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Posts Tagged ‘essays’

Deanie McKay, ‘Horseman, pass by’

So Dad,
Really miss you when Father’s Day weekends come around.
Hard to believe it’s been so, so many years since you graced this world with your crazy, fun-loving, quit-witted, hard-working presence.
I’m in College Station for the weekend with your beloved granddaughter Amy McKay–she’s 30 now!–and your great-grandson Trey Rodriguez, who’s a 6 year old fireball, and Trey’s Pop Jorgi Rodriguez.
Amy, of course, was a tender 6 months when you, at 70, had that sudden and fatal and quick heart attack. She’s smart, gorgeous, hard working, wonderful mom–all you’d expect and want in a McKay blood.
Mamaw knew her well, of course, and they were seriously close when Mamaw left this world in 1995 to join you.
Amy recited a poem, which she wrote, at Mamaw’s funeral.
Wish you could have known my second-born, and only son, Adam, blood of your blood. He’s warring in Iraq with the First Marines and we’re praying he’ll be lifted out of what the Marines call “the Sandbox” in another couple of months.
Then he gets to come back to College Station to settle down almost immediately after the Marines take him back in San Diego to get him civilian-ready a bit.
Won’t get his discharge till October, close to his 26th birthday, but he can come on home and what a Homecoming party we’re going to have.
Your other grandchild, Megan McKay, just graduated from Frisco High School, with honors, no less, from that Dallas burb. She’s also enrolling at A&M so I’ll have the whole McKay brood of 3, and Trey, a mere three hours from my home base in Dallas.
Amy recently brought down all those boxes upon boxes of familyI’ve always held of photos and Bibles, heirlooms, fading newspaper clips dating from ages ago, and all sorts of great stuff such as Mamaw’s Senior Class picture from Cameron Yoe High School, circa 1933.
Megan graduated on the same date Mamaw did, which was a pretty exciting thing to discover for her.
One of the greatest discoveries for us, and especially me, was finding a picture of you and me a month or two after I was born that day on Jan. 26, 1950. (Hard to believe I’m 59. Just hard to believe, Dad.)
Picture has you mounted on your horse (always had to be a white or gray mare for you, didn’t it Horseman?).
You’re dressed to kill, with your trademark fedora hat–did you ever wear a cowboy hat in your life? It was always fedoras!). You’re also clad in crispy white shirt and tie and khaki pants heavily pressed.
The picture was made right on the corner of the old house where you and Mamaw raised me for the first 10 years, on Elm Street in Navasota.
In the picture, you’re holding me.
I’m barely out of the womb, wrapped in total white.
Very cool–you holding me newborn Paul wrapped in white, on top of a beautiful whitish mare.
You couldn’t have been home for long because in those days you were always out in the oil patches laying pipeline for Humble Oil, but you obviously got home as fast as you could to see me your youngest and to get us pictured on your horse.
Well . . . more to say, but your great-grandball of fire is calling me to take him to the park.
His mom could use the break, for sure.
You’re here with us and I know that’s right.

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Watching the mad frenzy in this thunderboomer!!!

Wow!
Our Mother and Father God, through the Providence of Mother Nature, had me out of bed way early this morning, like 6 a.m. I think it was.
And never mind that I didn’t get home to my digs until 12:30 a.m. this morning after working my chaplain shift at the hospital till midnight last night.
I live in Dallas, and Dallas has seen some serious thunderbooming rainfall for many hours now. It’s now 7:39 a.m. and there is still serious rain and lightning and God-like thunder happening as I dispatch this from my patio.
Don’t worry–I’m safe from the potentially lethal lightning I’m seeing out here.
But it’s been interesting to watch the other apartment dwellers rushing into their cars at this rush hour, some of them dressed to the tees, trying to get out of here and into the madness of the morning rush hour.
I am glad I don’t have to be anywhere this morning except right here, since today is this ordained minister’s designated Sabbath day (real rest in God day) this week.
(Oh my–can’t get enough of the sound of that word “ordained,” only days after that ordination deal with God and the United Methodist Church was finally sealed!)
My oh my, let us say a prayer for a man I just saw trying to get into his Jeep or whatever it is. He’s a rather young man, maybe 30 something. I watched him run out of his apartment with a big umbrella covering him, a briefcase, and him with the coat of his nice suit folded over his arm.
Watched him, clad in nice starched dress shirt and tie, scramble in all the rain and lightning and thunder and swirling water around his dress shoes to get behind the wheel of his vehicle.
But, in trying to get it all together, his suit coat fall right onto the pavement and into the swirling rain water on said pavement.
I don’t know what it was he was shouting out since he was all alone, but it may not have been anything like, “This is the day the Lord hath made and shall we rejoice.”
Don’t think he said that hosanna to himself.
I’m thinking to myself, O my–what would I do in his shoes? (In fact, I’ve lived that same experience of having a nice coat fall into swirling water when in a mad rush frenzy to get somewhere, but not in many years, thankfully. I’m not that young and in that big a hurry about much anymore.)
Him—he just reached down from the driver’s seat, pulled the wet coat out of the rain puddle, threw it into his vehicle and drove off nice and easy out of the apartment complex, and I guess if he has any serious business requiring attire as formal as full men’s dress suit, all the other suits in the room will just have to understand.

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