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

The "Life Jacket" Effect

This morning Robert called from his workplace with important news. He had received a promotion and they were negotiating a pay raise. We were, of course, thrilled for him. On our extension phones Jim and I immediately began our ritual: “Don’t forget to remind them (his employer) of how much money your work has saved them this year. Make sure they make up the difference you’ll be losing in overtime pay.” We honestly can’t help ourselves! We are compelled to do this to him.

It was apparent he was anxious to get off the phone with us after a couple of minutes of that—plus he had to get back to work. Moments later I started to feel a little bit on the officious side and tapped out a short email to explain.

Robert Dear,

Whenever you share some important news, I know we always do this to you—start reminding you of all the things you should remember and do. It’s the “life jacket effect,” Kiddo. As I saw you sailing through the air over Lake Grapevine’s black waters, realizing at that moment that I had forgotten to double check your life jacket, my heart pounded in terror. My heart pounds as I write about it.

Telling you later that you should have done this or remembered to ask that would be like making sure the life jacket was fastened after the accidental drowning. It’s a parent thing.

Hope you know we share in your excitement and enjoy contributing when and where we can. Love, Mom

The Boating Adventure

When Robert was a small boy our neighbors invited us to go with them for a day of boating fun on Lake Grapevine. They had one of those inflatable tubes that you can ride in and be dragged behind the speedboat. Robert and I climbed into the tube together and were sailing along over the water when we hit a wake wave and were bounced off the tube and hurled separately through the air. The waters of Lake Grapevine are murky at best—a grown man can’t see his feet in four feet of water. It was at that moment that I remembered that I had forgotten to check to make sure Robert’s life jacket was properly fastened. Fortunately, the other mom had checked it for him.

It still haunts me. I still see the black water of the lake in my dreams. My heart races now as I write about it. As I paddled through the water to reach him, silently firing off one prayer of thanks after another, I knew I’d never forget that moment. I felt as if God had fired a warning shot at me: “Pay attention! Always remember to check Our boy’s life jacket!”

Later, when Robert was beginning to gain more and more independence, I would remind him of the dangers he might encounter as he set out on his adventures. We talked about “stranger danger;” I taught him about parking lot safety and internet safety. The poor boy practically had zits before I’d let him go into a men’s room by himself at the mall. Whenever he would set out without me, I’d think, “Did I teach him everything I could to keep him safe?

So Robert, my dear, I hope you understand that ever since that day on Lake Grapevine, I've just been trying to make sure your Life Jacket is fastened.

Donna

Mom

Imogene Dee Summers in 1946

My mother was a gorgeous young woman with the curly black hair and green eyes of her Irish ancestors and the high cheekbones, full lips, and firmly-set jaw of her Cherokee ancestors. She was tall at five foot seven inches, and slender, with good legs and broad shoulders. She also had the voice of an angel. As a girl she sang in church and in the Ann Arbor High School a cappella choir, and years later sang professionally with my dad’s jazz band. I idolized her.

As the teenage bride of a charming, but womanizing young man in his early twenties, Mom gave birth to me four months after her nineteenth birthday. My brother John was born two years later. After repeated abuse that included a pistol whipping once, Mom filed for divorce and custody of her two toddlers. She was fearless.

When I was five Mom married Bill. My birth father was more than happy to give John and me up for adoption by Bill because the agreement they made with the judge wiped out his back child support and alimony payments. No more jail time. Bill gave the three of us—Mom, John, and me—a new last name and we gave him a new first name: Dad. Mom was a survivor.

Mom and Dad were very happy. They had lots of friends and they did lots of things together. They were always smooching when Dad came home from work, and I fantasized that my life would be just like that when I grew up and got married. When I was seven, my brother Grant was born and when I was ten, my brother Keith was born. Mom was my role model.

Dad decided to leave his job at Argus Camera in Ann Arbor and start his own piano tuning and repair business. He worked nights as the piano man in a number of jazz and big band groups and days building his new business. Mom sat for hours at her massive old library-table desk and made piano tuning appointments for Dad. At some point she began singing with Dad’s jazz band, and then she also sat for hours at our grand piano, transposing Dad’s music to a key in which she could sing with the band. She was a trouper.

Mom talked to me about life and people and I could tell her anything. She was never shocked and always gave me the real story about the questions I asked. She was my best friend. Once in ninth grade science class the boys were yucking it up in the row behind me, and I asked them what was so funny. Intending to shock me, one of them told me they were talking about rubbers. This hurled them into fits of teenage boy hooting and sniggering. “What’s that?” I wanted to know. When they wouldn’t tell me, I said, “Fine; I’ll ask my mom.”

“Yeah, right! Go ask your mom,” they sneered.

“I will!” I replied. This drew peals of laughter from them.

As soon as I got to science class the next day one of the boys asked me if I had asked my mom what rubbers are. “Of course I did.”

“Did she tell you?” they wanted to know.

“Of course she did.” They were horrified. I gloated.

After a few years of night club and dinner club gigs, the effect of the long days and late nights began to show and to affect their marriage. They smoked and drank all night while working. We’ve been to those places where an appreciative patron sends a drink over to the piano player or the vocalist; I suspect that Mom and Dad never turned one down. They began to fight all the time, and by day we kids walked and talked softly to keep from waking the sleeping, recovering combatants.

When I left home to attend stewardess training in 1968, my mother was devastated. She had always told me she didn’t know what she would do without me—I was her little helper. She was proud of me and angry at me for deserting her. I was immature enough to think that I could be her friend and rescue her from her prison by sharing my world with her. That, of course, made her resentful. In addition to her alcoholism, she became addicted to Valium and pain killers. Mom continued to decline and our relationship unraveled. During the remainder of her life, she was forced to go through at least three alcohol recovery programs, simply waiting them out until she could get another drink.

When someone is on a pedestal the height at which I placed my mom, it’s a long fall back to Earth. I was angry at her and disappointed. She had taught me that I should not be weak and she had turned out to be weak. Perhaps it was her Irish and Cherokee ancestry that predetermined her fate. No offense is intended here to anyone living or dead of Irish or Native American descent, but both nationalities have the reputation of being prone to alcoholism. Her father was an alcoholic and so was her brother.

Mom was a most human human being. In her youth, she fought hard to save herself and her children from harm and unhappiness. In the end she succumbed to her demons and preferred to numb herself rather than keep fighting. I owe my life to her. She taught me to stand up for myself and to fight for my loved ones. If only she had been able to keep fighting for herself.

I miss you, Mom.
Love,
Donna

Cheeseburger, Cheeseburger, Cheeseburger

Wednesday was the 175th anniversary of the signing of the Texas Declaration of Independence. On March 1st five delegates to the Texas Convention of 1836 were selected to draft the declaration, and they literally wrote it overnight. They had to hurry; Santa Ana was attacking the Alamo. The Declaration was signed on March 2, 1836, and the rest is Texas history.

The first line of the Declaration is pretty powerful stuff:

“When a government has ceased to protect the lives, liberty and property of the people, from whom its legitimate powers are derived, and for the advancement of whose happiness it was instituted, and so far from being a guarantee for the enjoyment of those inestimable and inalienable rights, becomes an instrument in the hands of evil rulers for their oppression. . . ”

The Republic of Texas joined the Union on December 29, 1845, as the 28th state. And Texas has been declaring its independence ever since. After reading more state history, I have to conclude that Texans have always wanted things their own way and always stood up for themselves. The state is a special place geographically, historically and demographically, with at least a little of what is special in all the other parts of the nation. We have mountains, ocean, beaches, deserts, great rivers and lakes, forests, swamps, and natural resources. We can boast having major centers of commerce, industry, and education. Need I even mention football?

Texans have a right to be proud of their state and its rich history. I guess that explains the importance of having a state sandwich. . . . . .

State Sandwich: From the Star-Telegram, Monday, February 28, 2011.

Designating the hamburger as the state sandwich of Texas sounds like a simple measure. But state Rep. Dan Flynn, R-Van, may have bitten off more than he can chew.
His resolution states that Fletcher Davis of Athens "developed the new sandwich" at his lunch counter in the late 1800s. Other U.S. cities, including New Haven, Conn., and Seymour, Wis., insist that the burger was born within their borders. Four years ago, a Terrell state representative started a national ruckus by filing a resolution claiming the hamburger title for Athens. [Governor] Perry signed it, but the debate rages on.

So when Texas school phys ed, art and music programs are slip-sliding their way onto the chopping block, we have legislators working to establish the hamburger as our state sandwich. I think we’ve got some cheeseburgers in the State Legislature.

Donna



Read More:

The Texas Declaration of Independence
Texas State History

Memories

Yvonne, one of my husband Jim's LP66er high school classmates (April 11, 2009 post) sent this YouTube video. Between the incredible singing and the humorous, but painful truths, I had tears in my eyes. I'm really not sure if I was laughing or crying. Click on the YouTube link below and watch this video to decide for yourself.

Donna

YouTube Memory - A Spoof by Pam Peterson

Don't Be Part of the Problem

Dear Friends,

I haven’t written since September of 2010. I had nothing I wanted to say. We weren’t traveling, we were busy with the aviation museum in Fort Worth, and the holidays came galloping at me with the usual stress and anxiety.

Now, in light of the tragedy our nation experienced yesterday in Tucson, Arizona, I have something I want to say to everyone. Six human beings are dead—a federal judge and a nine-year-old child among them. Many more are in critical condition in hospitals.

When you pass hateful, vitriolic jokes or opinions to your friends in the form of emails and Facebook or Twitter comments, you are contributing to events like the one yesterday. You may react with: “it’s just a joke—lighten up, lady; but you don’t know everyone who reads that material.

A troubled young man tried to assassinate Gabrielle Giffords, a vibrant, gifted young United States Congresswoman. She successfully walked a line that few politicians can or will: She supported policies on both sides of the political fence. She is a politician who worked hard to stay in touch with her constituency and was admired and respected by Republicans and Democrats alike. This was a truly senseless crime.

There is so much hate, misinformation, and stupidity flying around on the Internet that it is no wonder that something like this hasn’t happened already. Please don’t contribute to it. Thanks to Photoshop, you can't even be sure a photo is real. Please think about what you’re spreading when you prepare to pass along something negative and hateful.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. We can all hit the “delete” key—but not everyone does. Sometimes, some troubled person just needs a little nudge to go over the edge and do something like what happened yesterday in Arizona.

There’s plenty good stuff out there to share. While we’re at it, we might share a prayer for the injured and for the grieving friends and families of those unfortunate Americans in Tucson.

All the best to all in 2011,
Donna