memories

The problem started about five or six years ago. Most people I know with this affliction have it when they are children and then it lessens in severity as they age, but leave it to me to wait until my waning years to acquire an infirmity that I should have outgrown instead of grown into. I have asthma. Oh, not the full-blown, struggle to inhale, think you’re going to black out, wheezing asthma, but enough to cause shortness of breath and an annoying tight cough, which can’t be relieved by regular cough medicines.

I’ve got my father to thank for it…well really, his father…come to think of it, I shared it with my son too, so there’s enough paternal blame to go around on this one. Heredity seems to have played its part here. My father had to take an early retirement due to respiratory problems brought on by allergens in the workplace. Long before that, his dad (my Grandpa Phillips) was stricken with emphysema, a lung disease far more serious than my touch of bronchial asthma.

I thought about Grandpa recently. I had helped the Lovely Lady with a reception for a friend of ours and was carrying boxes out to the car. The extreme change in temperature from inside the building to the frosty air outside, was enough to bring on another attack and before I knew it, I was straining to breathe. I felt a kinship with Grandpa that I had never thought about before, as I saw him in my mind’s eye, struggling to breathe from the exertion of walking 10 feet across the room. He would stop and lean against a table, or chair, or desk, with his chest heaving, the over-developed chest muscles forcing air in and out of the diseased lungs. I must admit that as a child, I didn’t empathize well. This was just how he had always been in my memory, and I assumed that it was his own fault. Grandpa had been a heavy smoker, first rolling his own and then as the hands became shaky, purchasing them in the pack–his brand of choice, filter-less Camels. A he-man’s cigarette if ever there was one. But for a person predisposed to breathing issues, as seems likely, the habit was a slow killer. I’m not a smoker and my problem doesn’t begin to approach the gravity of his, but just for a few moments this evening, I felt an empathy, a bond with my Grandpa that I never considered when he was living. And, I missed him again.

Grandma and Grandpa lived across the street from me when I was a kid. What a great blessing, to be able to grow up so close to your grandparents that you can run across the street and sit with them on the screened-in front porch, or maybe watch an episode of “I Love Lucy” or “Gunsmoke” on television with them. Two channels on TV then, with the signal literally coming through the airwaves and being picked up by a pair of “rabbit ears” on top of the tiny black & white set. Every time an airplane would approach the local airport (we were in the flight path), the static and wavy lines across the screen would interrupt the program. But the best thing was listening to Grandpa tell stories about people he knew. He loved to talk–even talked about talking…“So, I says to him, says I, …”, was one of my favorite phrases I heard him use when describing a conversation with someone else. If I weren’t such a language snob, I would incorporate that into my own speaking. Maybe it’s best to keep that as a memory instead. But I think I get my penchant for story-telling from him and, from where I’m standing, that’s not a bad legacy. The reader is free to agree or not…

The asthma won’t go away, but I carry an inhaler with me when it flares up and a couple of puffs on it usually relieve the symptoms within a minute or two. I’m not happy to have the problem, but tonight, I’m actually a little grateful for the walk down memory lane. We’ve all got memories that live in our heads and hearts; some sad, like Grandpa’s ultimately fatal affliction, but also some happy ones too, like my memories of life with him so close. There are times when I think it would be great if all our memories were like the latter, but then again, I’m reminded of a song I heard as a teenager which reminded us that hardships make us value the good times more; just as we cherish coming home because we had to be away in the first place. I think memories are often like that, the bittersweet giving way to the heartwarming, actually making the happy occasions seem more bright.

In a day or two, we’ll celebrate Thanksgiving, another of the memory-fraught times of the year for most of us. I’m going to be remembering my Grandpa’s dinner prayer as we approach this holiday. “Our Gracious Heavenly Father, we thank thee for the many blessings which Thou hast bestowed upon us…” When I was a boy, it was only remarkable in that the language never changed. As an aging man, now a grandfather myself, the message of those words has lasted well beyond his mortal years and still resonates today.

“Many blessings” indeed.

“To live in hearts we leave behind, is not to die”
(Thomas Campbell, from his poem “Hallowed Ground”)

Edited from a post originally published in November, 2010.

It’s odd how a stray word or phrase will set my mind to wandering over ancient history. A couple of friends made reference to Whataburger today and even though I’m avoiding beef like the plague (or should that be plaque?)lately, my taste buds are begging for a trip to Texas. Oh, I know some of you from Arkansas think you know what I’m talking about because you’ve been to a burger joint in Russellville, which stole the name, but I’m talking about a chain of fast-food restaurants in Texas, famous for their A-frame buildings and their huge hamburgers. In my mind, there isn’t a burger in the world that compares.

If I said I grew up on these wonderful meals on a bun, you might have an image of a modern day child, pigging out every other day at some fast-food joint. Such was not the case with my growing up on Whataburgers. My familiarity with these delectable all-beef patty, lettuce and tomato, dill pickles, not-a-smidge-of-mayonnaise-on-them sandwiches, requiring two hands on the buns at all times, was the worship-from-afar kind of acquaintance.

I remember the day when eating out was a treat, something to be looked forward to and savored like the rare delight it was. Families ate dinner at home, around the table. Menus were planned for the week, groceries purchased at the H.E.B. store, and meals prepared in the kitchen. We ate what was on our plates, even if it was liver and onions with a serving of mushy peas on the side (oh, if you could see the face I’m making as I write this!). No wonder we dreamed of eating out!

For some reason, when I think of Whataburgers, I remember most of all, Sunday afternoons. I think this wasn’t so much because of the hamburgers (that seems such an inadequate word to describe this Manna from heaven), but because of the romance of the beautiful orange and white A-frame building (well, look at it!). My family held church services at 2 different nursing homes on Sundays. We were at one of them every week and at the second we had a service every other week. The whole family went, piling into the old Ford station wagon and driving 10 or 12 miles to the next town over from where we lived. We’d sing hymns, with one of us kids playing the old portable organ and Dad would preach. After a 30 or 40 minute service, which could seem like hours to me, we’d head back across town to the next service, usually with a few extra minutes to spare. Of course, there was a Whataburger positioned on the route, specifically placed there to torment us. We would sit in the back seat, whispering, “Please stop, please stop”, hoping to hear the blinker come on and to have the amazing treat of Root Beer in those beautiful orange and white paper cups. We usually just had the drinks, with the full meal being reserved for even more special occasions. The funny thing is that both happened so seldom, I’m sure I remember it much more fondly now, than if it had been a weekly stop on the way. Anticipation is an amazing tool in improving the actual experience. And, boy, my Dad knew how to make the anticipation stage last a long time. It was sometimes months between the much prayed for visits.

I always make it a point to eat at a Whataburger when I go back to Texas now. It’s not the same…the A-frame buildings have been replaced with modern dine-in shops, retaining only the barest vestige of the original design motif. When I step through the doors though, the aroma from the kitchen takes me back 40 years, and I’m a kid again. The hamburgers seem much smaller and somehow, seeing breakfast tacos on the menu doesn’t help to bolster the mirage of childhood, but for just a split second, I’m back home. And, it’s a good place to be.

Life speeds past. What once was an uncomplicated existence, living in the moment and enjoying the simplest of pleasures, has become a jumble of events, interactions, and relationships. But the simple pleasure is still there, waiting for moments of calm and a good memory or two to surface. Right now, why not take a moment to remember, call an old friend, or take out the photo album and share a minute with your family? You look good with a smile on your face! And tomorrow will look better to you because of it.

“If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world.”
(J.R.R. Tolkien)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

Catching my Breath Again

I’m Dreaming of a….Whataburger?