garrison beau scott

As I come through the death of my father, I see the other side is still as beautiful as it ever was. Nothing’s changed except for the fact that he’s no longer part of my day to day life. No phone calls, no card on my birthday, no more handshakes with the man who taught why men shake hands.

But people still laugh, still wake in the morning and begin the day, finding what they need.

I am thrilled to be alive. Thrilled to be where I am, who I am. A wise friend once reminded me of all the energy in this world. All the blades of grass growing, spilling oxygen into the air. I think of all the blades of grass in my life, all the oxygen they so freely pass on to me, life in my lungs. I think of how lucky I am, how blessed. At night after my children have faded into sleep, I think of the joy of their blankets, the soft pillows they drool on as they slumber and dream of their momma’s chocolate chip cookies.

I think of my friends who look past my faults and love me and let me make them laugh. I think about our differences and why those don’t matter, thrilled in the knowledge I’ll always have a couch when I travel, and the knowledge my photographs hang with pride in their homes. I am thrilled to be a part of their stories, to play the part I do. To be that one tiny force that helps cause the ever so slight creases in their face when smiling over the re-telling of those stories. My life will become a line in their face. Indelible as the smile their presence brings to mine.

I think of the people I have never met. The guy who packaged up the iPod my children gave me on father’s day. The one stocked with music from people I have never met. The beautiful girls who walk by conversing with each other, words of inane brilliance that are so important to them, and so they become important to me. I think of the headstones in the cemetery, names forgotten and those freshly mourned. What of their lives, what ways have they touched mine? I see people in their cars, smiling and pounding the steering wheel, and I want to sing along.

Yeah, I want to sing along.

I think of my mom. And what she did just over 39 years ago. I think about what my wife did 5 years ago, and again 2 years ago. I think of Beethoven and what he did 212 years ago, and my grandfather and the men he stood alongside and what they did 67 years ago.

When I lie down on the ground and look up into the clouds I see you, I see your life as I wish it to be. Sometimes I fear it isn’t, other times I hope I can’t even begin to imagine, how wonderful it is. There is a wind we are all apart of, a swell that moves through us all, and I think about how lucky I am that this is true.

Punctuation courtesy, The Specials.

Over the last 3 days or so, I’ve been; nervous, pessimistic, jaded, hopeful, devout, energized, diagnosed with and treated for css (chronic smiling syndrome), proud, dutiful, pained, thrilled, awed, and inspired.

And I’m not even talking about the utter beat-down laid upon the Cowboys on Sunday. Or last January for that matter.

I’d gladly, 10 times out of 10 times gladly, have traded this year’s shot at the Super Bowl for the kind of victory I (we) experienced Election Night. Hallelujah, Amen, Om, and any other expressions equaling a resounding “yes!” The kind of “yes” that comes with high-fiving, tear-wiping, and jaw-dropping as standard equipment.

At one point during the coverage, one of the panelists recalled a time when politics was America’s past-time. No World Series existed, no Super Bowl. They had elections. The emotional investment, rooting interest, and all around vibe of watching the returns come in on Election Night was an exact match on all levels to the experience of watching your team play for the Super Bowl. The only difference was the stakes.

I think we can all agree that this is an amazing country. And should any hate-monger from the fundamentalist right question the patriotism of anyone who voted for Obama, I eagerly offer the replay of what erupted in Chicago, New York and various other spontaneous spots in this and other, other I point out, countries. What the replay shows is an undeniable majority of Americans, all kinds of Americans, intensely celebrate a return to the ideals of a country they fell in love with in 1776, 1941, and 1960. Not the sham of 2000 - 2008.

But enough of the negative (for now). It’s time to celebrate. And it’s time to go to work. Obama is already on the job. Some say that he has been planning the transition and his first 100 days since he got the nod for the ticket. Some say he’s been preparing his whole life. The last thing America needs is for another blatantly obvious, tongue and cheek presidency. If he’s anything, Obama is serious about this job, he has to be, the task is large.

For the last 8 years, a hole has been dug. Dug with the highest priced, most technically advanced shovels a National Treasury can buy. The effort has been relentless, carried out at a 24/7 clip, sometimes appearing as if the existence of the hole was the sole excuse for the existence of those digging it. And now that the orders have been mandated that the digging stop, those responsible for this blight on human history will pack up their machines and simply walk away. This isn’t the Clinton Administration supposedly removing all the “W” keys from all the computer keyboards prior to handing over the keys to the Whitehouse, this is much worse. Partly because the audience is large, the expectations are immense, and the stakes are higher.

We as Americans, and especially those of us that have railed against Bush, and demanded a change in how our government governs, need to help the guy we voted for, enact the change we want. To further the “hole in the ground,” analogy, we need to show up with spoons and shovels or our bare hands if necessary, and help our 44th President with his task.

The exciting thing is we have a chance to partake in the reconstruction of so many good things. It seems as if he is asking for our help. Time to get off our asses and pitch in. Otherwise, all that standing in line and debate and effort and passion and hope will be for naught.

And what does that mean for pictures, supposedly worthy of a thousand of them?

We’re at the corner. The question is, will we turn it? Why are there so many people in this country, this world, who are afraid of the answer?

I followed a crack in the pavement, its fissure worn smooth by the thousands and thousands of footprints otherwise occupied by the billboards. Alters of pimp. Ignoring the 20 foot tall Big Macs and the neon tinged venus flytraps, I continued to look down, I continued to follow. Days got shorter, sleeves longer, but the cleave remained. It led me past strip malls and dealerships, schools and metal detectors, past promises and lies.

What began frivolously became a earnest crusade. I thought I’d be led to you. But it was now winter, and the place you had sat maybe waiting for me, was covered in the cruelest of blankets. The crack hidden as well, only the breadcrumbs were left to guide me home, where I hoped the fire would be as warm for me, as I knew it was for you.