Ripples

One pebble tossed into the center of a still pond can turn its smooth, glasslike surface into a mess of ripples.

No, that's not quite right, is it? It's not a mess of ripples at all. There's nothing messy about it. It's just a whole bunch of circles, one after the other. Perfect, little circles…and circles within circles.

It really is amazing how many rippling circles a single pebble can cause, circles that have no beginning and no end. They just go on and on. Even when the surface goes smooth again, the circles are there, just waiting for another pebble to wake them up.

But the pebble…

The pebble sinks to the bottom, and then gets buried under muck and silt.

Now when I look at my reflection in that clear, glassy water, I can't help but wonder whether I'm the circles, or the pebble.

 

Lee Carroll (October 21, 1932-February 7, 2012)

My Eulogy to Lee

I met Lee Carroll at work. I can't say exactly how long ago it was. The count of years seems insignificant; the count of value he gave to those years is immeasurable.

I encountered Lee one day in a small, office lunchroom. I had gone in with my home-packed lunch and settled down to read a book. I don't remember the title or author; but the genre was science-fiction.

Anyone who knew Lee Carroll would be able to predict what happened next, without my having to say a word. I'll say it anyway:  Lee, drawn by the nature of the book, struck up a conversation.

It was an odd pairing, he and I. He was two years older than my father, a man of a completely different generation. Of course, if you knew Lee, you also know that age had no bearing on anything he did, or anyone he welcomed into his life. But there was another disparity, too. I was raised to hold my emotions in check, while Lee was the most expressive, emotive adult I have ever had the good fortune to meet. I have seen him so proud, often of his youngest son—whose name in those first years was generally given over to "small boy"—his eyes would honestly fill with tears of joy. I have also seen him teary-eyed over tales of heroism. Lee was always in awe of heroes, whether their stories involved wartime feats of bravery to save others, or rescues at sea. Lee, too, was a hero, although he would be loathe to acknowledge that fact. it is only right, after all, to do whatever clearly needs to be done, no matter the personal risk.

Lee's life was so full of wonder it always seemed to me I was speaking with a living book. He spoke of events of his past and people he'd met with enough passion to pull me into each tale. And his tales weren't only about his own past. He spoke of ancestors in a family tree that branched far and wide, from the era of King Arthur to the battlefields of the Civil War. He was also a font of knowledge, teaching me about things I'd never thought to learn, such as flint knapping, or the nature of chainmail, or the manner in which Roman soldiers advanced on their enemies in battle.

Lee had a passion for learning. This was a passion he continued to pursue long after earning degrees at Harvard, Cambridge and Tufts, a passion he never lost, he never could lose, and one that would pull people along, encouraging a similar passion in them. I found it fascinating to see that he used all that knowledge in ways every adult I'd ever encountered before would shun. The adults in my young life had taught me that adulthood by its very nature meant no longer playing make-believe, but Lee turned these lessons around. He never stopped making believe. In addition to role-playing games, he went to cons and donned costumes and the personalities those costumes represented. At Halloween, he was the scary man who spoke with cats and served up eyeballs to trick-or-treaters (the chocolate kind, of course). At Greenfield Village, in a con to celebrate steampunk, he was the Sandman.

Lee could tell you how to navigate the sea using a sextant, and why the same methods cannot be applied in the sky. He explored flint knapping as a means of understanding the technologies of primitive cultures. People might ask: How could he use such knowledge; what purpose could it serve? I can only answer by saying this: If knowledge is power, Lee was the most powerful man I have ever had the privilege to know. The world would be a much better place if there were more Lee Carrolls within it.

Lee was a navigator. It wasn't just what he did; it was who he was, as natural to him as breathing. Yes, he had a career as a navigator for the Coast Guard. He also had one as a coach, helping children and young adults to navigate their way through life by focusing on reaching  and exceeding their personal best. The literal course was a runner's track, but his coaching extended to the much broader course of life itself.

I have never been an athlete, and I was quite past young adulthood by the time we met. But Lee was my coach as well. More specifically, he was my navigator. He guided me through world building, to help me set the stage for an epic tale told over the course of three novels (never yet publicly shared). He taught me things of history I'd never known before, or forgotten, or had never bothered to understand. And he taught me things of people, of human nature, of culture and society, and politics at its best as well as its worst.

On a personal note, Lee helped me to understand things my father endured and continues to endure as a result of a stroke, because Lee knew intimately what challenges my father faced. Lee never once stopped fighting the effects of his own stroke. He refused to allow the impacts that stroke left on his body to interfere with his active participation in life. His strength of mind gave him a strength of body that undoubtedly left physicians scratching their heads in bafflement.

In many ways, Lee was like a surrogate father to me, filling a role my own father had never managed to assume, a role that made him my teacher, my coach and my navigator. But more importantly, Lee was my friend. I've never known another living soul with whom I could debate the course of humankind. Our conversations ranged from the bizarre to the profound. There were plenty of times when he told me my insights helped him to reach answers to complex questions he'd been unable to resolve; but I know, without a doubt, his insights gave me more than I could ever give him in return.

Even so, I like to believe we were equals when it came to friendship.

In recent months, our conversations were, by necessity, more grounded by realities we could neither ignore nor philosophize our way around, realities of life that simply demanded our attention. Lee was facing life without the love of his life at his side, and my mother was facing the end of her own life. In recent weeks, we lost touch, as I found myself resurfacing from the fog of my mother's death, and he found himself, unbeknownst to me, facing the end of his life on this earth. It could be said that the past year spiraled around us like the outer edges of a black hole. February 7, 2012 marked the center-point, Lee's own, personal event horizon, the day on which he was pulled to the other side. I like to imagine him there now, in an alternate universe fueled by his own, broadly colored imagination, crossing galaxies with Anne at his side, and both of them taking my mother under their wings.

Lee, my friend, travel well. May your journey among the stars sate your soul and help fuel the imaginations of intelligent dreamers for millennia yet to come.

I like to believe the following poem, written for my mother, describes Lee's Heaven as well:

http://dmkraft.blogspot.com/2012/04/my-mothers-heaven.html 

I also came upon this wonderful tribute to Lee that I want to share here:

http://blogetrypoetry.blogspot.com/2012/02/my-memory-of-lee-carroll.html

My Mother's Heaven

My Mother's Heaven (and Lee's, as well)

They say Heaven shines like the sun;
 I think it glows like the moon--
a splash of golden mist,
a galaxy of fireflies and fairy dust.

It breathes a luminescence
to feed our hungry eyes
enough to keep us sated.

There is no need for gluttony.
It fills our thirsty souls
with an endless well of inspiration

There is no void in Heaven.
Black holes are invitations.
Stars are skipping stones.
And the vacuum swallows sound
only for those who let it.
For the rest, it is a calling,
a song in search of voices,
a dance on Saturn’s rings.

They say Heaven is our home.
I think it takes us there.
If this life is a journey,
why should the afterlife be a destination?

Let your tired bones rest in peaceful slumber
while you skip among the stars
singing songs and seeding dreams
with a universe of possibility.

Mom's Eulogy

Eulogy for my mother

Inger-Marie Hojberg (January 26, 1934-November 18, 2011

If my mother’s life were a movie, it would be a musical. It would include songs such as Good Morning, Good Morning!, from Singing in the Rain, Edelweiss from The Sound of Music and Happy Talk from South Pacific. There would be shades of Lucille Ball in I Love Lucy, and Rose Nylund, aka Betty White, in the Golden Girls. And chocolate. Lots of chocolate. The plot would take a twisted path along yellow brick roads and through wormholes, and every vehicle would fly. There would be snow-skiing, ice-skating and water dancing a la Esther Williams,’ intermixed with action, adventure and a touch of two-part harmony.

Mom had a regular inclination to break into song, whether she was happy or frustrated. If anyone else started to sing around her, she would join in, providing the harmony. She loved musical instruments, and experimented with the viola, the guitar and the dulcimer, but her favorite was always the piano. Her piano was like a treasured companion. How well she played never mattered; all that mattered, was that she played.

She also liked to laugh. I think her favorite TV show of all time was Americas Funniest Videos. She could watch the same clips over and over again, and always, always laugh. She could also laugh at herself, and she certainly did, more often than not.

She never swore—at least, not in English. In English, what she most commonly said to express her frustration was “7734.” As a child, I always got a kick out of that. I also used to like to say “ain’t,” just to hear her respond with “ain’t fell in the paint so it ain’t no word.”

My mother loved the night sky. She was a star-gazer who followed every mission closely, from the Apollo program to the space shuttles. Star Trek was among her favorite shows, and I think her favorite character was Scotty, although I’m sure she never actually declared a favorite. When I became obsessed with Stargate, it was easy to pull her along with me, and she journeyed through the Stargate vicariously through me.

She liked to watch game shows, particularly The Price is Right and Wheel of Fortune; once upon a time, many years ago, she went with me to try out for a slot on Wheel of Fortune. Neither of us made the final cut, but we sure had fun trying.

She was never afraid of trying. She would try just about anything. In high school, I was the only one who had a mother crazy enough to break her hand roller-skating. And when roller-blading officially became the next great trend a decade later, she had to try that, too—right there in her “senior citizens only” condo complex. Fortunately, she was limber, thanks to years of Yoga.

One thing she always wanted to try, though I’m not sure she ever did, was speed-skating. I would have loved to try that, too…in my younger years. We both loved those perfect winter days when the lake would freeze just so, and there wasn’t a lot of snow to shovel off the surface. On days like that, we would strap on our ice skates and watch each other racing across as far as we could go, so much farther than either of us could ever swim, undeterred by the way the ice creaked and groaned beneath us. We weren’t careless; we both knew when the ice was too thin. She was never afraid of trying, but she would not invite danger.

It was never about danger; it was about flying.

She enjoyed a good thrill-ride, and would join me on any roller coaster I, myself would dare to try. Even so, she did not like the Beast at Kings Island. It moved too fast and with too much force for her to be able to enjoy the high in the sky views. Actually, I think her favorite amusement park ride of all time was the much slower, double Ferris wheel, for the impression it gave her of being up in the sky.

In a parallel universe somewhere, in which we all follow different paths in life, I have no doubt she became a pilot.

She did love the sky, day or night. But swimming…swimming was almost like a religious experience for her—maybe because it provided her with the illusion of flying, albeit flying in the water. She would swim throughout the year if our northern weather would let her. Long after the rest of us Michiganders had tucked away our flip-flops and pulled out our sweaters, she would still go down to the lake for a swim. One story that has achieved almost legendary status tells about the time she dove into a hotel swimming pool despite an unseasonable frost that had left the surface coated in a very thin sheet of ice.

If you ever saw mom swimming and you asked her how the water was, you knew to be wary if she answered “refreshing.” Refreshing to her meant freezing to the rest of us. And heaven help you if she said it was “invigorating!”

Mom greeted life with enthusiasm. Christmas never lost its magic, and she saw the world as though it was fresh and new each time she looked. She relished every spider web, every bird's nest, every tiny bud clinging to life from seemingly impossible places. She surrounded herself with such treasures, and my parents' condo was as full of broken robin's eggs, grasshopper husks and transplanted blossoms as it was of shiny trinkets.

She did what she could to instill that same enthusiasm into my sisters and me when we were children. Any time she had a special surprise gift, she would have us close our eyes, hold out our hands and say the magic words. No, those words did not include "please." It was a Norwegian phrase I've never known the direct translation for. "Looka, looka blind man, fol jeg lit e mitt hand." After we said the words, the surprise would magically land in our hands.

We also had a special nightly ritual. After tucking us into bed, she would stand in the doorway with her hand on the light switch, and tell us to blow out the light. My sister, Kari, and I would fill our chubby little cheeks with air and then blow as hard as we could until she clicked off the switch. The ritual also included Norwegian words: God natt, sover godt, vakner i god helse i morn. Good night, sleep well, wake in good health in the morning. I'm comforted to know those were the last words I said to her, together with jeg elsker deg, I love you.

And I'm quite sure no amount of blowing will ever snuff the light she has given to each of us.