Two years October 26, 2014

Published by the Times-Georgian–October 26, 2014

http://www.times-georgian.com

by Joe Garrett

 

The train whistle echoed as the conductor shouted, “All-aboard.”

A young woman outstretched her hand to help her grandfather climb the steps while his wife screamed for him to “hurry up” as she sipped a Diet Pepsi in her seat.

He made it. And within a few seconds, the sounds of “clickety-clack, clickety-clack” filled the warm air on this August day as the train left the station.

“Maybe we should catch the train on the way back,” I said to my son Will as we unloaded from our car at the base of Stone Mountain.

Within a few days, Will would be starting his four-year old kindergarten class perfecting his coloring skills and putting together his ABCs. But on this day in 2008, he was smiling from ear-to-ear as we walked. Although the climb is a relatively short hike, in his mind we were climbing Mt. Everest.

He was never in a hurry.

Will jumped on every rock and our journey took a little longer than normal. Old men and women, who I suspect once had little children of their own, stopped to speak to him. Perhaps for a few seconds, his contagious spirit touched them as only as a child can do.

“Dad, have you ever climbed Stone Mountain?” Will asked.

“Oh sure, several times since I was your age,” I replied. “My mother even said she made this same walk when I was in her tummy.”

As we approached the summit, we decided to sit and gaze at the skyline of Atlanta. We didn’t say anything to each other. Sometimes peace and sitting still are God’s greatest gifts.

Later that night, I hugged and kissed Will and his brothers as I tucked them into bed. When I exited their rooms, I remember thinking, “It doesn’t get any better than this.”

That day with my son was a glimpse of Heaven. There were no streets of gold or crystal rivers—just a four-year old son and his dad spending time together. Someone else can dream of the golden roads. My dream is to see my son again.

Tomorrow marks two years since my family lost him.

I wish I could tell you it gets better. It doesn’t. I wish I could tell you the pain has slowly subsided. It hasn’t. I wish I could tell you my family is finally getting over his loss. We never will.

“What is the difference between mourning and grief?” writes Roger Rosenblatt in his book “Kayak Morning” following the death of his daughter. “Mourning has company.”

No parent should have to endure the loss of a child. But every bereaved parent knows through the pain, the heartache and the loneliness of grief, a choice has to be made.

“A few weeks after my son was killed in an automobile accident, my wife looked at me and said, ‘We’re going to enjoy life again. Because if we don’t, our son will not be the only one who died,'” said my friend Dr. Ron Greer, who authored the book on grief, “Markings on a Windowsill.”

Somehow, someway grief is a friend, not an enemy. It’s a connection and will be ’til my last breath. And that, as I have no choice but to accept, is something I’ll carry forever.

I miss him. I miss him so much.

 

 

Beware of HeadHunter October 21, 2014

Published by the Times-Georgian–October 19, 2014

http://www.times-georgian.com

by Joe Garrett

 

On cool, spooky nights as the Chapel Heights children snuggled in bed, no one was ever safe from the man who scoured the windows looking for trouble.

He was introduced to me and my friends by the older neighborhood kids. He was known to wreak havoc on the little ones should we become tattletales.

If any of us ever told our parents about our older siblings’ mischief, we risked backyard “cherry bellies” (a beating on the tummy), “wet willies” (a finger stuck in your eardrum with saliva) and numerous “wedgies” (pulled to the sky from your underdrawers).

But most of all, we risked facing the evil man known simply as HeadHunter.

“We never actually saw HeadHunter,” said my childhood friend Sam Haney. “But we all believed he was real. I was only 6-years old and had numerous nightmares about HeadHunter. To this day, I still feel on-guard for him to jump out of the bushes on Halloween night.”

I thought he was real, too.

One day while we were all playing outside, our older friend Big A disappeared. We thought he had wondered off to the woods to smoke a pack of Marlboros when Charlie Murrah appeared with a walkie talkie in his hand informing us of the news.

“Big A’s been kidnapped by HeadHunter,” said a serious-faced Charlie as he pointed to Carol and Mac Martin’s house with Big A’s John Deere hat on top of their chimney. “The good news is that Big A still has his walkie talkie with him.”

“Is he OK?” Charlie’s younger brother Joe asked.

“Yes,” said Charlie. “He’s taken Big A to his home.”

“Where does he live?” I asked.

“He lives in the log cabin on the island at Lake Carroll,” Charlie replied. “And HeadHunter told me if we want him to release Big A, then one of you will need to go my basement and eat a hot red pepper.”

That’s exactly what we did. We wanted Big A back, even if it involved the abuse from our older brothers.

Sam and I took the first bite of a fresh hot pepper confiscated from Mac McGukin’s summer garden.

After the first bite, Sam had tears in his eyes and so did I. Thankfully, Joe Murrah stepped up and ate the entire pepper as Charlie and my older brother Bob just laughed. Charlie sent a message to Big A and HeadHunter let him go.

A few hours later, Big A reappeared. He looked exhausted and smelled like cigarettes. For fear of HeadHunter returning, we never told our parents.

As far as I know, HeadHunter is still alive. And so are a lot of ghosts from Carrollton’s past.

On Saturday, October 25, these ghosts will come alive again for the Spirits of the Depot Tour sponsored by the Carrollton Historic Preservation Commission and the Carroll County Historical Society.

The guided walking tours will begin at the Carrollton Train Depot at 4 p.m. and will run every 15 minutes until 6 p.m. Participants will learn about important historical Carrollton landmarks as they walk from the Depot (where a murder took place) to various buildings along Bradley Street (formerly known as Depot Street) before ending at the Quilt Museum near the amphitheater. The cost for the child-friendly event is $10 for adults and $5 for children under the age of 12.

Whether you’re scared of ghosts or not, plan to join this year’s Ghost Tour to learn about the history of Bradley Street. There will be lots of fun stories and possibly even a few ghosts may appear.

As for HeadHunter, please don’t fear. He’s probably long-gone and not around. Hopefully, he’s off smoking a cigarette somewhere with Big A.

 

Suggestions for Steve October 18, 2014

Published by the Times-Georgian–October 12, 2014

http://www.times-georgian.com

by Joe Garrett

 

It’s tough being a columnist.

Every week before I write, I pour a cup of hot coffee, prop my feet on a stool and find a comfortable chair. If the temperature’s not right, I adjust the thermostat. Let’s just say I’ve never broken a sweat while writing one of these 600-word pieces.

OK. It’s not physically tiring at all, but often it’s mentally draining. And what does one do when he has so-called “Writer’s Block?” He calls Steve Davis, the Baptist preacher who pens a weekly Friday column for the Times-Georgian.

“I can’t think of anything to write about either,” Steve usually replies.

Somehow, someway—an idea just seems to fall out of the sky and a story appears.

As I sat at the Courthouse Cafe for breakfast one morning with Steve, we covered every topic from the latest Lindy’s Sports magazine (Steve’s brother is Lindy) to who has the best fried chicken in town (Big Chic). We even discussed if he would consider recommending his wife Sheri wear heavy makeup like Tammy Faye Bakker should he ever decide to televise the services at the First Baptist Church of Carrollton.

Recently, when I secured a future interview with one of professional baseball’s greatest mascots, I challenged Steve to track down the San Diego Chicken. A few weeks ago, I couldn’t find the Chicken anywhere when I was in southern California, not even at a Padres game. Little did I know my challenge to Steve would be revealed to a mass audience on the front page of Friday’s Faith and Values section.

“What am I supposed to do, interview Jimmy Swaggart or the Apostle Paul?” Steve argued. “Who would be my ‘home run’ interview about issues of faith and values?”

Those are tough questions, especially for a Sunday columnist like me who’s tackled such difficult subjects as the art of cooking fried okra, streaking on the campus at West Georgia and men’s chest hair.

Since Steve follows the path of Christianity and serves as a man-of-the-cloth, the easy answer would be to interview Jesus himself. But my guess is Steve’s going have to wait on that one.

So what’s left Steve? Do you showcase a preacher who proclaims God wants him to drive a Rolls Royce while the rest of congregation struggles to pay its monthly bills?

Perhaps, but I’m probably the world’s worst judge.

Instead of trying to waste energy on seeking the famous or modern-day Pharisees who seem to have it all together, just seek out those whom Jesus hung around. Yes, I‘m talking about the money changers, the broken and the everyday people who don’t have all the answers and are just trying to find their way in this world.

Consider the folks and the advice F. Scott Fitzgerald gives in the opening page of The Great Gatsby.

In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since. “Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone,” he told me, “just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.”

I don’t know what it’s like to be poor, hungry and so many of the difficulties present in our world. It’s often tempting to judge, but the reality is we never take the time to explore or understand the depths of pain or struggles so many endure. As I continue to carry the heavy burden of losing a child, I realize that unless you’ve been there, you can’t fathom what it’s like. All I can share is a glimpse of my journey.

So Steve, maybe we’ll never run out of stories to share because there are a lot of glimpses we can learn from others. Keep writing, my friend. And in case you’re wondering if I was actually serious about challenging you to track down the San Diego Chicken?

I was.

 

Silent memories October 6, 2014

Published by the Times-Georgian–October 5, 2014

http://www.times-georgian.com

by Joe Garrett

 

The pound cake was still warm and the peanut brittle was perfect.

It wasn’t the first time. For most of my life, she never hesitated to a cut a few slices and walk across the street to deliver. Sometimes she would even invite the neighborhood kids inside her front door to devour a piece or two.

I’m not sure who was happier. As much as I loved biting into one of Jean Muse’s hot pound cakes, I think she was happier than anyone else. Besides, her health often prevented her from eating sweets, but it didn’t prevent her from raising our spirits with an overdose of butter and sugar.

For 40 plus years, Jean and Newt Muse lived in the same neighborhood as my parents. And the Muse’s moved four times. Three of those times the Garrett’s and Muse’s lived across the street from each other, just never on the same side (i.e., it’s important to have distance).

Both Jean and my mother raised a household of boys. It’s probably extremely safe to say each one of us drove them crazy from time-to-time, but they never hesitated to put us in our place.

“I’ll never forget when we were all young teenagers, your momma lectured me, you and your brother Bill one day and said, ‘Boys if you don’t want any trouble in life—chew bubble gum, drink Coca-Cola and keep them britches zipped up,’” said Jean’s youngest son Donnie. “That’s how I learned about the birds and bees.”

It’s a wonder Donnie remembered that lesson. He’s only got five children. Oh yea, and he’s an ordained music minister, too.

As Forrest Gump once said, “Momma always had a way of explaining things so we could understand.”

Ten months before Jean died, Donnie and I loaded up our mothers and treated them to lunch at Billy Bob’s Barbecue. Here we were, years removed from our childhood, only this time the roles were reversed. There was a time when you couldn’t get a word in the conversation, but on this day half of the group was silent.

Both my mom and Jean were in an advanced stage of Alzheimer’s.

One of the toughest parts of watching two women who were once full of life and energy was just watching them. They sat across from each other and didn’t speak. They just communicated with smiles and occasionally even laughed. Donnie and I told old stories hoping there was connection inside their brains somewhere.

There are no instruction manuals for these situations. However, there are ways to communicate. Expecting those suffering from memory loss to always reply in conversation is about like expecting your dog to ask, “How’s your day going?”

It’s usually best to refrain from asking them questions and just talk to them. They seem to enjoy that. And even though they’re silent doesn’t mean they don’t enjoy the sounds of young children’s voices and a beautiful choir. They’re still here. And so are you.

On Saturday, October 11, the local chapter of the Alzheimer’s Association is hosting its annual awareness day and fundraiser event. Please join us on the Greenbelt at Hobbs Farm for the annual Walk to End Alzheimer’s. Registration begins at 2 p.m. followed by the opening ceremony at 3 p.m. The walk/5K will begin at 3:30 p.m.

Furthermore, please visit the event’s website at act.alz.org/wga for more information. As Alzheimer’s is now the sixth leading cause of death in the United States, please consider donating to this cause. The money raised from this event will be used to expand research and resources to hopefully one day find a cure. Donations can be made on the website directly or mailed to the Alzheimer’s Association at 41 Perimeter Center East/Ste. 550/Atlanta, GA 30346.

It’s hell watching someone go through the stages of memory loss. There are no words to describe it unless you’ve been there. Medical researchers and the rest of us don’t have a solution or cure for this terrible disease. This I know and so do you.

But somewhere there’s a thin place. It’s not between us and them. It’s a connection and the walls are very thin. We’re all on the same team and want this disease to cease. And that reminds me there’s something bigger than life’s complexities.

There’s got to be a little bit of heaven in this somewhere.