine him up in Heaven.  Today, I imagine the grandfather of my children, this great man, Tom Hayes, patiently floating along crystal clear water in a glass bottom boat. He is free of pain and full of joy.  He wears a hat on his head and a smile on his face.  In front of him in the boat sits his father Virgil.  Behind him, JT.  Between the three of them, they’ll polish off plenty of Natural Light by the end of the day, and have a few perfectly fried pieces of fish to eat for dinner.  They don’t say much, but they look down upon us, and see us looking up at them.  They know that one day, we too will be ready to join them.  But they are in no hurry.   They row themselves slowly through eternity, and wait, like parents, for us to close our eyes. 

* some of the imagery of Tommy up in Heaven was inspired by the beautiful Billy Collins poem, "The Dead."

a long december

The smell of hospitals in winter,
and the feeling that it's all a lot of oysters, but no pearls.

On March 22, 1997, Lori and I and a few friends caravanned down to St. Louis from our hometown of Jacksonville to watch the Counting Crows in concert.  The show was spectacular. Our relationship was new and exciting.  Over the next several months we would travel to St. Louis several times, pretending to be adults in a big city with our newly found grown up love.  Our last trip to St. Louis before college was the week before Lori left for Kentucky.  I was in charge of the plans, which meant that I had no plans.  I charmed 18 year old Lori* with my what-me-worry spontaneity.

The drive to St. Louis is easy.  Jump on old 67.  Watch out for the Woodson cop.  Greenfield.  What a cute town, but I'd never live here.  Godfrey.  Basically Alton.  Alton.  Did you know my Grandma went to High School here with Robert Wadlow?  Cross the mighty Mississippi.  I bet I could swim across this thing.  Into St. Louis.  My dad gets nervous driving in cities, but I don't.

All I remember about that trip is that we had a picnic lunch in the park, I bought a pair of Levi's at a thrift shop in University City that I would wear for the next decade, and I drove all the way home wishing that Lori and I were going to college in the same time zone.  Besides our pending separation, not a care or concern in the world.  I filled up my tank at the Pit Stop right before crossing into Alton.  $.98/gallon.

On December 27, 2012 Lori and I caravan down to St. Louis from our hometown of Jacksonville to visit her father--who is suffering with cancer--in the hospital.  I follow Lori down.  She has Hayzel  in her car and I have the older three.

Jump on old 67.  Watch out for the Woodson cop. Greenfield.  What a cute town, but I'd never live here.  There used to be a little ice cream shop right there.  Godfrey.  Basically Alton.  Alton.  Did you know Grandma Franz went to High School here with Robert Wadlow?  Cross the mighty Mississippi.  Gross.  Into St. Louis.  Papa hates driving in cities.  

I look ahead and see the back of Lori's head.  A head hung high, proud and alert, yet currently weighed down by grief.  I look in the rear-view mirror and see Brennan, Zoe, and Ava. This extension of everything we are and hope to be.  Same road.  Same travelers.  But with Responsibility, Cares, and Concern.

I have no plans for this trip to St. Louis. Not because of deliberate youthful obstinance, or a function of my personality.  I simply don't know what to do.  I'm shocked by the situation and feel a visceral urge to somehow protect these people whom I love so dearly and deeply.  These people that I am currently looking at through glass.  How did I get here?  What do I do?  I'm still that silly 17 year old in Levi's. He can do nothing for me now.

Or maybe he can.

All this moroseness is ok for a moment, or during a quick 3 minutes at the pulpit, but I'm better at laughing.  We can still do spontaneity, even when it's against our will.  We can be ok, even when things are not.  And with Lori, for Lori if needs be, I can't make it better, but I can make it through.   I put on an old Counting Crows album.  Recovering the Satellites.  My favorite.  I flip to my favorite track, Monkey.  

Just get the world off your shoulders
and close your pretty blue eyes.
Hey monkey, what's life without an occasional surprise?

I break the silence in the car by breaking wind. Loudly. The kids all laugh.  I then check in.

I love you Brennan.
Me too.

I love you Zoe.
I love you more than the world plus infinity plus pi. 

I love you Ava.
Ok.

Yep, the kids are ok.

I pull up next to Lori and smile at her.  She smiles, genuinely, back at me.  Then gives me a look which says, "Now get back in your lane."

Yep, Lori is ok.

It's been a long December.  But we'll be ok.

* Right before I left for a trip to China in October of 2006, I thought it would be fun to relive the old 'no plan' day in a city.  Lori obliged, and off we went to Louisville (where I was flying out of).  After 6 hours, two small hungry children, and really not a whole lot of fun to show for it, Lori revealed, "You know, this was more charming when you were 17."

so they say/do

On generational differences 

"Sometimes I have a hard time talking to old people.  I mean, I'm like, 'so, what do you think about  Lionel Messi?' and they're always like, 'I don't know, but I sure like Elvis!'" 

-- Brennan (on the way to soccer practice)

Takeaway: If you know anything about Elvis, you're old.  

On cell phones and the homeless

"You definitely are going to need to finally get a cell phone when I'm an adult.  Because I'm going to be busy.  I'll be a professional ballerina and a soccer player.  And we'll live in the same town.  So, if you're driving around and  you see a homeless person, you can call me and I'll take a break and go to the homeless guy and bring him some food and a blanket.  And maybe find a place for him to sleep."

-- Zoe (biking home from the library)

Takeaway: If you are homeless, be homeless in the same town as adult Zoe.  If you live in the same town as Zoe and have a home, you might want to consider becoming homeless.  

On backpacks

Me: "Why do you have a mouse trap in your backpack?"

Ava: "To catch stuff."

Me: "Why do you have a camera in your backpack?"

Ava: "To take pictures of stuff."

Me: "Why do you have that little pinball game in your backpack?"

Ava: "To have fun when I'm not catching stuff.  Or taking pictures."

--Ava (on the way to school)

Takeaway: If our life ever resembles a Wes Anderson film, we'll have Ava to thank.

i need a hero

When Lance caved to the pressure imposed upon him for years by the dogged pursuit of the anti-doping agency, I won't lie, I was a little sad.  The truth is, I had suspected Lance was a doper all along. But the finality of it all, the damning conclusion.  It's a bummer.  The morning the news hit, I read Lance's statement and expressed some of this sentiment.  After explaining to the kids what had happened, Zoe responded: "You should send Lance a letter and tell him you're sorry that he lost all of his prizes.  And also tell him drugs are bad."

Our heroes often fail us.  Because in the end, they are human.  Even Peter Parker's humanity got in the way (I think).  And that's a shame.  Or is it?

The messiness of life requires that we have very human exemplars of how to make it through.  Imperfect beings making sense of life and others - behaving according to the bundle of values and interests that define us all.  I'm ok with that.  I'm ok with my kids seeing my warts, the warts on history, the warts on the sacred.  I'm ok, because it makes all of these things accessible and real.  And when life bears down, I want them to access things and people that are real.  That they can feel.  That they can relate to, and utilize.

The weekend after Lance formally fell from his perch, I walked into the toy room to find this:

You might not be able to make out all the details, so let me explain them to you.  That's Lori, pumping for Hayzel, braiding Zoe's hair, and eating breakfast.  At the same time.  I'd feel like a real heel if I were just walking around snapping shots like this...but I did make breakfast.  That's good, because I'm terrible at doing the girls' hair.  And the pumping, well, I'm sure I'd be terrible at that too if I tried.  I won't try.

I wasn't sure whether I should praise or pity her for this feat.  I'll go with praise.  Lori does not like to be pitied.

Lance may have fallen; but we still have Lori.

fourth & final

Before Lori had little Hayzel people would look at her with a bit of incredulity when realizing it was her fourth.  In a few instances Lori engaged in conversation with these people and told them that this was it, our last child.  Their countenances usually softened, as if to say, "Good.  Because four is pushing it.  And five is just gross*."

Some of our friends who have come to the end of the procreation stage express a sense of loss; sadness with the finality of it all. One hilarious friend, a mother of four, often talks of her uterus beginning to twitch when she walks into a nursery or sees a new baby.  Baby fever.  Hayzel turns six weeks this Friday.  And while I think she is pretty adorable, I'm glad she is the last.  Interrupted sleep.  Exhausted wife.  Distraction.  Disruption.  Spit up.  Blood.  Doctors.  Diapers.  These are a few of my least favorite things.  I can't imagine my uterus ever twitching.

And yet.

Seeing Zoe and Ava calm her down.  Watching Brennan take her out of the swing and put her back to sleep.  Watching Lori figure her out.  Seeing her smile for the first time.  This loud little disruption brings along so much sweetness.  And the inconvenience is so short-lived.  So maybe...

Just kidding.

Lori is--although completely exhausted--in her element with newborns.  And while Hayzel is a little particular, Lori's figuring her out.  To give you insight into my 'baby whispering' abilities and Hayzel's temperament, last week Lori said, "Hayzel's been amazing today.  She's let me put her down, has calmed herself on her own.  Did you drop her yesterday?"

Hayzel's presence has also prompted some great reactions in the home.  After explaining the supply and demand of breast milk production (i.e., Boobinomics) to Zoe, she responded, "Boobs are awesome."  Yes, Zoe.  Indeed they are.

Ava spoke in barks for a few days after Hayzel was born.  I'm sure it had something to do with having the role of 'baby' ripped from her little paws.  Ava, like the rest of us, was uncomfortable taking on a new role.  "If I'm not baby, then I'm not human!"  But she got over it and now has taken on a new role: she can routinely be found by herself in the toy room breast-feeding various toys.  It's cute with the baby dolls, but a little creepy when it's a Barbie or toy soldier.  I secretly hope she begins putting toys in the oven again very soon.

The "fascination with boobs" theme among our children ends here.  For now.  I'm sure that Brennan will enter that realm in a few short years

Brennan's been a champ.  Now the only boy in a sea of sisters, he's handling the ratio very well.  His being a boy is made more salient through his behaviors, but I sense an increasing sensitivity and an acceptance of his role as the leader of this little clan of cuteness.  He still teases, still provokes, but he loves his sisters.  And he loves that they love him.  Accordingly, he's informed me that he now has a song: "Amazing" by Kanye West.  I'll admit it, I love the song as well.  Ever into subjecting my children to conduct comparative analysis, I asked him to think about the song "Amazing" as it relates to a children's song we often sing at Church, "I am a Child of God."  His response?  "They're pretty much saying the same thing, Dad."  Touché.

So, here's to you, lucky little Hayzel.  Your sibling predecessors have set the bar high.  Don't disappoint.  Otherwise we might have to do this again.  And that'd just be gross.

Just kidding.  Don't sneer at me.  I'm sure you'll be great.

That's more like it.

* We know lots of families with 5 kids that aren't gross.  For example, the Duncan family from "Good Luck Charlie."

crash but no burn

On Friday evening during the first 10 minutes of our bike ride (Ava's longest to date, 2.5 miles when all was said and done...on this bike) Zoe bit it.  Hard.  It was a "oh please let her still have a nose" kind of crash.  To add insult to injury, this all happened in front of three of last year's 5th grade boys at her elementary school.  Not just any 5th graders, but the 5th graders every one knows, including Zoe. Right before she hit the pavement, the boys turned around and witnessed the whole thing.  And then they:

a) turned around and kept walking
b) asked if she was ok
c) laughed out loud
d) none of the above

To my surprise and delight, the answer was 'd.'  They didn't just ask if she was ok, they rushed over and expressed real concern.  Not a hesitation.  No muffled laughter.  As Zoe buried her head in my shoulder (the injuries were minimal--scratches on her knee and ankle) one of the boys put his hand on her shoulder to console her; another kindly joked that it was probably their fault--that they had "jinxed" her.  They stayed there by our biker caravan chatting with Lori, Brennan and Ava until Zoe calmed down.  After about 3 minutes, realizing both her pride and her body were still in tact, Zoe was ready to resume the ride.  We headed east down Healey as the boys went west.  Their response assuaged Zoe's pain (both physical and emotional) and provided Brennan with an example of what it means to be a cool kid.  It was a great moment.  Thank you, Gus, Jake and Will.  Your parents should be proud.

know fear *

* weren't those shirts the best?  I associate them with Zima for some reason.  I never owned a No Fear shirt and I never tasted a Zima, but for some reason, they just go seem to go together.  

There are a few universal fears that all children experience.  And I feel safe in assuming that those fears are perpetuated by older siblings.  For those of us who are oldest siblings, I have no idea where we learn them (Sesame Street?).  All I know is that we did/do our best to ensure that those younger than us are more afraid (in general) than we are.  In this we take solace.

Earlier this year a child predator in a...wait for it...white van (!!) was allegedly trying to nab kids near schools in town.  The kids heard about it.  A lot.  In school.  At home.  At friends' homes.  White vans are now somewhere on the list between spiders in the basement and monsters under the bed.

A few weeks ago Brennan and Zoe were playing in our front yard.  I looked out the window just in time to observe Brennan looking apprehensively at the road in front of our house; he then put his arm around Zoe's shoulder and led her towards the backyard.  He glanced over his shoulder twice during the retreat, quickening his pace each time.  What was the source of his concern, you ask?

A white Prius containing two Baby Boomer-aged women going door to door handing out political campaign material.

Unless you really dislike grassroots activism, they were about as far from predatory as it gets.  I was tempted to tell them my son had confused them for white-van-driving child molesters, but I wasn't convinced they'd find the humor in his perspective.  They looked awfully focused.

While Brennan may torment his sisters mercilessly at times, and do his fair share of fear perpetuation, I can confidently state that that he doesn't want them to be kidnapped.  At least not Zoe.  I'll take it.

PS.  He may want to keep Zoe around for entertainment.  After she saw this, she did this.