I’d Rather Be The Jackson Five

On the bottom are Dave (left) and Tom. Kevin’s on top of Dave. Mick’s next to Kevin. And that’s me on top—for the moment.

Chapter 20

On the first day of kindergarten, my teacher, Mrs. Newkirk, walked around the classroom and gave each of us fresh-faced five-year-olds a sheet of paper with a mimeographed image of a storybook house—complete with swirly smoke coming out of the chimney—and the words “My Family” written across the top. The rest of the sheet was blank.

“Put this in your folder and take it home with you today,” she told us. “Your homework for tonight is to show me what your family looks like. You can draw them or you can even use real photographs if your mom and dad help you!”

I was so excited to have homework. My first homework! And I wasn’t about to ask for any help from anyone.

My finished product was made with cutout pictures showing my family. There was a mom, a dad, four big brothers, and me. It was a model family. Literally.

I had cut every picture out of the JCPenney catalog. The mom and dad were much younger than my actual parents. The dad had a full head of hair and the mom had on a spotlessly clean dress, gloves, and pearls. To make my twin brothers, I took two pictures of the same boy—one time wearing a raincoat and the other time wearing pajamas. I was sure it would pass for my twin brothers. For my other two brothers, I included a picture of two boys dressed in football jerseys and sporting big, friendly smiles. And then there was me, or at least the image of me—an extremely cute little boy wearing shorts and a collared shirt.

And that was my fantasy family.

Perhaps I should have been in therapy back then.

I went through most of my childhood feeling like my brothers didn’t like me. I felt it the most when my parents were gone on a Friday or a Saturday night, leaving me alone with my brothers. That was not a good thing. Not good at all.

Mick and Kevin (also known as the two football players in my family montage) were pros at playing with my head.

One particular Saturday night, our parents were away playing bridge with another couple, and Mick and Kevin were put in charge of a six-year-old me.

I don’t remember the specifics of the night. But I do remember fighting with them. Both of them. I remember arguing nonstop. I remember being outraged. And I remember taking a small ukulele my parents bought in Mexico and smashing it over Kevin’s head.

Then I remember running and hiding in a closet.

Which was followed by several minutes of silence.

Next, I remember hearing my eleven-year-old brother, Mick, screaming, “Oh my God! Oh my God! Someone help me! Oh my God! Someone call Mom and Dad! Oh my God!”

I ran out of the closet. My heart was pounding.

I found Mick. He was in the kitchen, standing over Kevin’s lifeless body slumped on the floor. Kevin’s head was covered in . . . blood!

“He’s dead!” Mick screamed. “He’s dead!”

And before I could break out in the tears that were building up inside of me, knowing I was going to be in big trouble with my parents for killing my brother, Kevin rose miraculously!

Suddenly, Mick pinned me from behind while Kevin beat the crap out of me.

His blood? Catsup.

His death? Faked.

His motivation? Obvious. I was the one who was going to be killed that night.

I gave my brothers a multitude of reasons not to like me as a little kid. I was, after all, a pain-in-the-neck most of the time.

I hated being the baby. I asked my mother one day if we might ever have another kid. It seemed like a reasonable request to me. I don’t remember her exact response, but I do remember my question really set her off and whatever she said ended with the words “Are you out of your mind?”

My role was carved in stone from the day I was born. Boy number five. The baby brother.

And that, much to my regret, was who I had to be. 

---

Bringing my brothers—Tom, Dave, and Mick—into my cancer story was one of the hardest things I had to do. As a family, we had been down the cancer road three other times together. Two of those times had taken place in the previous six years. The wounds were too raw. There was also a part of me that felt as if I was letting them down. Cancer can make you think stupid sometimes.

As I prepared myself to call each of my three brothers, I relived the pain I had felt a few years earlier when my brother Mick called to tell me Kevin had brain cancer. I couldn’t bear to start my brothers on another emotional roller coaster.

My love for my brothers is a love reserved solely for them. Through the last twenty-some years of adulthood, we’ve had to adjust our relationships to fit into our grown-up lives. There was a point in time when we lived in five very distant states: California, New York, North Carolina, Kansas, and Nebraska. Our careers were demanding. Our own families consumed our time.

And while we always stayed in touch, our connections became more structured and formal. We’d focus on rendezvousing back in Nebraska. We’d visit each other on occasion. But we were always on a schedule. And we had little downtime.

Some people joke that as they get older, they only see their relatives at funerals. My brothers and I were getting into that groove at a very early age.

My cancer story, in the scheme of the Higley family, was the first one that didn’t come with an automatic death sentence. There was a small part of me that even felt like I had a purpose, a duty of sorts, in being the first one in our family to survive this. It was the hope of vindication perhaps.

Maybe I just wanted my brothers to be proud of me.

Every day of that summer I wrote in the notebook my friend Karen had given me.

But I rarely found myself writing about what was going on with my cancer storyline.

The stories that kept bubbling up to my head, through my heart, were stories from the past. Things I hadn’t thought about in years. And so many of them were about my brothers. The real stories of who they were and continued to be to me.

Sitting next to each other, in birth order, at our kitchen counter eating our morning bowls of cereal.

Building a human pyramid in our backyard. My dad always placing me on top.

Idolizing my brother Kevin as I sat on a stool in his darkroom. Watching him develop black-and-white photographs.

Counting free throw shots for Mick. Wishing I was him.

Waxing the car with the twins before they went to their one and only prom.

Flipping off Mick from afar and thinking I was pretty cool. And having him, several hours later, give me a much-needed lesson in respect.

I wrote about the endless collection of stories that shaped my life. I wrote about my family.

I had four amazing brothers growing up. And now I had three.

That summer, the three of them gave me something that could only come from them. It was the reminder of something I had forgotten I loved so much.

Being their little brother.

But I Want a Puppy!

My fifth birthday party. The gold standard for all future birthdays.

Chapter 21

My fifth birthday was outstanding.

For starters, my parents had a party for me—my first—and invited all the neighborhood kids. At the drugstore we bought invitations that had cowboys and horses on them, and I watched with jubilation and anticipation as my mom wrote down the details of the party on the preprinted lines on the inside of the cards. The best part was seeing my name, handwritten by my mom, so it read:

“It’s a Birthday Party for Jimmy!”

I was turning five. I was about to start kindergarten. And my time had arrived.

To further add to my excitement, my mom took me to our local department store to buy me new clothes to wear to the party!

New clothes! I hardly ever got new clothes!

And I was sure I looked just like the boys in the Sears catalog once I put on my new red shorts and seersucker shirt.

During the week before the party, I planned games and activities with my mom. We went shopping for prizes. We ordered a cake at the Vienna Bakery. It was going to have my name on it. MINE!

I was on “center-of-attention” overload. (Adding to the list of reasons my brothers didn’t like me.)

So, enjoying the spotlight I rarely had, I decided to do what any almost-five-year-old would do. I asked for a puppy as my birthday present.

I figured, “Why not?” We used to have a dog. From my self-centered point of view, it seemed like the perfect time for my parents to give me a puppy.

My mom ignored my request. I decided she was acting. But I knew she had something planned. I knew there would be a puppy in this story!

The day of my party was a warm, sunny, perfect August day. I woke up at the crack of dawn and immediately put on my new clothes four hours before the party began.

My mom was up and had already set our family table for the party. It had a white plastic tablecloth on it (we never had tablecloths!) with cups and plates that had the same cowboy and horses that adorned my invitations. The cake in the middle of the table was round and said “Happy Birthday Jimmy,” which was very cool. What wasn’t cool was all of the big frilly flowers on the top of the cake. Flowers? This was a cowboy party. Where were the horses?

But that aside, the BEST part of the table was that my mom covered it with M&Ms. Everywhere. Hundreds if not millions of M&Ms were spread out all over the table. And she said we could eat ALL of them at the party.

Five-year-old heaven.

My friends arrived at eleven o’clock, and we proceeded to play all of the backyard games my mom and I had planned. My brother Mick even helped out. And he was nice!

My mom had us come inside to eat and open gifts. I don’t recall what we actually had to eat, because as soon as I sat down, I spilled an entire paper cup of red Kool-Aid all over the table and myself—soaking my clothes to the skin. And ruining a couple of hundred M&Ms.

So, I had to make an unplanned departure from my own party and put on a pair of torn, old blue jeans and a T-shirt. I was longer to be mistaken for one of the boys in the Sears catalog.

But I did get a lot of gifts, so I quickly forgot my table disaster. My buddy Kirk gave me a cash register that looked just like a real one in the stores. And Kristin gave me a gun set I was sure would be good for using on my brothers.

And, while all of us were enjoying the sugar high from too much cake and the salvaged M&Ms, I was perfectly aware there was still one more gift awaiting me somewhere in the house.

A puppy. My puppy.

Would I get it when all of my friends were there?

Would I get it later that day when my dad got home from work?

Or would it be hidden up in my bedroom in one of those big boxes with holes cut in the sides so I could take it to bed with me and hug it all night?

Of course, in the end, there was no puppy.

There was the party with the cool invitations.

There were the fun games with a brother who even helped.

There were new clothes.

A cake with roses (yuck) and my name on it.

There were M&Ms.

And there were gifts galore.

It was a great birthday. But I was still kind of sad.

Because there was no puppy.

Fast-forward one year: The puppy arrived the day before my sixth birthday. I had long stopped asking for one. But that summer day one year later, my parents piled all five of us into the car and drove to Omaha to pick out a puppy at a small, rundown pet store.

We chose a ten-week-old mutt and named her Trixie.

She arrived in our family on that uneventful August day. And she enjoyed the enviable role of “Super Dog” in our house for thirteen long years.

---

It was august, my birthday month. Almost three months after surgery. By all accounts, it should have been the best birthday of my life.

I was nearing the end of a summer of healing. My doctor gave me the green light to go back to work whenever I wanted to. The truth was I didn’t want to.

My cancer remained an unresolved issue, and I was learning to live life with a new regime of daily medications to keep the dormant cancer cells I likely still had in my body at bay.

“We’ll keep watching for it, and we’ll check you every three months so we can be on top of it when it comes back,” my doctor told me.

Grateful? Of course. Frustrated? Yup.

But I was equally frustrated that the issue of my “gift” was also unresolved. I never found it. This extraordinary thing Karen promised hadn’t arrived. I looked so hard I practically willed it to happen. So, while I had an amazing summer of reflection, nothing—my health or my gift—ended the way I had originally dreamed.

There were so many things I had cherished over the three months of recuperating. Let me rephrase that. I cherished my three months of recuperating. I felt alive every day and I was afraid to go back to a world where that feeling would stop.

And now it was time to look at my calendar to figure out a day to resume work.

My time was running out.

I wondered if maybe I actually did find the gift but just hadn’t figured it out. I could certainly tell people about all the things I had experienced that summer. I had learned the importance of slowing down and celebrating the people in my life, and the importance of being more honest and loving with people. I could say I had learned to see my children’s gifts or I needed to look hard at my professional career and do some serious soul searching regarding my commitment to it. I could say all of that. And it would be true.

But what wouldn’t be true would be to say I had that super-amazing “Aha!” moment.

And I was coming to terms with the likelihood of being disappointed. Quietly and silently.. 

I Hate You, Donny Osmond

My first day of kindergarten and my initial attempt at making a fashion statement.

Chapter 22

With four older brothers, I rarely received any new clothes. My closet was full of hand-me-downs. Actually, because two of those brothers were twins, I often had duplicates of everything.

Two blue blazers.

Two pairs of penny loafers.

Two bathrobes.

Bottom line, I was never short of clothes.

Once a year, however, my mom would treat me to a few new things. That would be in August, before school started.

We called it, appropriately enough, “school shopping.”

And I loved it.

Our options for clothes shopping were pretty limited in my small Nebraska hometown. We did have a JCPenney store, though, and that was where my parents tended to buy most of my clothes. Every so often, however, my mom would splurge and drive thirty minutes to Omaha where our purchasing options were much better.

I remember wondering, year after year, if I had grown enough to wear bigger clothes. I progressed nicely through the routine boy sizes—eight, ten, twelve—until the year my mom told me she thought we should try a “husky” boy size.

Husky? I thought. Is she telling me I’m fat?

None of my brothers was overweight. Not a bit. So my biggest fear was the four of them finding out about my new “husky” size.

They did.

And, of course, they humiliated me.

Suddenly, school shopping wasn’t fun anymore.

Fortunately, that phase lasted only one year. By the following August, I was back to “regular” sizes, and I was hoping to find some “Donny Osmond” looking clothes—bell-bottoms, shirts with big, puffy sleeves, vests, and platform shoes.

We scored—HUGE—at the Sears department store in Omaha. I was, without a doubt, going to be the coolest looking twelve-year-old boy in my entire ZIP code.

And I couldn’t wait to go back to school. 

---

I did not want to go back to work. Not. Not. Not. That feeling was very apparent to me as I stood staring into my closet, reacquainting myself with my work wardrobe a few days before my scheduled return.

I couldn’t remember the last time I had worn long pants. For three months, my idea of “dressing up” meant putting on the only pair of shorts I owned that didn’t have holes.

So I decided a few additions to my wardrobe might make me feel better. New clothes. New attitude. That always used to work when I was a kid.

Shopping, in general, isn’t my thing. Mall shopping, in particular, is definitely not my thing.

As I stood in the men’s dressing room in my boxer shorts debating over the 31-inch-long khakis or the 32-inch version, I knew the world I was about to step back into probably wasn’t my thing either.

For some reason, new clothes weren’t having the same impact they did when I was a kid.

And I still didn’t look anything like Donny Osmond.

Dear Glady…

That’s Glady on the right. My mom’s favorite person on earth.

Chapter 23

My mom’s closest friend was Glady. They met at church when they were both thirteen years old, became instant best friends, and remained so until the day my mom died.

Their lives took them in different directions after high school. My mom worked for a few years, went to college, met and married my dad, and spent her life in Nebraska raising my brothers and me.

Glady, on the other hand, met her husband, Dap, a couple of years out of high school while working in Oak Ridge, Tennessee. They wed when Glady was in her early twenties and spent a lifetime living in and traveling to interesting and exotic places around the world.

But Glady and my mom were always connected. They maintained their relationship through a never-ending exchange of letters.

Letters that they mailed.

Letters with stamps.

Letters filled with stories about their lives.

My mom and Glady both wrote the most vivid, detailed, and funny letters.

Their letters were typewritten. Mom typed hers on a Smith-Corona typewriter she had acquired when she was in college. She expressed her thoughts through that typewriter every day of her life.

In fact, she was typing a letter the night she got sick, days before she died.

I still have that half-written letter.

My mom kept her typewriter on a desk that was tucked away in a corner of my dad’s den. Dad had a big, impressive rolltop desk that had been used by a judge. Conversely, Mom’s desk was small, and it had numerous drawers. Every inch of that desk was used.

In the middle of the desk—center stage—was her typewriter.

And there was always a white piece of typing paper in it. A work-in-progress letter. Usually it was a letter to Glady, but Mom had several other friends and relatives she would write to, as well.

She rarely sat down and wrote a letter from beginning to end. Rather, she would start a letter, stop to run errands or work in the kitchen, and return to it when she could to add a few more paragraphs. Her letters were simply a part of her day.

They were a part of her.

When I was a grade-schooler, I’d sneak into my dad’s den when my mom was in the kitchen and my dad was at work. I’d read her in-progress letters.

At the time, I never thought of it as inappropriate to be reading her letters. It was one more dimension in the process of understanding who my mom was.

And what was going on in her mind.

Her letters were usually several pages long. When they took more than one day to write, she would type the new date in the left-hand margin to let the reader know the words that followed were written on a new day.

I came to recognize three distinct things about my mom’s letters.

For starters, they were about the day-to-day events of her life. She could write two paragraphs about the plumber who had been working in the house the day before and was going through personal problems—elaborating about their conversation, why she liked the guy, and how much the total bill was.

She could go into great detail about a new recipe she tried. She could give all of the specifics about my brothers’ sporting events including how they performed and what she wore as she sat in the stands cheering them on. She could describe home improvement projects, sometimes sending small samples of fabric or carpet along with the letter to help give a better visual to the reader. She could describe what was blooming in her garden or how many hours she spent pulling weeds. She could talk about what her boys were doing that very moment. She could then proceed to talk about how many loads of dark-colored clothes she was able to push through the pipeline, a new song she heard on the radio, something different she was doing with her hair, or what happened with the dog at the vet that day.

She described the day-to-day events in her life because those were the things that were most important to her.

The second thing I remember about my mom’s letters was the emotion she was able to share. She could move from factual information to vividly describing her feelings. And her emotions covered the range from absolute silliness to over-the-top tears of either sadness or joy. She could describe the pride she felt in witnessing one of her five sons’ accomplishments, and she could fully explain the hurt she felt when a child said something rude to her when she was volunteering at school. Her letters were a wonderful blend of facts and feelings as she took the reader on a mini-journey of her world.

She expressed herself beautifully, sincerely, and intimately.

The third thing I remember about my mom’s letters was her use of the “strike-through” key.

The strike-through key sits directly to the right of the number “0” on her old Smith-Corona typewriter’s keyboard. It is a short, horizontal line that looks like this:

Back when my mom used a typewriter, she had two choices for making corrections. One option was to use an eraser to try to remove the undesired word. While this worked, it often resulted in a big smudge or, worse yet, a hole in the paper. The other option was to use the strike-through over the undesired words.

My mom used the second option. A lot. But it wasn’t that she used it to correct misspelled words. She was a wonderful speller. She used it primarily when she wanted to change the way she expressed something. Perhaps her original words were a little too strong. Or maybe not strong enough. Or maybe once she wrote something down—and then read it—she realized she didn’t exactly feel that way.

So she’d backspace, strike through the words or sentences she wanted to replace, and then type her new thoughts.

Leaving everything there for the reader to see. Every thought. Even those that changed. She was happy to reveal herself completely.

My mom was far from perfect. What she was, however, was real. Authentic. And extremely content with who and where she was.

Perfection was never a priority for her.

Finding joy in the moment, however, was. 

---

I went back to work on a full-time basis the day after Labor Day. A new season had begun.

Stepping back into my business world made me feel somewhat like Dorothy when she woke up back in Kansas after her kaleidoscopic trip to Oz.

But I knew I wasn’t waking up from a dream. In fact, I realized I had been more awake during the prior three months than I had been in years.

My second day back at work was a typical Wednesday morning. I was walking from the train station in downtown Chicago to my office. As I was walking along the bustling canyons of the financial district, I was thinking, as I usually do, about a number of things. This particular morning, I had two completely different thoughts rattling around in my head.

First, I was thinking about how I couldn’t wait for it to be Friday. I wanted the next few days to pass so I could retreat—if only for a couple of days—to the world I had grown to love over the summer. The feeling I had—of not being content in the moment—was overwhelmingly unsettling.

The second thing I was thinking about was my mom. Specifically, I was thinking about her letter writing and how she freely put her thoughts out there. I smiled as I thought about her use of the strike-through key. A few weeks earlier I had stumbled upon the letter she was writing the night she became sick. It was a letter to my Aunt Bev and focused on my recent appendectomy. It included details about my 1:30 pm doctor’s appointment, the decision to operate, the hooking up of my IV at 3:30 pm, and then . . . well, her letter stopped because the nightmare, the ambulance, the entire ordeal leading to her death, began.

And it was left unfinished.

Standing there in downtown Chicago, those two random thoughts morphed together and became one crystal clear message to me.

Why was I so anxious for it to be Friday? Wednesday wasn’t even half over and I was already glossing over the next few days. More importantly, why was it bothering me so much that I wasn’t happy being a part of the Wednesday world I was in?

Answers and clarity started to come to me as I began to understand what it was that I had loved and valued about the previous few months.

I had lived in the present all summer long. I absorbed what each moment brought.

And I only came to understand that when I caught myself—there on the second day back to work—realizing I was already falling into the trap of wanting it to be “a few days later.” I wanted to be somewhere other than where I was at that time.

I hadn’t even been back at the office a week and I was already resorting to my “old” way of thinking.

I stood there amid the swirl of morning rush hour synchronization in a frantic downtown Chicago, and I realized that every morning during my summer at home, I woke up happy. Excited to see what the day would bring to me.

And I never wanted a day to end.

As I continued my walk to the office, slipping in between the steady stampede of faceless workers, amid the honking cars, the police whistles, and the muffled sounds of commuters on their cell phones, I felt my mother’s spirit. Not memories of her. It was her spirit. The joyful way she embraced every minute of her day. The good. The loud. The painful. The routine.

Living in the moment.

I had a summer experiencing life the way my mom had lived every day.

Was the gift Karen promised me as simple as that?

Snoopin’ in Mom’s Purse

I like this picture of my mom on her last birthday. Hey, check out those huge mums in front of our house!

Chapter 24

The week following my mom’s funeral, after my brothers had gone back to either college or their jobs, my dad and I were left alone to deal with the realities of being in a home that had no pulse.

After my first day back at school, I came home and found my dad standing motionless over a basket of dirty clothes. They were my mom’s dirty clothes. They were the clothes she had worn a day or two before she got sick. And like everything in our home now, they were lifeless.

“We need to go through her stuff,” my dad said to me.

“I know,” I replied.

What I really wanted to do was lash back at him and ask how in the world could he get rid of Mom’s things. But I soon found myself playing the loyal assistant as we methodically sorted through the world she left behind.

We cleaned out her closet and dresser. I remembered when she had worn each and every item. A red pleated dress she reserved for the holidays. The ugly pink robe—complete with a matching nightgown—my dad had given her on their last anniversary. Countless blouses that were part of her daily mom uniform. There were a few things we saved. A skirt that she never actually wore but was determined to fit into one day. A shawl that often doubled as a tablecloth. An embroidered skirt she had bought in Mexico. She loved these things. And they weren’t leaving the house. Not yet.

We went through her jewelry, which was mostly costume. She had a charm bracelet that had belonged to her mother, Lillian. We kept that. I found my mom’s engagement ring—her only nice piece of jewelry—in an envelope with the hospital’s name on it. We placed that aside with the charm bracelet.

We cleaned out the drawers in the bathroom where she kept her toiletries. Her toothbrush. A hairbrush with strands of her hair in it. Some makeup cases I don’t think she ever used. The only thing we didn’t toss was her one bottle of perfume. I never really liked it when my mom wore perfume. She called it “foo-foo-juice.” I called it stinky. But now I wanted to inhale that stinky smell. A quick spray of it in the air, and when I closed my eyes, she’d actually come back—for a moment.

We cleaned out her desk. I read over her calendar and ached at all of the appointments she had in the coming weeks. She needed to be here. I needed her to be here.

We took her coats out of the front closet. Her white raincoat with oversized black buttons. A red windbreaker. Her favorite, a suede coat with sheepskin lining that was reserved for winter. They all had a pair of gloves in the pockets. And a white linen hanky. But now they were simply heaped on the growing pile destined for a local charity.

Finally, we cleaned out her purse. Her unfinished pack of Dentyne gum—with one small stick remaining—went into the trash. My dad took her credit cards and driver’s license. We saved her favorite linen hanky.

Inside her wallet I found something I never knew she carried. It was a piece of white paper—about the size of a credit card—with something typed on it. My mom had typed it.

I recognized those words from a birthday card someone had once given my mom. That card sat on her desk for years. It obviously meant something to her.

I knew I was intended to find that dog-eared message. My mom must have left it for me. Be kind. Every day. Be kind. Just like Mom.

So I took that piece of paper and tucked it inside my own wallet. It stayed there for years. I always knew where it was. Then, somewhere along the course of my life, it ultimately found a more permanent home inside a small frame.

And from that day forward, it stood on the desk in my den.

---

Did i find my gift that Wednesday morning while I was walking to work? Was Karen’s promised gift simply the reminder that I needed to live in the moment? That seemed trite. Anticlimactic. There had to be more. I wanted something I could get my arms around!

All through that day, the dots of my life experiences kept coming back to me. I could see them. I kept thinking to myself this must be what people talk about when their lives flash before their eyes. Except, I wasn’t dying. But I felt as if memories from my life were hitting me from every direction. Big things. Little things. Insignificant things.

I had thought about many of them over the last three months. But they continued to present themselves to me that day—all at lightning speed. I knew there was something more to this than the simple message of “live in the moment.” I needed to understand, however, why all these images from my past continued to race in my head.

One thing kept playing over and over like a needle skipping on an old record. It was the piece of paper I had found in my mom’s wallet many years ago. There was something about it that was hanging heavy with me. Could it possibly tie in to any of this? Sure, the poem was about showing kindness to others. That fit and tied into the importance of living in the moment.

Maybe the message on that piece of paper was the real gift?

I played this out in my head all day long. I was sure there was more and couldn’t wait to get home and read those words in the picture frame on my desk. I hadn’t looked at them in years. Maybe I would see something different today?

As soon as I arrived home, I ran into my den and grabbed the frame. I read the words of the French Quaker missionary, though I had memorized them long before.

Yes, the poem was exactly as I had remembered it. Then it hit me. How could I have forgotten? There was something else. My mom had also typed something on the flip side of the paper!

I opened up the frame and carefully dismantled the cardboard so I could get to the worn piece of paper. I had chills as I took the backing off the frame to reveal the old, familiar piece of paper.

Then I saw it. The second message on the back.

I had last seen those words more than thirty years earlier. More specifically, I had “exchanged” more than ten thousand “todays” since I had last read them.

Finally, I understood my life-changing gift.

Most of our daily experiences come and go. They never register with us as anything more than the mundane events of our lives. But they are anything but mundane! Or meaningless!

Many of the things that have shaped and influenced my life have come from simple and seemingly insignificant moments. However, they ultimately became the experiences from which I would harvest the lessons in later years to help me make decisions. Find my path. Or give me strength.

Reading those words hidden on the back of the paper made me realize they were the words my mother lived by. Her cherished words helped me understand that every story in every today has the potential to be a lesson. If you miss a “today,” you miss all of its lessons. That’s why it’s important to live in the moment.

My mom knew it. And I’m quite certain she rarely regretted the price she paid for any of her “todays”—too few as they were.

As I read the reverse side of that piece of paper again, I knew that Karen’s promise had finally come true. I had received my life-changing gift. I also was holding the gift my mom left to me when I was fourteen years old. Best of all, I came to the realization that both gifts had always been there.

Every day of my life.

Wait, There’s More!

My mom. And her Smith-Corona. Working on a college paper. I still have that typewriter. One of my many reminders of Mom.

Chapter 25

Helen Keller once said, “Life is a succession of lessons which must be lived to be understood.”

What I came to understand that summer of healing is that lessons knock on our door every day. And many of those lessons can be found in the most unexpected places. So, if you’re not tuning into your days you’re likely going to miss a lesson.

Simple, right?

Actually, I think it’s a simple concept that is hard to execute.

I had a lot of time on my hands that summer. I spent much of it reflecting on every aspect of my life. Each day, I found myself reconnecting with long-lost memories, and time after time I had proverbial moments where lightbulbs would flash on and exclamation points would dance over my head as I began to understand the experiences that shaped and influenced my life. In essence, I rediscovered my own life’s lessons.

I also came to understand six things.

1.  The experiences of my life have given me an abundance of lessons, which I draw from daily.

2.  I’ve tucked away the memories of those lessons and rarely think about where my strengths, weaknesses, or quirky traits come from. Like precious family photo albums, they are locked in a trunk in the attic. Not lost. Just collecting dust.

3.  I often am not connected with the daily lessons that are in front of me today. With a life overflowing—just like everyone else has—I focus, too often, on where I want to be as opposed to where I am now.

4.  It is through living and sharing my life experiences that I keep my mom’s legacy—as well as the legacies of my dad and brother—alive for my children. I am more than a son, a brother, or a dad. I am the connective tissue across generations.

5.  I have an obligation to others to be a part of the lessons in their life. And I’m not just talking about with my children. I’m talking about anyone I have contact with. If I’m going to embrace the concept that life lessons can come from simple experiences, then I must be an eternal believer that I have
the ability to impact others daily as well.

6.  All of this is quite easy if you’re not a bobblehead.

Why is any of this important? After all, it’s just a bunch of old-fashioned common sense, right? What I can tell you is, for me, the simplistic quality of this has made it so easy to grasp and implement in my life. It’s helped me slow down, be the dad I need to be, and pursue my dreams. It’s validated the importance of what I do each day of my life. It’s also helped me be content with the present—even when the present is plain old vanilla. Did having cancer play a part in this newfound outlook? Sure. But I hope you never have to confront a life-threatening illness to be able to grab hold of the potential power of this simple concept and apply it to your own life.

I loved that summer. As I will every summer yet to come. But I’m learning there is much to love about fall.

And winter.

And spring.

And as I move to the next season of my life, I’m going to make sure I love everything about what’s most important.

The lessons I’m living today.

Your Turn To Discover!

If you find yourself in a reflective mood after one or more chapters, I hope these questions help you rediscover some of your own life lessons.

Chapter 1: Some Things You Don’t Want to Inherit
The scariest bogeyman is the one in your head.

1. What did you fear as a child?

2. How do you deal with your own fears?

3. What’s the biggest fear you need to overcome today?

Chapter 2: Why Painters Use Drop Cloths
Loved ones die, but they never leave.

1. Who have you lost?

2. What impact has the loss of a loved one had on you?

3. How can you keep a lost loved one a part of your life today?

Chapter 3: Playing Post Office
Clean your desk. Clear the clutter. Then focus.

1. How did your parents deal with stress?

2. How do you deal with bigger issues in your own life?

3. Is there an issue needing your attention today?

Chapter 4: I’m Sorry, What Did You Say?
Welcome good advice with action.

1. What’s the best advice you’ve ever received?

2. Who have been the important teachers in your life?

3. What advice do you need to follow today?

Chapter 5: Give and Take
The best caregivers have received the best care.

1. As a child, were you more of a caregiver or a receiver?

2. Who taught you how to care for others?

3. Do you need more balance in being both a caregiver and receiver?

Chapter 6: I Can’t Believe You Said That
When you can’t be brilliant with words, be brilliant with your arms.

1. Can you think of a time when—as a child—someone said exactly the right (or wrong!) thing to you?

2. Are you a person who tries to fix a situation with words?

3. Is there someone who needs a hug from you today?

Chapter 7: Mom and Dad Were Doing It
Meaningful tears fall from eyes that know how to laugh.

1. Are your childhood memories filled with laughter?

2. How do you deal with stress or pressure in your life?

3. Is there a part of your life, today, that needs more laughter?

Chapter 8: Growing into My Running Shoes
There’s only one person stopping you from being who you were meant to be.

1. Were you labeled as anything specific as a child, such as unathletic, geeky, or awkward?

2. When have you surprised yourself with your own abilities or talents?

3. Do you have a label you need to shed today?

Chapter 9: Mum’s the Word
Unless you have a gardener, you’re in charge of splitting your own mums.

1. Were you raised in a family of “joiners”?

2. Do you have a hard time saying “no” to a request?

3. Is there a part of your life—right now—that needs to be simplified?

Chapter 10: The Real Dirt
Plant yourself in good soil.

1. How “fertile” was the soil from your childhood?

2. Who—or what—has made the soil in your life more fertile?

3. Is there some soil in your life in need of nourishment today?

Chapter 11: That’s Why They Call It Work
Work isn’t everything.

1. How did your parents view work and rest?

2. When did you last feel recharged?

3. Do you need to schedule downtime or reprioritize things in your life?

Chapter 12: Summertime, and the Livin’ Is Easy
Rest.

1. Did your family play together when you were a child?

2. Who do you enjoy relaxing with?

3. Do you need to encourage people in your life to rest?

Chapter 13: Here Comes Santa Claus
The first step to achieving is believing.

1. What did you believe in as a child?

2. Where do you find strength when faced with adversity?

3. What do you need to believe in today?

Chapter 14: Lifeguard on Duty
Lifeguards are always on duty.

1. Were you raised in a family that helped others?

2. Who are your lifeguards?

3. Who do you need to help today?

Chapter 15: Will You Sign My Yearbook?
Say it. Write it. Today.

1. As a child, who gave you encouragement and positive comments?

2. When have you missed an opportunity to tell someone something important?

3. Is there a message you need to share with someone today?

Chapter 16: Ob-la-di, Ob-la-da, Life Goes On
Life flies. Watch your time.

1. As a child, who were the people in your life who seemed to live a rich, full, adventurous life?

2. Do you dream about rediscovering yourself?

3. Is it time to make a change in your life? If so, what’s holding you back?

Chapter 17: I Wish They All Could Be California Girls
Ask. And you just might receive.

1. Who was your most trusted friend as a child?

2. When you are in need, who do you turn to?

3. Is there someone you need to lean on for help today?

Chapter 18: Camp Songs
There’s a camper—and a counselor—inside us all.

1. Who cheered for you when you were a child?

2. In what areas of your life do you need encouragement and support?

3. Who needs to hear you cheer today?

Chapter 19: Whipped Cream Wonders
Celebrate something every day.

1. What were your favorite celebrations as a child?

2. Do you tend to celebrate or entertain?

3. What do you need to celebrate today?

Chapter 20: I’d Rather Be the Jackson Five
Embrace who you are.

1. What role did you play in your family as a child?

2. Has your relationship with siblings and other family members changed over time?

3. Are there things you can do to strengthen and improve relationships with your family?

Chapter 21: But I Want a Puppy!
The best gifts find you. Let it happen.

1. What were some of the best gifts you received as a child?

2. What is the most cherished gift you received as an adult?

3. Is there something preventing you from receiving the gifts that are waiting for you today?

Chapter 22: I Hate You, Donny Osmond
Life is a series of transitions. Eventually, you need to move on.

1. As a child, was it easy for you to move on to new things and experiences?

2. When was the last significant “transition” in your own life?

3. Is there something in your life today that is preventing you from moving forward?

Chapter 23: Dear Glady . . .
Don’t strive for perfection. Be authentic. Be content.

1. Can you remember the feeling, as a child, of living a day when you felt totally alive and content?

2. When is the last time you didn’t want a day to end?

3. What keeps you from living in the moment and embracing your days?

Chapter 24: Snoopin’ in Mom’s Purse
Expect the unexpected.

1. Do you have a cherished keepsake from someone important to you?

2. What are some of the simple moments from your past that have left a lasting impact on your life?

3. Do you live for tomorrow at the expense of today?

Chapter 25: Wait, There’s More!
Lessons happen every day.

1. Do you feel connected to the lessons in your life?

2. Do you contribute to the life lessons of others?

3. Are you ready to start living today?

Congratulations. You are on your way to discovering your own life lessons.