Grant

Wow!  It's been about seven years since I last posted on this blog. I'm going to have to learn how to do it all over again.

I stopped writing when my brother Grant died.  His was not a tragic death--it was a tragic life. My two surviving brothers and I mourned Grant's death, but it was hardly a shock or a surprise.  He had courted Death since he was a child.  He was probably ADD or ADHD and most likely bipolar.  He had a violent temper and was reckless and destructive.  I believe Grant had no conscience.  He could have looked you in the eye with his hand on the Bible and then lie like a politician.

He was a drug addict and an alcoholic, and my mother adored him.  Everyone loved him and forgave him....no matter how angry he made them, or how badly he disappointed them. He threw away a perfectly good wife and two sons.  Everyone forgave him--everyone except his older son.

He was a musical prodigy.  Everyone loved to hear Grant play Dixieland and ragtime on the piano.  He would play anywhere--in bars, in rehab centers--anywhere there was a piano. His music was loved by everyone except my dad.  Dad played ragtime piano also.  But Dad was classically trained, and complained angrily that Grant was totally undisciplined.  Discipline was Grant's kryptonite.

Do I sound angry? That's probably why I wouldn't write after Grant's death. I'm not angry at him anymore, but I am thinking about death lately.

This post isn't about death actually--it's about moving on and acceptance.  I'm old--not ancient--but definitely old, and I'm hoping to survive the COVID-19 pandemic.  I have two beautiful grandsons and a wonderful son and daughter-in-law.  I want to see them and wrap my arms around them and hug the stuffin's out of them some more.

Lately I'm finding the jokes and funny posts on social media make me laugh out loud more or louder.  I don't go to the movies much these days, but I've watched three movies at home this week with Jim.  Like a child, I laughed out loud and shouted warnings to the characters. I can't be certain, but I think food may taste better even.  Certainly chocolate does.

So, to wrap this up I say, Life is Good.  I miss you sometimes Grant, and I'm sorry you can't be here to enjoy your grandchildren and maybe be enjoyed by them.  One of your grandsons has a real gift for the piano and a talent for boogie-woogie.  Boogie on, sad Brother....I have living to do!

The Marathon

At the Start of the Austin Marathon

On Sunday, February 17, 2013, my son Robert (Rob is his Austin persona), and his fiancee, Sarah, ran the Austin Marathon.  They ran the full 26.2 miles against the odds and together, from start to finish. 

It was the first time I’ve witnessed a marathon, and I was not prepared for the range of emotions I would witness and even experience myself.  I don’t enjoy running; I didn’t enjoy it when I could run.  I walk now and certainly not fast enough to be able to finish 26.2 miles in the seven-hour time limit that day.  The sheer energy and joy of the 20,000 runners at the start of the marathon produced a totally unexpected burst of tears from me.  “I get it!” I found myself saying aloud to no one.  I followed the runners for as long as possible just to continue to feel that energy.

Sarah and Robert were both running with leg injuries, and Sarah had a throat virus—I didn’t see how they could finish.  Jim and I followed the course in the car with the aid of a tracking program available through an App on our iPhones.  We had first aid supplies and water and blankets in case the kids injured themselves further.  At each station we caught up with them they were smiling and talking and called out that they were just fine.  At about 20 miles it started to get rough for them and they were walking at one point.  We texted that we’d see them at the finish and drove back to the Capitol where the marathon would end.

They slowed quite a bit during the last few miles, and as we waited I was becoming frantic that something had gone wrong so close to the finish line.  I watched as people of all ages, shapes, and sizes crossed that line to cheers and applause.  I watched as two middle-aged women crossed sobbing, with their arms around each other.  I cried with them. 

Finally, Robert and Sarah came around the last turn, running side-by-side, and smiling.  Robert raised his arm in triumph, and Jim and I snapped photos of the two young victors.  Again I cried.  The next day Jim wrote the following tribute to our son and his future wife.  I felt it was worth sharing with you.

Donna

Rob and Sarah,

         Yesterday was a very special day, not only for you two, but for me as well, and I have a few reflections that I wanted to share with you.  Before I do that though, I want to share something else with you.

         There comes a time in all parents’ lives when their children leave home, and for the first time as a parent we realize we will not be there for all those little life events and firsts that we were a part of before.  We reflect on the first time you took a step, or spoke your first words, or the time you read for the first time or rode a bike or drove a car.  Or that first hit in Little League, or you built a fire on a camp out, sparred in Karate, flew an airplane, so many things.  We realize we won't be there in our child's life for those moments and it is a very sad, bittersweet day.  Our child is doing exactly what we have prepared them for, but we are not prepared for that moment.

         Allowing us to be a part of your achievement yesterday was a privilege and an honor.  We listened all those months ago when you said you had decided to run the marathon and we got almost daily reports on how that was progressing.  Then came the news of Rob's stress fracture and the less than quick recovery.  We wondered if you, Sarah, would run alone or Rob would do the best he could and walk it if need be or just support you.  We knew Rob was disappointed.  But still you both made plans to continue on.  Then Sarah, you got sick and all the questions started about whether you could even get out of bed to participate.  

         When we arrived to pick you up yesterday, I could see the concern and pre-game tension and the questioning looks on both your faces.  It was still there as we arrived at the Capitol, but minute-by-minute the looks on your faces changed from concern to acceptance and then determination.  You both started to focus on the task ahead of you, and I could see in your faces that if you took that first step you would not quit until you crossed the finish line.  

         After heading off in the wrong direction we located you when you came back across the river.  You both looked surprisingly strong and step for step with each other.  The fact that you continued that way for the entire marathon told me volumes about the two of you as individuals and as a couple.  I can only imagine the conversations you had, the encouragement you offered to each other, the support, the energy, and the whole thing it took for you to finish together.  We know it was not easy and at times not fun, but you were doing it totally together.

         I have never seen a bigger smile on Rob's face as I did yesterday as you came across the finish line.  What the two of you did was one of the most courageous personal achievements I have had the privilege to witness and take a small part in.  You will both forever have my deep respect for your accomplishment.  You did it together and you finished strong.  You own the Austin Marathon and you can take that with you wherever your lives take you.  

        

26.2 Miles and 5:17 Hours Later

For Donna and I it was a thrill to watch and support you both, even if we (I) had a little fender bender racing between observation points.  We wish we could have done more, but the two of you were magnificent.

         Thank you for letting us be a part of this most significant event in your lives together.

Love you tons!

Dad

Mothers, Sisters, Daughters, Wives :: Texas Monthly

Mothers, Sisters, Daughters, Wives :: Texas Monthly

The link above will take you to the August 2012 issue of Texas Monthly Magazine.  The article by Texas author, Mimi Swartz, made me furious.  In fact, the article made me so angry that I sat down at the computer to write after more than a year without posting a word.  This is not a diatribe on the issues of abortion or welfare; it's about what's happening to women.

Every woman in the USA should read this article, but it should be mandated that Texas women read it.  And the next time you hear a politician tell you that "there's no war on women," remember this article.  Ladies--and gentlemen--do you realize that in Texas, and in other states, there are men who want to take away the right to practice birth control?  And they are succeeding because women are allowing it.

How did we arrive back at the place in our nation where men decide what's right for our bodies?  Where men can beat down and hold down the poor by eliminating any chance of improving and controlling their health, thus preventing them from reaching up and making their lives better?  The poor are with us; they always will be.  In these economic times, any of us could suddenly become the poor.  Surely there isn't a soul out there who thinks that continuing to provide birth control and health services to people in economic straits is less desirable than paying for the result of no birth control and no health services?

We need heroes--politicians and regular people who will stand up for what's intelligent, compassionate, and wise, and who are not afraid to man up and go a few rounds with those who would impose an agenda that keeps women barefoot and pregnant.

Dad

William Grant Klave in 1946

It’s hard to know what to say or where to begin to write about my dad. He was not my birth father, but he was the only father I ever had. He married my mother when I was five years old—I was at the wedding. It was a beautiful Michigan fall day; I helped Mom and Dad collect red and gold leaves to decorate the windows of the little country church where they were married. Following the ceremony, we lived in a tiny, gray cottage across the street from my new Grandma and Grandpa’s cottage on Portage Lake.

Soon after the wedding, my new Grandma and Grandpa sold that cottage to Mom and my new Dad, and we moved into the home where I lived for the next 15 years. It was a good life—swimming, fishing and boating in summers, and skating and sledding in winters. Dad built a barbecue pit and a picnic table, and we had glorious backyard cookouts in the summer. He’d water the back yard at dusk to make the night crawlers come up so John and I could catch them and then sell them to the fishermen for a little spending money. In the winter Dad cleared the snow from the lake ice and flooded it so we could have a perfectly smooth ice skating rink. Ah yes, we thought it was a good life.

I’m not sure when I realized that all was not The Donna Reed Show or Ozzie and Harriet at our house. Dad left a steady job to start his own small business, worked nights in piano bars and dinner clubs, produced two new babies, and had no family medical insurance. All these would contribute to stress in any marriage. But it was alcoholism that brought down my parents—our family.

“You Ain’t Much Fun Since I Quit Drinkin’.” Toby Keith

Following a drunk-driving arrest, a judge gave him the option of an alcohol recovery program over jail, and Dad began the long process of putting his life back together. He joined Alcoholics Anonymous, and for the rest of his life, he spent holidays and Sundays visiting and counseling other addicts in rehab centers and at AA meetings. My father was bitter that my mother couldn’t get and stay sober. Their last years together before Mom’s death were not pleasant ones. In fact, I would call their lives “hell on earth.” My cousin Charlotte called it “living in the trenches.”

Dad was sober for the last twenty years of his life, but died before he could receive his twenty-year AA sobriety challenge coin. My brothers and I asked the pastor at Dad’s memorial service to use the Serenity Prayer as a foundation for his sermon, and we led the service in the manner of an AA meeting. I began with, “My name is Donna Klave Hodgson, and I’m Bill’s daughter.” Everyone in turn introduced themselves and told the group how they knew Dad. We sat in silence while we listened to a recording of Dad playing some ragtime on the piano, realizing we’d never have him sit down and play for us again.

Dad, I hope you knew how proud we are of your success in your war on alcoholism. I hope we honored you fittingly given the magnitude of your battle. And I pray that you knew—that I made you know—how grateful I am that you chose to be my father.

Love,
Your daughter Donna