Some Call Me Timmy

Ever notice how many names you are known by? I have thought some about this from time to time. When you become a parent, you get a new identity. Hannah knows me as “Daddy”. Of all the names I am known by, it is my favorite name by far. Now to Hannah’s friends I am “Hannah’s daddy”. That one is okay, too. As I become older, I sometimes hear some younger folks refer to me as “Mr. Dills”. While I may feel that title should refer to my late grandfather or to my father, I try to temper that urge so that in some way I acknowledge younger people who have been raised with some respect for those older than they are.

For the most part though, most everyone I know calls me ‘Tim”. It is a shortened version of my given name, “Timothy”. The name means “honoring God”. So many of our names reach back to some meaning tied to God.

Some have varied my name throughout my life in some way. You know “Tiny Tim” was one. I have long been confused with that one since it could be Tiny Tim from A Christmas Carol from Charles Dickens, but it could also mean the person calling me that really liked the falsetto-singing, ukulele-playing pop culture star Tiny Tim best known in the 1960s and 1970s. A few called me “Timbo” from time to time although that one never stuck for long.

During the earliest part of my life, I was known as “Timmy”. I have no idea who first called me that or why. I then was known by “Timmy” by family and friends. At some point, I suppose I thought “Timmy” sounded too much like a little kid’s name, so I worked hard to let folks know I preferred to be called “Tim”. I don’t really recall any specific event that made me determine this is how I should be identified but it caught on. Now most all who know me call me by that shortened version of my given first name.

Except some still call me “Timmy”. I noticed this when I was in college. I was home one summer and attended a family reunion. I saw aunts, uncles, and cousins I had not seen in years. For some of them, the last time they had seen me was when I was called “Timmy”. I noted then how some called me by that name on that day especially when some who used that name followed it by saying how they had not seen me since I was “little”. When I returned to school in the fall, I joked with some of my friends about being called “Timmy”. When I hosted a radio show on the college radio station, I then began calling myself “Little Timmy”.

At some point, my nieces and nephews, and maybe even a few cousins, caught on to it all. They started calling me “Timmy” as well. They relished this since they thought it got under my skin some. And, maybe, for a time, it did. Even now when we are together at some point, one of them will purposely, or otherwise, call me “Timmy”.

I don’t hear the name “Timmy” often these days. At a recent family funeral though I heard it a few times. With so many years behind me now, I don’t always recognize the name when I hear it. Maybe it is just so much a part of me now that it skips by me when someone uses that name. On this day though prior to the funeral service, a few family members had told me one of my cousins that I had not seen in years was there. I had not run across him though. As the family gathered to walk into the funeral home chapel, I saw my cousin across the room. I broke the line, walked to him, grabbed his hand then looked him in the eyes. Sure enough, he gripped my hand back, looked me in the eyes and without hesitation said, “Timmy.”

For me, that is enough reason to always answer to that name.

30513 Memories: Home For The Holidays

Ready or not the holidays are here. As this post appears, we are wedged in between Thanksgiving and Christmas. At my age, I find myself trying to find ways to make a seven-year-old enjoy these holidays in unique and memorable ways. It often makes me revisit my own memories of this time of year when I was nearer the age she is now. Doing that takes me back to that time and that zip code, 30513.

I recall looking through the Sears catalog in the time before Christmas. While I have often written things down I am not too sure I ever transcribed a list of Christmas gifts I wanted. Still, there were trips to the Western Auto and the dime store where I eyed many things I desired. I also remember visits to see Santa Claus so I could tell him what I wanted. I also recall the tortuous feeling inside when he would ask me if I had been good the whole year realizing there were times when I struggled and failed.

I remember Dad getting out his aluminum extension ladder to hang the Christmas lights on the house. These lights were an older set of varied colors with huge bulbs. Mom usually put up the Christmas tree, off in the corner of the living room, although it also set at times in front of the picture window. My memory also stretches back to a time when we had a silver Christmas tree with a color wheel. I was fascinated by the color wheel more than the odd color of the tree. I wonder if Mom and Dad still have that tree somewhere.

Honestly, I don’t always recall the gifts. I mean I know there was an electronic football game, a Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em boxing game and Hot Wheels. I was also just geeky enough to recall a book about our country’s presidents and a collection of fifty pennies, each one made in a different state. Then there were the clothes: sweaters and pants and shirts. I was less than thrilled with these gifts as this meant I would have to set aside time to try each item on only to face a close examination from Mom on whether or not the item needed to be a different size or altered before wearing. I guess I was short on patience since I had a book to read and had just gotten to the section on Chester A. Arthur.

Spoiled? Yes. Mom and Dad would mention from time to time how their holidays were when they were young. They might get a pencil or an orange. They didn’t drum these facts into my head to make me feel bad but I heard it enough to come to appreciate now how fortunate I had it when I came along. I also know it wasn’t just luck that enabled my parents to provide what they did to us. They both worked hard at jobs and at home to provide and save and spend wisely the money they earned. Such things were not then and are not now pure happenstance.

Looking back, what I remember most from the holidays when I was young were the meals. Insert your own fat, middle-aged guy joke here. It’s the truth though. Yes, there was sweet potato casserole, masked potatoes and gravy, cranberries, green beans, creamed corn, cornbread, slaw, turkey and dressing, glazed ham and pumpkin pie, lime salad, strawberry delight, peanut butter cake and black walnut cake with sugary coconut icing. Those things were there but so was family and sometimes friends. When we gathered together to pray then to eat, that’s really what made the holidays mean something.

Even with a pretty big table and space at a nearby bar just inside the dining room, there was not enough space for everyone in one room. This meant that being one of the younger members of the family, I could eat in the living room. Mom and Dad’s four grandchildren at that time would all get their plates and we would all pile on to the couch or lounge chair or floor and eat away. A football game emanating from the television set would provide the entertainment. Later, gifts would be opened but the real gift had already been opened. We were all together.

I have lived away from there well over half my life now. Even though I can’t really recall the gifts I received from specific holidays, it is those memories from those holidays that form how I expect the holidays to be in some way even to this day. There have been times when I had to work on those holidays and couldn’t be there making me miss what was happening more than I really knew at the time. There were times when I had to make a trip to get there knowing it would be worth the effort. During some of these trips I often wondered about some of my friends from my early years. By then I knew how some of us scattered away from this place and others remained there. I wondered if they were returning to their old home places as well and if they were did they have similar memories hanging around.

For now, Hannah will have her long list of things she will want Santa to bring. She’ll have to sit in Santa’s lap and answer that question he has asked so many kids before about their behavior over the past twelve months. At some point, we will make that drive to where I grew up. We will gather as family as we have for as long as my memory can recall. There will be new toys. There will be food. There may be tears. There will be laughter. There will be love. There will be family. Of all the things I will soak up and drink in at that time it will be the feeling I get knowing this group of people gathered together belongs together. I can only hope that will be a gift Jennifer and I can provide to Hannah to remember when one day she looks back at the holidays she knew as a child.

May God keep you and your loved ones safe and happy through this holiday season.

Bonus holiday playlist:
Bob Dylan "Must Be Santa" 
Kenny Loggins "Celebrate Me Home" 
Patty Loveless "Santa Train" 
The Eagles "Please Come Home For Christmas"
Roger Miller "Old Toy Trains" 
Bill Monroe "Christmas Time's A-Comin'" 
The Band "Christmas Must Be Tonight"
The Soul Saints Orchestra "Santa's Got A Bag of Soul" 
Robert Earl Keen "Merry Christmas From The Family" 
Dan Fogelberg "Same Auld Lang Syne" 

Smoke

I picked up my gray hoodie from the laundry pile. It needed a good washing after the weekend. My nose though honed in on the smell of smoke, which had permeated the cotton garment.

Smoke often isn’t a friendly smell…out-of-control blazes, cigarettes, a burned food product still resting in a toaster oven; those types of things usually don’t house good thoughts. This smoky smell though was different. It was the smell of a deliberately set, controlled fire from Saturday night at our family reunion.

My brother had built a fire pit and most of us sat around it for at least a little while and warmed ourselves from the cool air of a north Georgia October night. We roasted marshmallows and made Smores and talked and laughed. We gazed at the sky wondering how many stars God had placed on display for our viewing on this particular night. Other times we caught each other staring hypnotically at the flames wrapping its fingers around the logs, lost in our own thoughts, oblivious for a brief time to the chatter of others and the crack, snap and pop of the fire itself, and, to the world at large.

It was a great weekend. Yes, Saturday’s wind was sharp and felt more like December than October. We won’t remember that though when we think back at this weekend or review the photos from then. We’ll remember those kids running without abandon kicking the soccer balls and the games of horseshoes and croquet and Facts in Five. We’ll think about the BBQ, the stew, the spaghetti, the cakes. We’ll cherish holding the newborns, trying to get them to burp or smile and feeling a sense of accomplishment when we can get them to do one or the other but never both. We’ll laugh at the family photo remembering the efforts it took to get everyone to stand still and smile for just a few seconds. We’ll recall the piñata that took a beating and kept on swinging. We’ll secretly lament how we can’t keep the little ones from growing up and knowing hurt and pain and how we can’t protect our older family members from growing any older and knowing any more hurt and pain as well. We won’t remember the chill of the wind but what will linger will be the warmth we found with our family.

Now, this load of laundry must find it’s way to the washing machine. Soon, the gray hoodie will be overwhelmed by water and some sweet-smelling detergent designed to make the garment smell different than it does now, you know, like lilacs in springtime or like an ocean breeze in summer. With the washing, the hoodie will lose the faint smell of smoke from Saturday night’s fire.

As we left the reunion late Sunday afternoon, I noticed someone had stirred the ashes around in the fire pit. In the glare of the sun, a small flame had found enough air to find life. From those ashes, a puff of smoke rose and I stopped long enough to take a deep breath of the sweet smell of smoke.

And today, that smell of smoke lingers, my, how it lingers.