I lost my father long before he died seven years ago. The irony is that now I am forgetting him - like he forgot me. His forgetting was the result of a disease - the signature plaques and tangles in his brain an undeniable marker of Alzheimer’s. My forgetting is the product of time marching on.
I listen to the radio in the morning and wonder what he would think and say in response to world events and I can’t conjure it up. I try to remember the curve of his hands or the exact color of his eyes and I fail. Instead, he comes to me unexpectedly. Unbidden.
Some of the last words he spoke to me when he was still ambulatory were not kind. He greeted me at the front door when I came to visit, my husband and three babies in tow. His words to me when he saw me? “You always were a big girl.” Ouch. I wanted to turn around and walk away. Yet I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that was exactly the type of thing he would say to me. My entire life, he always - always - remarked on my weight, whether good or bad. No matter the toll Alzheimer’s had already taken, that was him.
So there was some comfort in those harsh words, that criticism. They are the last coherent words I remember him saying to me and they were hurtful. Why couldn’t I remember him saying he loved me or was proud of me? Why did I forget that he could be kind and caring and complimentary, even if I can only summon hurt?
Those last few years of his life are what I’d like to forget. The visits where he never knew I was there, where he never looked in my eyes, never gave any indication of recognition. The visits to see him in the nursing home and hospital when he could no longer walk or speak. I would read to him then - poems from Robert Frost and others he’d long ago recited at the dinner table. One of the last reactions I got was when I played music for him, appallingly loud like he liked it, on a stereo with behemoth speakers. It was a mix I had made of his favorite songs, trying to reach him - to communicate somehow. He mostly seemed asleep the entire time, slumped over in his chair. Until. The Aggie War Hymn - his and my alma mater. He came alive - toes tapping, singing his favorite line at the top of his lungs at precisely the right moment: “Sounds like hell!” Clear as a bell.
Afterwards, he looked right at me and said, “I always did love you.” Never mind that his words were most likely meant for my mother, his college sweetheart whom he’d met on a blind date. He thought I was her, transported in his mind back to a dorm room on campus. I’ll take it. That’s what I choose to remember. Because that’s easier than the rest of it. So much easier.
I'm an Aggie, I married an Aggie, my dad was an Aggie, my brother and his wife are Aggies, my best friend and her husband are Ags...I could go on and on. It's Game Day here at our house and I am the only woman in a house full of boys. You would think that the menfolk would be excited, but it's exactly the opposite.
Aquaman does not like football. He doesn't much like any team sports and certainly wouldn't waste time watching them on TV. He'd rather be outside hiking or SCUBA diving somewhere. And our three children are pretty much the same. But I've tried. Boy, have I tried. The boys say that I am too loud when I watch Aggie football games and that my screaming hurts their ears. I can't help it.
This morning I laid out the t-shirt I expected Aquaman to wear, after I put myself in my game day shirt. "I laid your shirt out on the bed," I told him as I left the bedroom. "Oh Lord," was all he said. But he put it on.
"It's on. Go away now, little woman."
One down, three to go.
Thing 2 was still in bed, but at least awake. I dug around his clothes and found his Aggie t-shirt. "You have to wear this today," I said as I threw it on his chest. And then I repeated the same thing with The Redhead and Thing 1, already stationed on the couch playing xBox.
"Are we going somewhere?" they both asked.
"No. But it's good luck. Put them on. The game's at 2:30."
"You're weird, Mom. Whatever."
"It we're not going anywhere, why do I have to put this on?"
"Why do you have to take a picture?"
I made The Redhead take a picture of me and Thing 2 to prove I have my game day shirt on, too. Even though I'm perturbed and they're annoyed.
This is mostly how things go in our house. I act squirrely and they put up with it.
I almost forgot Yellow Dog. She always wears a maroon collar that Thing 2 made for her, but I put her game day collar on.
Yellow Dogs Gig 'Em too.
Once I had everyone properly dressed, I took a moment and looked around our house. Everywhere I turned, I was met with Aggie or maroon. I documented it. Have a look.
Thing 2's new school clothes include this awesome maroon outfit.
Assorted ribbons and medals from the twins. Aggie lanyard.
Thing 2's craft space where he cuts things with an Xacto knife.
Representing the Ags in the duct tape tower. Why yes, that's a baby shark preserved in formalin on Thing 2's desk. Did you forget Aquaman is raising marine biologists?
Yes, that's a maroon towel. And maroon drums.
Aggieland yearbooks sit on shelves in the living room.
This flag flies outside our house during football season.
My dad's old parking space sign from outside Kyle Field.
Paint chips on the hall table. I'm considering which wall to paint maroon. It's a sickness.
Even on the fridge. It's a bottle opener - clever and used often.
In the kitchen cupboard.
Coffee just tastes better out of these.
On the kitchen table.
Above the kitchen table. WHOOP!
In Aquaman's office.
Part of my DVD collection, sent to me in Alaska by a dear friend when it was the only way I had to see the Fightin' Texas Aggie Band perform. Dark days.
I am slowly becoming my father. He drove a maroon Cadillac. We had maroon carpet in our house. He wore a polyester maroon jumpsuit often. Every barn at the farm I grew up on was painted maroon and white.
Barns look good in maroon and white, don't they?
He bought me and my two sisters Yell Leader coveralls when we were toddlers. We were given Aggie t-shirts every year. I still have a maroon and white duffle bag and garment bag that he custom ordered for me, monogrammed with my name, when I headed off to college.
I still use it.
So I guess it really shouldn't surprise you to see this.
Our first house in Alaska. Maroon door and trim.
My BFF came to Alaska with Aggie gear for the new babies.
Happy Aggie Babies.
And I guess that's all for now. A glimpse into the life of an Aggie, indoctrinated since birth. I gotta go. Kickoff's soon...
For the past three weeks, The Redhead has been immersed in marching band camp. We ended all of our summer travels early so that we'd be home on the required date, a full three weeks before the first day of school.
This was actually the second summer band camp session - the first one was the week after the previous school year ended in June. During this three day mini-session, the students were introduced to their music and the basic marching step. Sounds easy enough. It's just walking, right? Um, no. It's marching. With an unbended knee. Harder than it sounds. They glide.
During the first band camp, the only two people The Redhead knew quit band. Yep. Just up and quit. He was discouraged. He kind of dreaded coming back for band camp, but I was firm. "Music is mandatory in this family," I explained. And that was that.
I did note, however, that the "camp" schedule looked pretty hard core. He had to be there, every day, from 7:00 a.m. to 4:30 p.m. They fed them lunch. Four hours of marching on the field in the morning, hopefully before the temperatures reached triple digits, and four hours of practicing music in the blessed air conditioning in the afternoon. It was a long day. I got up early every morning and made him a good breakfast before I dropped him off at the football stadium with his instrument. They were required to wear a hat, sunglasses, and sunblock. They were advised to steer clear of rich foods for breakfast. And they were required to wear this:
It's called a Camelbak. Technically, it's a hands-free hydration system. I call it genius. They arrive to practice with it filled and they refill it at least once in the morning. No water bottles or cups or coolers for the band directors to deal with. No running to the water fountain. Just marching.
The first day he was exhausted. The second day he was overwhelmed and exhausted. We had a block party for National Night Out and he sat down next to me in the street in our lawn chairs. And then he cried. "It's too hard, Mom. I'll never learn all the music. There's no way I can learn all the marching steps. I don't want to do it."
Gulp. It doesn't matter how old your child gets, when they cry, it is awful. I gave him a pep talk. "You're going to learn it, I promise! You're going to play it over and over and over again and you're going to be hearing those songs in your sleep! There's no way you're not going to know it. Just wait - when you're out there at your first half-time show and you all play together and the crowd goes nuts - it will be AWESOME!" He went inside, took a shower, and went to bed.
I was concerned. I felt bad. Was I pushing him into something, just because I had done it in high school and loved it? Was it too much? Was he going to hate it and blame me? I realized that there was one big difference between his experience and the one I had: I had grown up with older brothers and a sister who were either in band or played football. Friday nights were football and marching band (not to mention Frito pie at the concession stand), from the time I was 5 years old. I grew up going to Aggie football games in Kyle Field, hearing, "Now forming at the north end of Kyle Field, the nationally famous, Fightin' Texas Aggie Band!" Chills. Every time.
But The Redhead didn't. He has lived in Alaska (no football in all that snow) and then in a tiny Texas town with a 1A school that had a surfing team, but not a football team. And here he was, in a 5A school, with a 175-member marching band. He has no idea.
The day after his breakdown, we went to the music store and picked up some supplies he needed. A few reeds - did you know they make plastic reeds now? - a flip book, a lyre, and a comfy neck strap. He seemed interested. In the parking lot of the store, he voluntarily showed me the basic steps he had learned so far. I was hopeful.
Day four dawned. I dropped The Redhead off at practice, bright and early. He was not enthusiastic. As the temperatures climbed higher, towards the triple digits that were forecasted for that day, I received a text from The Redhead.
"I just realized band is awesome."
Thank you, God. Thank you.
Was he delirious from the heat? Being sarcastic? I thought it was a possibility. But no. The group had advanced far enough that they started practicing the half-time routine while they played the music. That's where the magic happens.
I told him it was gonna be awesome.
I breathed a sigh of relief. We were over the hump.
It was a good thing, too, because the next weekend was March-a-Thon and it's exactly what it sounds like: a marching marathon. Six hours. Marching from the high school through neighborhoods and performing along the way. It's their biggest fundraiser. They get pledges for each hour that they march. Thing 1 and I followed along. From 7:00 a.m. until around 11:00. Then we wimped out and went home to the air conditioning.
The Redhead and another bass clarinet player - a senior who has taken him under her wing. He's so hot and tired he can't keep his eyes open.
Only 3 bass clarinets in the 175 member band.
Taking a break.
You can hear them coming.
Stopping traffic. Yes, that's a golden retriever marching with one of the band directors.
Musical soldiers. The Redhead has an Aggie cap on.
"Did I mention how hot it is? Or that we had to march uphill the whole way?"
He's not terribly fond of the uniform. I remind him often that it is way better than the wool uniform I had to wear.
The uniform. He's not crazy about it.
Holding "set" position.
His garment bag to hold his uniform. Fancy.
Practice field.
Tonight, for the last day of band camp, the parents were invited to come to an Exhibition. It was impressive, what they've learned in three weeks.
Front and center.
They look and sound great!
Then they had a surprise for the parents. We had to go out on the field and get a lesson in marching. We shadowed our kid, learning two movements in the routine. I was not prepared. I had inappropriate footwear (Birkenstocks are not made for marching). They made us do it over and over again. And then? Our babies left us and went and watched us from the bleachers. We were bad. Real bad. But they clapped for us. Exuberantly. The Redhead met me on the sidelines after we were dismissed. "Mom, you weaved too much!" He demonstrated. "You can't do that when you march! You have to be steady."
Thing 1 and Thing 2 agreed. "You did! Your hips moved like this!" they said. And they showed me.
I am babysitting my "Aggies for Obama" sign in the front yard.
It is glorious. Beautiful maroon and white. When I came back from dropping off The Redhead at school, I smiled when I saw it. It made me happy.
It is so pretty - the white lettering on the maroon background, "Aggies" in script font, the rest in block lettering.
I am worried someone might vandalize it or steal it. Crush it, perhaps - and leave it destroyed.
"That'll teach 'em!" they'll say as they dust off their hands and get back into their F150 crew cab with their "NOBAMA" bumper sticker.
As I put the boys to bed the first night the sign was displayed, I assured them that Yellow Dog would bark at any mischief in the front yard, but that if they heard anything, they should just run to my room and get me.
That scared them a little. "Can she just sleep in here?" Thing 1 asked.
"It's probably better if she's on the couch," I said. I wanted her as close as possible to the front door.
"Why?" Thing 1 asked.
And I realized I hadn't explained it to him yet. I sometimes forget, in our household of three boys, to whom I've talked. It is a confusing place. I had explained to The Redhead and Thing 2 that I had ordered a political sign, that I'd had to design it and have it custom made. I wanted something unique that reflected my individual political views, but that also identified me as part of a larger group.
So I told him that people might try to steal our sign or vandalize it or maybe even drive by and yell or throw something.
"Why?' he asked again.
Cause people are fuckin' stupid.
No.
Can't say that.
"Because some people hate Obama - our president - so much that they can't control themselves. They have issues."
The boy still looked worried. Less so when he saw Yellow Dog settle in to the crook of the couch for the night - steps from his bedroom door, but even less steps from the front door.
As I was explaining the potential for people to act crazy, I questioned my own sanity. "If anything bad happens, I'll take the sign down," I added for reassurance. But then what was the point? The assholes have won. I even thought about removing it every night, re-staking it every day. No one would do anything in broad daylight, right?
The night passed uneventfully. And so did the next. And the next.
But I'm spending more time on the front porch - watching. Like when I first put it up and brought Yellow Dog out with me and drank a beer in the swing. I want people to be tickled by it. I want someone to honk "Hullabaloo, Caneck Caneck!" (the first notes of the Aggie War Hymn) in solidarity. That's what I would do. I might even pull over and want to shake the hand of someone so clever. A kindred spirit.
And if you don't get chills watchin' that? You're dead inside.
A cat hopped up on the porch with me that first night.
"Meow," she said. But what she meant was, "I like your sign. Gig 'em!" And then she was gone.
A scaredy cat. Bold. Only, not so much.
Is that what I am? A scaredy cat?
I tell myself soothing things. Have faith in people. Trust that you live in a good neighborhood. And by good, I mean diverse and tolerant. There are two other Obama signs a few blocks away. They have not been mangled or stolen, as far as I know. They are dueling with a couple of Romney/Ryan signs. Every time I drive down the street, I smile. I like to think they're all friends - these neighbors with differing political views.
I am the first on our street to put up a presidential political sign. In the last local election, there were a few - all for Republicans. And I have heard the political opinions of the neighbors at various potlucks and impromptu block parties where the wine and beer are flowing. "Anyone but Obama" is the majority mantra. Seriously. So I usually just keep quiet. Keep the peace.
My earliest memory of politics is when my parents returned from voting for the president in 1980. Carter - the Democratic incumbent - versus Reagan, the Republican challenger. I was ten years old. I knew they had gone to vote and so when they came home I asked, "Who did you vote for?" I was excited. All I had voted for up to that point was my favorite flavor of ice cream or where to go on vacation.
I remember my father chuckling and sitting down at the kitchen table and explaining to me that it was not polite to ask someone how they voted. He issued edicts like that occasionally. You do not ask a farmer how many acres he owns nor a rancher how many head of cattle he has. And if someone was (gasp!) rude enough to ask such things of you, your reply might simply be, "A few."
So when I asked how he and my mother voted he replied, "We voted for the best man for the job." Of course, since he was also using the moment to teach me something and not to hide anything from me, he also told me that my mother and he were independents and that last time they'd voted for Carter, but this time they voted for Reagan.
Some of that lesson has stuck with me. I do not ask people how they vote. Ever. And I have never put a political sign of any kind in my yard nor a bumper sticker on my car. I consider voting a private affair.
Until now. There is just something about feeling like a minority voter that makes me want to speak out. I don't like people assuming that I am a Republican. I get the creepy feeling they're doing so because of the color of my skin. And because I'm a fifth generation native Texan. And because I went to Texas A&M. An "Aggies for Obama" sign is kinda like a "Mormons for Obama" sign. Texas A&M is home to the George Bush Presidential Library, for goodness sake!
And that's why I did it. I want people to think twice when they see it. I want it to challenge their stereotypes. A friend of mine responded to the sign like this, "Way to make people feel conflicted about their interests!"
And I am happy to report that the sign remains in our yard, unmolested. The pizza delivery guy who came to our house Friday night shyly admitted, "I love your sign," as he handed over our order. "I hope it's still here when I drive by next time."
