Calling in Well

My friends Doug and Gretchen are flying to Kansas City today to spend a few precious days with their beloved Grandbabies. We all need to do more of this, make the heroic and decisive effort to make time for the ones we love, throwing off our routines and our "got tos" to do the the things that matter, the things we'll really cherish and remember. No one reaches their deathbed, or the deathbed of someone dear to them, thinking, "Gee, I wish I'd spent more time at work." Before on these pages I've quoted the author Tom Robbins, a gifted and irreverent voice with a knack for turning an idea upside down in an illuminating way. In one of his books (in the words of the immortal Casey Stengal, you could look it up) he offers the concept that two or three times a year we all ought to be able to call in well, to simply make a u-turn on the way through the slog or exit on the way to another 8 hours of drudge and call in and say, "You know, I'm really feeling great today. There's someone I love and adore and haven't seen in a while, and I think I'll spend the day with them." It's an idea that hasn't caught on but it ought to. We put our lives and our loved ones on hold to make the payment on the family truckster and our 3.2 credit cards; maybe we ought to cut down somewhere and leave a little more room for the people who matter and the things that really ought to be on the day planners and to do lists. Sadly, love is all too often the last thing we make time for, and the first thing we put off "until we have more time." Well, we're never going to have more time. Do what Doug and Gretchen did, whenever you can. Take the bold action step. Clear the runway. Go see them. Get on a plane, drive all night, pick up the phone. Do it. Visit your mom or dad. Spend three precious days with your love. Take a "call in well" day (you don't have to call it that when you call; they're pretty humorless about this kind of thing down at The Verbal Toxic Waste Dump, and they probably are where you work too.) In the long run you'll be twice as productive, and there will be a light in your eyes and a spring in your two-step that wasn't there before, because your soul will be a little more alive, dancing within you to the best music you know, the music you share with the people you love most. We are enlivened and made whole by this music, by the conversations and meals and moments we spend on the floor with our beloved grandsons playing Hot Wheels, by macaroni and cheese at the tables of our daughters. Make it happen as soon and as often as you can. Godspeed, Doug and Gretchen. Travel well and safely, then fly home and call me and invite me over to tell me all about it.

I've mentioned lately that Marie's mother is sick and just got home from a few days in the hospital. She's recovering and sounding brave over the phone but Marie is still worried about her, and I've been trying to coax my lovely bride to drive the six hours south to go visit, no matter what, as soon as she can spare the time. Her mother is nearing 80, a lovely, strong woman with a magnificent heart and a keen eye for the truth, and there is a part of her that has grown weary of this world and longs for the next: her beloved husband has been in Heaven for twelve years. She's lived a good, rewarding, meaningful, faithful life, and still does so each day, but she's reached a place of grace within her where death holds no sting and seems like a heavenly reward. Which doesn't in anyway remove the the grief and sadness Marie feels at the prospect of losing her. I want my wife to be held by her mother, one more time and as often as possible. The grocery orders at the retail food conglomerate aren't nearly as important. I've offered her the car keys, I've offered to leave with her Friday night after work. I hope her mom lives another ten years, but if it is ten months or ten minutes, I want them to have a good long good bye and the opportunity to say The Things We Wished We Have Said. Say those things. Pick up the phone. Fill the tank and go visit. Stop living to work and start working to live. I promise the lawn and the laundry will be there when you get back.

It's 6:35 and there's a horse grazing outside my window. Freckles, Dahlia's horse, a gentle giant who endures her impatient kicks in her eagerness to get to the future and be a Cowgirl. The rooster has crowed three times. It's 6:37. I'd like to call in well today but today isn't the day. When I do though, it will be worth every d and t of the demerits I will earn. Blessings to you all and take care.