Stephen's Gift Dream to Me

Throughout my life I have experienced several moments when I felt like God... the Holy Spirit... was connecting with me. These encounters began when I was about eight years old and have progressed through my entire life. 

There are some people who do not believe we can trust our experiences with God, but that totally makes no sense to me. Our experiences are all that we have when it comes to encountering the Divine... the Holy Spirit. The seven experiences I have gone through where I felt God's nudge, touch or guidance have been pivotal to me ranging from the early stages of my spiritual life to dealing with the loss of my son, Stephen in recent years.

I have never been one to be awkward about discussing death or considering various possibilities about what the afterlife is like. Sure we have plenty of preachers who think they can tell us all about death by reading the Bible, but truth is nobody knows exactly what our next existence will be like. Losing Stephen so early in life has caused me to expand my thought processes regarding various avenues of the afterlife. Don't get me wrong, I held a very open mind about death, afterlife and spirituality before Stephen died, but since losing him I have continued to broaden my thoughts and considerations about death and the afterlife.

So, the story I am sharing in this blog involves a dream I had October 13, 2022. Throughout my life I have experienced many vivid dreams, repeating dreams, and dreams that caused me much reflection; however, the dream I had on October 13th was powerfully moving for me. Since experiencing this dream I have thought much about it... how it helped me to believe that I was helping Stephen... but in the end this dream was helping me cope with the loss of my son.

My Dream about Stephen...

In an unexpected turn of events the Holy Spirit delivered Stephen back to me as a twelve-year-old boy. At this time it had been 28 months since Stephen's death in June 2020. He was a twenty-eight year old man at the time of his passing. In my dream it was my understanding Stephen was having difficulty adapting to his new afterlife existence. I understood it was my duty as Stephen's dad to help him adapt, just like I had done for any event when he was alive.   

The Stephen I was delivered was in the form of his soul. I could see him, talk with him, touch him, and experience things in my physical life with him. Other people in my life could not see, hear or experience Stephen. So, you can imagine that everyone else in my dream were concerned that I was going crazy. I didn't care, though, because I had Stephen again and I was completely happy regardless what anyone else thought. I was able to be Stephen's dad again, and that was all that mattered to me.

For what seemed like two weeks in my dream, Stephen's spirit continued to reverse-age in Benjamin Button style. After one week I was interacting with a six year-old Stephen who was wanting to learn how to ride a bike, so I helped him learn how to ride a bike. A few days later I was wrestling on the floor with a three year-old Stephen, who liked to wrestle just like he did as a three year old boy. Whether it was just that the dream seemed so real... or my mind was recalling cherished memories, it was one of the most touching events I have experienced in a while. 

I could sense the time Stephen and I were spending together was working, because he was doing better, and wow... so was I. I was able to physically be Stephen's dad, again. Each moment in this dream was cherished. 

As Stephen's soul reverse-aged to about 18 months old, he and I visited my grandmother's house in Jacksboro, Texas. Nannie's house was just as it was when Stephen was a little boy... same furniture, same cooking smells coming from the kitchen, same everything, except only Stephen and I were there. I was sitting on the couch in Nannie's living room, and toddler Stephen was clumsily walking around on the floor in front of me. 

It was at this time in my dream that I noticed Stephen's head turn toward the kitchen door as if someone had called his name. He slowly and unsteadily walked into Nannie's kitchen, turned to the left and walked around the corner where I could not see him anymore. About the time I decided to get up and go see what he was getting into... an extremely bright, but soft and gentle light filled Nannie's kitchen for a split second. 

As I walked into the kitchen, Stephen was gone... (again).

I stood in the kitchen... extremely happy and sad at the same time. I knew in my heart Stephen was ready now for whatever his next existence had in store for him. Stephen being with God was better than anything I could offer him. I was only thankful for the experience I had in my dream... that I could feel what it was like to be Stephen's dad once again.

Whether this was only a dream or an event that took place in my conscious mind, I only know I am happy to have experienced it. What seemed like something I was doing to help Stephen became something that he was doing to help me.

Ode to My Exxon Memories - Frank Gatewood

A couple of days ago I received a Facebook Messenger note from Donna Gatewood that her dad, Frank Gatewood, had died from pneumonia.  I had not heard anything about Frank in a couple of years.  Had not felt the friendly nudge from behind while out in public like I had over so many previous times of someone coming up behind me and whispering in my ear... "Hey Lucky... can I borrow a dollar?" as Frank often did.

Frank's passing marks the end of the last life from a generation of men who truly shaped my life as a college kid.  My days working for Exxon, U.S.A... 1,799 days to be exact (just under 5 years) in the Tyler District Office were probably the most pivotal time in my life, because during those years I was afforded mentoring from several men who forever changed me.  Hal Kleeburg, Grover Hubley, Al Stover, Keith Hightower, C.D. McElfatrick, Don Barfield, Weldon Hicks, and Frank Gatewood might not have realized it at the time, but by just allowing me to peak in on their ways, lives and conversations... included me in their wealth of knowledge, remembrances of earlier years, leadership and most importantly... personal behaviors towards others.  Five years at Exxon has stretched to almost 40 years of my life, benefiting me each day from lessons I learned from these men.

My time spent with Frank Gatewood was broken up into small bits that began in 1981 when he would stop by the Exploration Drafting office where I worked.  Frank was the supervisor of the Survey Section at Exxon, and immediately I could tell he was a real character.  He had a thin build, wavy hair, most every time I remember Frank he was wearing a golf shirt, plaid slacks and had a cigarette tucked between his fingers.  In an environment where most of the supervisors wore ties and white shirts, Frank blazed a trail as casual as his approach to life, more resembling a PGA professional golfer than a corporate boss.

Long before Frank would darken... or brighten our door... we could hear him carrying-on in other offices on our hallway.  Since Frank worked in another building in town at that time, he often would barnstorm his shtick and humor through the halls when conducting business in our building. 

Frank had an infectious semi-baritone laugh that seemed to naturally roll from his lips and made you want to laugh with him.  He always found the lighter side in everything that crossed his path.  No subject, person or supervisor seemed to be taboo from his quick one-liners, poems or funny stories.  He was never mean or hurtful with the quick wit he shared, but in a different era of acceptable humor, Frank was master of his domain.

During his visits to our offices, my supervisor, Hal Kleeburg would murmur... "Sounds like Frank is in the building...".  Hal was extremely jumpy, and usually on high alert when Frank was around, because Frank would often sneak up behind Hal and give him a poke or goose in the ribs sometime during his visit. 

Frank would lean in our doorway, couple of maps rolled up under his arm, smoking... knocking off ashes from his cigarette onto the floor and rubbing them into the vinyl with his shoe... take along drag from his cigarette and say... "Hello, boys..." like he was a character in a Humphrey Bogart movie.  After sharing his latest... or oldest material on us, Frank would pretend to leave, but then make a mad dash surprise attack on Hal's rib cage or the back of Hal's thigh, which lead to more shenanigans in the office as the ever-poised Hal tried to get away from Frank.  As unprofessional and child-like as this might sound to some people in an office setting, some of these attacks were much funnier than any Three Stooges or Marx Brothers skits I had ever seen. I always knew that when Frank visited our office, funny things were going to happen.

Some of my remembrances of Frank's visits include:

Frank stopping in the doorway, atypically unannounced by his laughter, and as he was an SMU football fan, teasing both TCU fans who worked in the drafting office with this poem...
"Austin has the Capitol...
Dallas has the State Fair.
Fort Worth has the stockyards,
You can smell them everywhere"

SMU had just badly beaten TCU on the previous Saturday, and Frank felt the need to remind us somehow that Fort Worth was inferior to Dallas... but in a nice way.  He laughed, took a long drag from his cigarette, left a small pile of ashes on the floor, and was gone as quickly as he arrived.

Sure there were R-rated stories I could share here, too, but the funniest and my favorite Frank Gatewood story happened like this...
My supervisor Hal was already a little jumpy from a visit from Al Stover to our office.  Al, like Frank Gatewood liked to joke and poke a little fun at Hal.  This was all done in a nice way, Hal was part of the act each time.  Upon this day, Al was in our office talking when Frank appeared out of nowhere to rush Hal with an attempt to tickle him.  After Hal had eluded Frank on a couple of tries, the tone of the visit quieted down in general conversation.  As he got ready to leave, Frank tried one last attempt to tickle Hal and the following took place...
Frank:  "Okay boys... I've got to go... (then turning his back on Hal, added) Hey... did I ever show you what this boy did to my shoulder once..."
Hal: (realizing this was a trick and pretending to be interested stood up from his drafting stool as if to look at Frank's shoulder, saying) "Where..."
Frank: (thinking Hal was still seated on the stool, reached behind to grab Hal's stomach in a last ditch effort to unravel Hal's day... BUT... since Hal was standing, Frank's grasp ended up being... let's just say several inches below his intended target on Hal's stomach... below the belt line actually)
Frank:  Hollered... "WHOA!!" realizing he had grabbed a part of Hal's body he never intended to touch.
Hal: (Not seeing Frank's attempt to grab him, screeched like an attacked bird realizing the most private part of his body was being squeezed by Frank)

Al Stover and I were left as witnesses to the unintended groping, which surprised the attacker as much... maybe more than the victim.  Frank quickly exited the office even quicker than usual, laughing a little louder as he walked down the hall.  Hal... well... I can only guess his drafting skills were less than normal for the rest of the day.  For years, Al and I would retell this story and laugh about it.

Rest in Peace Frank Gatewood!  You will be remembered as a ray of sunshine in our days.  You made us laugh... and often.  I believe making people laugh is one of the greatest gifts we can share with others, and you excelled at it.

Family Stories I Want My Children to Remember - Gathering Eggs

In my family, the woman that is your mom or dad's sister, or your grandparent's sister... or is married to one of these people is called your "Ain't" (Ain't Jo, Ain't Laura, Ain't Belle, Ain't Edie, Ain't Sue, Ain't Sandra).  Now the title may be written in the form of "Aunt", but that is not how it is pronounced in Texas.

This story is about "Ain't" Edie, who was born in 1900.  She was a small stature of woman, a little over 5 foot tall at the most, and I would guess never weighed more than 90 lbs.  Growing up I knew Ain't Edie as Granny's sister.  She lived in a little frame house next to my grandparents on their land.  As a little boy, I remember Ain't Edie being the person who kept kids, dug potatoes, shelled peas, poured hot scalding water on the armadillo that lived under her house, cooked and ate squirrels my dad took her, would bust your rear-end with a broom if you needed it, and was known to get in a tussle with a goose or two.

Ain't Edie worshiped with her older sister, Ain't Jo at the little Baptist church down the road from her house. She always wore cotton dresses, a bonnet if outside, and in my memory was as dependable as the sun coming up.  Ain't Edie was just always there... part of the fabric of my grandparents house like the bell in the front yard, the grass burs, the old Sycamore tree, wood bees hovering near the back patio, and the room that had orange-colored carpet at the side entrance to the house.

By her own admission near her death in 1984, Ain't Edie confessed to my dad that she never dated, never had a boy friend, and never kissed a man.  She also confessed to have never drank any alcohol, chewed tobacco or dipped snuff.  She told him she thought she had lived a pretty clean life.  Now... I'm not one to throw rocks in a glass house, but I do remember Ain't Edie getting a little bit tipsy at a family Thanksgiving after eating two large pieces of pineapple rum cake that were probably more Bacardi than cake, but we will move on from this glitch in her memory.  I'm also not absolutely sure about the snuff dipping, either... but we won't sweat the small stuff in this story.

Through the years I heard stories about Ain't Edie grabbing and holding a small armadillo by the tail and encouraging my Ain't Janie to "hurry up and shoot it" with the chrome .22 caliber pistol she was precariously waving through the air, trying to get an adequate fix on her target.  Luckily, other family members noticed what was happening and intervened before Ain't Janie gained enough confidence before taking the shot.

My favorite Ain't Edie story was told by Granny.  It took place a year or two before Edie's death, which meant she was in her early 80's.  Granny was standing at the kitchen sink one morning and could see Edie walking down to the chicken coop to gather eggs.  The coop was only about six feet tall and Edie pretty much disappeared on the other side.  All that was visible was Edie's leg dangling in the air to give her balance as she leaned in to check each nest. It was about the time that Edie was in this precarious position that the goose took exception to her being there and attacked, latching on to what muscle there was on her bare dangling leg.

Granny said she winched as she saw the attack take place, but there was nothing she could do to stop it being that she was inside the house.  As the goose took hold a brawny little hand could be seen reaching out beyond the backside of the coop and grabbing the goose by the neck.  Ain't Edie and the goose disappeared behind the coop in a cloud of dust and feathers.  After several seconds the goose came rolling over the top of the chicken coop and to the ground on the other side.  The gander landed with a thud, realized Ain't Edie had won this battle, and scampered away.

Edie soon appeared from the other side of the coop.  Her glasses were crooked on her nose, dress was torn near the hem where the goose had attacked, and most of the eggs in her little bucket were broken. She drug herself into the kitchen and sat down at the table, exhausted from her most recent fight with her 20 pound nemesis... a couple of down feathers still clinging to her hair.  Granny asked Edie... "How did you get him off of you?"  Edie collected her thoughts,  sighed and explained... "He had a good hold on me.  The only thing I could do was begin to swing him around like a windmill until I could finally throw him over the chicken coop".

It was a couple of weeks later that Granny shared this story with me.  As I left her house I realized... I don't see that old goose anywhere near the chicken coop or down at the pond.  I guess Ain't Edie finally won that war.

Family Stories I Want My Children to Remember - The Burial

My grandmother began her teaching career in a one room school house in a small community in western Jack County known as Berwick during the 1930's.  She told me there were only thirteen students in the school, which was located across the road from Winn Hill Cemetery.

One day while conducting class, my grandmother looked out of the window and noticed a small entourage entering Winn Hill Cemetery with a small casket.  It was a cold gray day.  The wind was howling across the rocky landscape.

My grandmother instructed her class to get up and put on their coats.  She marched the entire school outside, across the road and into the cemetery, where they joined the small burial group.  Reverently all of the students participated in a small graveside service for a young boy they did not know.  They sang a hymn, listened to the pastor's words about life and death, then prayed.

After the service was completed and the grave was covered, the students returned to their studies in the little school house.  The grieving parents and pastor thanked my grandmother and her students for participating in the graveside service.

When my grandmother first shared this story with me I was a little boy.  It was one of many stories I treasured hearing her tell.  Almost every time I accompanied her to Winn Hill Cemetery I asked her to share it with me again.  When I first heard the story as a child, I asked her why she had taken her class over to attend a funeral of someone they did not know?  She responded with, "Well... these people were burying their son.  It just didn't seem right for them to be out there in the cold all by themselves.  We went to the cemetery to be there with them.  It was a lesson for my class... to know the importance of helping people during difficult times".

According to my grandmother, most of the time when a death occurred in the Berwick Community back during the early 1900's, my great-grandmother would go help prepare the body for burial, while my great-grandfather and other men in the community would go to the cemetery and begin digging a grave.  A death in the community meant people pulled together to help each other.  These people leaned on their faith and each other to get through tough times.

The Day I Called Fat Out

Several years back I took the bull by the horns and made a change in my life.  In most blogs or stories this is where the author tells a tear-jerking or inspiring story about how they decided to lose weight, get healthy and improve their life.  Well... this isn't one of those stories. 

This is about the day I called Fat out.

Fat... is that negative little guy that attaches himself to anyone that battles bulge.  Fat has been the enemy of generations of people everywhere in this world (probably except India).  Fat packages and camoflages himself in really neat things like hamburgers, Mexican food, cookies, pies, cakes, soft drinks, beer, beverages vacations, celebrations and a relaxed lifestyle.  Fat is the one you hate to see coming, just like that bully in fifth grade, the obnoxious relative or that boss that can't be satisfied. 

Fat thoroughly enjoys being a pain in the butt for anyone he chooses to pick on.  Fat can attach to your name.  Fat can affect your self confidence.  Fat finds his way into your family photos, church directory, high school yearbook, resume, insurance status, health records, driving record, love life, athletic ability, personal profile and any other places he can sqeeze into. 

For years, Fat has been that asterisk in life that causes snickers from the crowd, belly laughs, mean comments, doctor's scoldings, required buying an extra plane ticket, nicknames, jokes, and being chosen last in PE class.

But not anymore.

Several years back I called Fat out into the street and let him know how life was going to be from now on.  He seemed pretty surprised as I took this action.  I mean... Fat was used to creating havoc in my life, causing disruptions in my wardrobe and laughing about tagging along with me every step.  But on that day, I slapped Fat around, put a boot in his butt and told him to get in line behind me, as well as those other guys that always tag along with me (Short, Average-Looking and Slow).  From now on... Fat worked for me whether he liked it or not.

I guess Fat realized that I was serious about my intentions, because he became one of the best allies I could ever ask for.  Embracing my relationship with Fat immediately made me a funnier person.  When you add Fat into your joke, personal story and experiences... people laugh and associate with you.  They begin to see that Fat caused some pretty hilarious things to happen over the years.

Fat also showed me that he is pretty good at taking up for himself.  By pulling Fat over to my side, he instantly began helping me when mean people tried to claim him for their use.  One day, a tall, very thin older guy I know walked by me and made a comment about how fat I was getting.  Fat immediately jumped into the fray and responded with... "Yeah... he may be fat, but you're so thin and old that one bad case of diarrhea would probably kill you".  The old guy seemed shocked... even stunned that Fat wasn't working for him anymore.  He was also surprised that Fat had the ability to fight back... he paused and soberly said under his breath... "You're probably right!".  Fat found a weigh (ahem... cough... cough) to even out the scales in that conversation.

It didn't take long for Fat to realize that he and I could be good partners.  All Fat needed was a little embracing.  I helped Fat see that he could even bring joy to people's lives.  Fat learned that nothing is funnier than when a fat woman falls down.  He also learned to appreciate the humor in pants ripping, furniture breaking, buttons shooting off, getting stuck in a small car, blocking someone's view or making the biggest splash in the swimming pool.  Then I showed Fat that he did contribute to our society by shading the sun off a small child or pet, blocking for a quarterback, giving really great hugs... and providing a necessary resource for anyone going through cancer treatment.

Fat leaned back and realized that he was needed.  Fat didn't have to be the torment of everyone, anymore.  A tear ran down Fat's cheek.  He began to see that he mattered, too.

So... when you see a fat person coming your way, don't take it for granted that you can pick on that person.  If they have Fat on their side instead of yours... well... you might be in for some trouble.  Fat is one mean son-of-a gun, and if he ever decides to unite his efforts and run for office on the Fat Ticket... well... let's just acknowledge he has lots of support.

Come on, Fat... let's go get something to eat.

Tight Underwear...

Yesterday I was in a bad mood most of the day.  Not sure if many of you have noticed, but I've gained a little weight over the past couple of years.  This is not something that just happened.  My gut and butt have been serving notice to my pants and belt that judgement day is coming.  Well... I think notice was served over the weekend.  Tina wondered what was wrong all day... I was a real grump.  I finally let her in on the secret... my underwear was overly tight. 

Now... I admit... some of my underwear is dated.  I mean they are of the variety I bought back when I was thirty pounds lighter.  Basically... the elastic has given till it won't give any more.  My Jockey's have drawn a line in the sand and are not stretching out any more.  I still have a few comfortable pair left, but they are mostly hole, which puts me in a bad mood for other reasons (but I won't go into that).  The ones that are still fully intact have now moved from tolerable to terrible.  Over the course of time, full rise briefs have turned to mid-rise... then to bikini (if you are eating supper I recommend you not read any farther).  The pair I put on yesterday seemed okay... I mean after I performed several Yoga movements to stretch them out... which almost  tore my right ACL and hyperextended my left knee.

People who have never battled weight have no idea of the dilemma heavy people are saddled with regarding clothes.  When a person of size begins an expansion project, they have two options... go to a larger size, or ride out the stuff you got. 

The first option usually results in the high pockets waist line that makes you look like a giant bowling pin.  This option is usually hard emotionally too because once chosen, those 32 inch waist pants you held on to for 27 years have now changed to a 48.  Also... it takes a lot of stomach control to keep these up... one must almost be pushing their stomach out all the time to maintain belt elevation.  Over-inhaling, an unexpected sneeze or sucking in your gut can quickly result in "pants on the ground". 

Option two is easier on the ego... "Sure glad I can fit into these 32's after all these years, whew".  The only problems is... option two results in a waist line that continuously migrates south.  Those 32's are now six inches lower than they were 20 years ago.  If for some reason the person choosing this option had to remove their shirt... well... are the terms "half moon and bikini wax" understood?

Buying bigger underwear is an adverture not to be done by oneself... a counselor, psychologist or accountability partner is advised to make sure you get the appropriate size.  It's natural to reach for the old size... the one you wore back in college... the size you have been abusing for going on  three decades.  Then you realize the size you need is two rows over on the big and tall isle.  Trying to appear as tall as possible, you make your way over to make a selection.

So... if a co-worker or family member appears to be in a really bad mood.  Cut them some slack... their underwear probably isn't.

Dr. Holt, Leon and the Dead Cat

Back when I was growing up we took our pets to Dr. Holt in southeast Tyler.  At that time his office was located just inside the loop on Old Troup Road (on the back side of what is now Southeast Crossing Center). 

Now... Dr. Holt's office did not seem to be the place for pampered pets. Mainly because of his assistant, Leon.  Leon was a well meaning guy, but he seemed to be born without the finesse gene or any kind of ability to be delicate or careful with the animals.  Leon was very rough with the animals.  On several occasions I witnessed Leon manhandling my pets on the examination table so Dr. Holt could poke and prod away at them.  The animals usually left the vet more traumatized than they arrived.

On one particular day during my freshman year at Tyler Junior College I found myself in need of Dr. Holt's services.  After getting home from work early, my mother informed me about one of our cats being sick.  I gathered up the cat, put it in a pet carrier and headed for Dr. Holt's office.  It was late in the day, so I was racing to get to his office before closing time.

I got to Dr. Holt's office.  He ushered me right in and instructed... "Leon... get Mr. Kitty Cat out of the carrier and prepare for examination."  Leon put on these big elbow length industrial gloves and reached into the pet carrier.  A few seconds later I heard the cat screeching, hissing and clawing the inside of the carrier.  Leon reached further in, grabbed one of the hind legs and pulled the cat out with the subtleness of the Frankenstein Monster. 

As the cat cleared the carrier and Leon got his other hand on it, the cat went silent and fell over onto the examining table.  Dr. Holt, Leon and myself paused for a split second.  Leon broke the silence with... "Uh... that kitty cat is dead!"  Lifting a leg and dropping it.

I thought to myself... "Dead"!  Dr. Holt grabbed what looked like an extra large Q-tip and began to poke in the cats mouth and ears.  "Well... that's that.  Who knows?  Cat's get into all kinds of things.  Do you want me to just get rid of the body?"  I was kind of suprised and shrugged in an affrimative manner.

Dr. Holt patted me on the back and hurried me to the front door.  As he opened the door he said... "That will be twenty dollars."  Suprised and stupified... I reluctantly pulled a twenty dollar bill from my wallet and handed it to him.  He immediately put it into his wallet.  Next thing I knew he was pushing me out the front door, it closed and I heard it lock.  I thought to myself... "That's twenty dollars the IRS will never hear about.  Twenty bucks for my cat to die..?".

I got into my car and pulled around to leave the parking lot.  As I cleared the side of the building, I could see Leon walking across the back parking lot toward the dumpster.  When he got within about 15 feet, Leon threw the body of my dead cat across the rest of the parking lot hitting dead center of the dumpster.  He then turned and with a little end of the week spring in his step, headed back toward the back door. 

I thought to myself... "For twenty bucks I could have done that."