I walked out the door Monday morning to see a tow truck trying to scoop up Samantha’s car (the last in the lot) to move it so that they could paint the lines and re-seal the lot. I admit that the management had tucked notices in our door that the project would begin that morning, but I had been convinced that we would have plenty of time to get the cars moved or at least that the lot would be roped off the night before. Not so much. The tow truck company, eager to make a buck, happily tried to cart off our two vehicles (as he had been instructed) and the management was prepared to charge us $200 to move both cars.

I spent a good seven minutes in the manager’s office doing more arguing than I think I ever had to do as a college newspaper editor. Her argument was simple: we were warned, and now we have to pay the consequences. Mine was more to the point: they have my license plate numbers and telephone numbers on file for a reason, and towing my cars was an extreme measure to take when a simple phone call or a knock on my door would have resolved it. Furthermore, I question their integrity after an agent admitted to me that the intention was to make a $75 per car profit from the ordeal. A full lot of cars would have been quite a windfall. I left very angry (and a bit hurt), and have all but resolved to not set foot in that office again until I cheerfully deliver our notice of intent to vacate next year.

I did accomplish something that day despite the lousy start to an already busy week. Nate Baker was hosting “Nashville’s Nearly Impossible Crossword Puzzle” on his site over the weekend, and my wife and I had done some serious damage to quite a few of the clues. Between spikes in my blood pressure from talking with a hapless leasing agent over the phone, I was able to finally crack the last one. For my efforts, I was to be awarded a coveted Opryland Belt Buckle tonight at the CentreSource Mixer. Awesome.

One could not help but look at the map to other areas of the mid-state. To the far west, the newscaster repeatedly said the name of one of the communities where a co-worker lives. To the southwest, the community that my parents call home was getting high winds and heavy hail. Friends that had planned to see a movie on the lawn at Centennial Park were changing plans and shuffling over to safer locales.

It is fitting that many analogies to our human condition center around the idea of storms. Emotions rage beyond control and often beyond comprehension. The power of the winds is only matched by the resilience one sees in the aftermath. I have had a few storms of my own in the last few years, and some were of my own creation.

There is an old joke that says, “Hundreds of people are struck by lightning each year as they search for the silver linings in life.” I am usually one that accepts the reality as what it is rather than attempting to understand or change it. But I do have a need for a bit of reconciliation and a chance to find the calm that follows the storm – I am not a fan unfinished business.

Saturday morning Samantha and I participated in Ellie’s Run for Africa, a 5K race through Warner Park to benefit church and school projects to help out children in a Nairobi. We also had Samantha’s brother and childhood friend stay with us the night before, and my mom’s sister turned in her first run after having her baby boy in April.

It was a fun day at the park and another “personal best” time at around 41 minutes. I am still shooting for the mid-thirties, and Samantha already has a few races picked out for later this summer. My phone has an app called “Run Keeper” that tracked my race.

The casters squeaked loudly as the staff carefully rolled the platform down the ramp. I stood quietly with my back to it, lined up with five other relatives and family friends. The narrow ramp had made it difficult to maneuver, but once down to our level we were able to complete that particular leg of the journey with relative ease. Several miles away, the same six visibly shaken men walked up the hill and finished our charge — one that none of us were eager to have taken up.

In the funeral parlor a while earlier, I had examined the wallpaper next to my seat as the minister read the eulogy. Looking at him, or at her, was not an option. Hidden in the patterns was what I hoped to be the secret to maintaining composure in a room filled with grief and sadness. The minister did his level best to deliver a hopeful message to ease the pain. Two selections from Elvis Presley’s catalog of gospel music ripped most of that false composure to shreds. The combination of the divine message and the King’s pristine voice sent a shot right to my heart, putting forward the truth in a way that nothing else today had done.

She is gone.

I make no claims to have known my grandmother the best. Her two daughters had been right there with her through the storms of their childhood and called her frequently after moving on to other cities, jobs and starting their own families. They both had spent almost every Christmas and Thanksgiving with her and the many visits in between. Both had taken her to her oncologist appointments and sat with her through chemotherapy. Both were with her at her bedside when she passed away on Tuesday. She was very much a part of their lives.

But I do know a little bit about her love for her four grandchildren. This bleary-eyed twenty-something to the two-month old grandson across town and all points in between knew her love for them. These last couple of days I have been reminded of that love time and time again.

I remember her smile as she looked out of her kitchen door as we were coming walking in from our car and her special blend of humor she used in all of her stories about neighbors, relatives, critters and co-workers. I remember the patterns in the linoleum floor and the large pillow in front of the television that I usually took up residence upon as a child. I remember overnight stays and trips to help her get kerosene for her space heater. I remember her calming voice when I dropped in for an unplanned visit during a turbulent college break. I remember the way she always announced my dubious title of “[her] favorite grandson” whenever we talked on the phone. I must confess that her other one is awfully adorable.

I have told many well-wishers that “she was an amazing woman, and will be deeply missed” because I believe that short sentence holds two of the biggest understatements I have ever written. She was amazing because of what she was able to provide for her children and grandchildren against all odds. She will be deeply missed because those sacrifices changed the course of many of our lives, and we are forever in her debt.

Bonnie Bowden
Published: Thursday, June 4, 2009 – The Paris Post-Intelligencer

Retired Emerson Electric Co. employee Bonnie Bowden, 71, of Humboldt, died Tuesday, June 2, 2009, in Nashville.

Her funeral will be at 1 p.m. Saturday at Ridgeway Funeral Home.

Allen Rietz will officiate. Burial will be in Sandy Point Cemetery at Camden.

Chosen as pallbearers are Michael and Stephen Yeargin, Faron Stout, Jerry Hughes Jr., Jim Cooper and Gene Schrader.

Visitation will be 4-8 p.m. Friday and after 9 a.m. Saturday.

Born April 17, 1938, in Bruceton, she was a daughter of the late Ben Pinkston and Ella Mae Webb Pinkston Cotham.

She was a member of West Paris Baptist Church. A family member said she loved Elvis, reading, doing crossword puzzles and peace and quiet.

She leaves two daughters: Janna (Michael) Yeargin and Larisa (Faron) Stout, both of Nashville; two sisters: Sandra Carter of Paris and Faye Schrader of Puryear; and four grandchildren: Stephen, Miranda and Heather Yeargin and Quinton Stout.

She also was preceded in death by a sister: Mildred Vessey; and a brother: Ben Rhea Pinkston.

Every parent that I have ever talked to loathes the toys that play songs or make any other kind of noise. Batteries will mysteriously go missing from the toy fire truck, much like the slime goes missing before it ends up on the carpet. Moments of peace and quiet are sacred for parents, and woe unto the fool that disturbs them with the noise-making toy. I am apparently that fool.

We made our way up to the pediatric critical care unit, balloon in tow. We hung out with his mother at the bedside, glad to see that he was alert, if not a little sluggish. They were ready to move him out of the the critical care unit, but a bed had not opened up yet for him. Holding down food, strawberries as we would learn shortly, had been a bit of a challenge. The toughest part of the visit was not so much the nurse coming in to change the dressing on his chest that had soaked through his shirt, the strawberry redux, or the airway cleansing by way of his nasal passages. Instead, it was hard just seeing somebody who would much rather be chasing chickens around his yard laid up in a hospital bed with a long incision on his chest. This is not how a toddler should be spending a Sunday afternoon.

I am often humbled by the many blessings I have in life, and I try my best not to overlook them. Not everyone in that critical care unit was on the road to recovery like our young friend. We were made aware of at least one case where a young man was waiting on a heart transplant. Our Sunday morning church services often begin with a prayer request or two for those that are ill or have some other kind of need. I sit here this evening in good health and blessed to have a wonderful wife and (no matter how much I whine at times) a job to go to in a few short hours. It is good to keep everything in perspective.

Across town, there is a couple resting in a hospital room with their son. With a giant guitar-shaped balloon that plays “Smoke on the Water.”

I am pleased that the portion of my brain reserved for sitting through a lecture was not completely wasted after I received a degree. For the most part, I can still pay attention and follow along. The instructors are not quite yawn-inducing, but if I try to cram in another lecture (or even half of it) after sitting through the first, my vision begins to blur and I feel a bit drowsy. My goals for all of this are really undefined, but it would be good move to at least understand the fundamentals of another programming language and development framework. In this case, that would be Objective-C and Xcode.

While I do not maintain any illusion that I will write the next killer app and retire to some island in the Caribbean, I think it is a good use of my free time.

Samantha and I had been talking for a while about buying a board game or two to keep around the apartment in an effort to quell the restlessness that typically drives me out to spend money (food, entertainment, etc.). So tonight, we bought two games, Scrabble and Monopoly, in these nifty little bookshelf boxes from Target.

Our first round was with Scrabble, a game that I had thought would be a bit more evenly matched. Two college graduates with a penchant for writing were bound to have a fairly deep vocabulary. I was out gunned, and ended up losing by a few hundred points. She managed to empty her cache of tiles, I was left with both blanks and a “V”. The picture is of the final board.

I avenged the loss in the second, winning an abridged game of Monopoly by a little under $1,000. We had to cut it short because of the self-imposed deadline of 9 p.m. so that we could still vacuum the floor. I take a little bit of satisfaction in beating an MBA in a game of business. She questioned my morals in all of this, but as they say, business is business.

We had a blast this evening, and I think we have already got our money’s worth out of the board games. I think it is worthwhile for any married couple or even roommates to invest in a few board or card games, provided the competition does not get too heated.

Today I was juror #0402 in the criminal courts of Davidson County. I had known about today for a while, but as with the months that have fallen off the calendar this year, it snuck up on me. Samantha has been out of town since Sunday afternoon in Chicago, so I put in an extra effort to get up and out the door this morning.

The drive downtown was a lot faster than I suspected, likely because it was 7:20 a.m. when I started (my usual weekday departure time) and I did not have to arrive until 8:30 a.m. I was from Goodlettsville to the parking lot in less than 30 minutes, even missing a turn or two. I pulled into the parking lot, missing the correct entrance only to back up and try again. I was sincerely hoping that this was not going to set the tone for the morning.

I entered the A.A. Birch building through a crowd of people gathered outside. I thought for a moment about the demographics of who all was wandering about. Lawyers, prosecutors, police officers, witnesses, defendants and their families were all huddled in small groups. I walked on by, fumbling about with paperwork to show to whoever wanted to see it. I walked through the metal detectors, forgetting to take off my watch the first time through. I realized how much stuff was in my possession by how full the little red bins had become. I had brought my padfolio mostly to hold my paperwork and as a place to stick my phone in the side. I do not think I can be nearly as critical of how much stuff my wife totes around after seeing that I have my fair share of daily baggage as well.

After stepping through the metal detectors successfully, I stood and examined the lobby of the courthouse. Large screens rolled through the court docket for the day. I knew none of that applied to me; I would simply go where I was told. I started looking around for the appointed jury assembly room. The police officers that stood around the lobby were fairly quick to let you know that they were not Information. I followed two women who were also on jury duty up the elevator, only to again encounter an officer who was most certainly not Information. Back downstairs, I moved my sleeve to check the time.

No watch.

I walked over to the information desk (she was Information) and asked where the security screeners would place property forgotten in the bins. As I turned around, the security guard held up my watch, as if it happens a great deal. Thankful (because my wife could not held responsible for what would have happened if I lost my engagement gift, although it would likely be heard in this very same building), I proceeded on down the hall. My fellow room-seekers had found our meeting place.

The room was filled with a cross-section of society. Young professionals sat next to old retirees. The unemployed (there are quite a few of those these days) mingled with men and women in suits. Black, white, asian and latino all had a shared fate this morning.

When you go for jury duty in Davidson county, they issue you a badge with a barcode. I learn that the barcode is critical in making sure every juror is accounted for wherever they go. I sat down in a seat to wait, fiddling with my iPhone and checking the early doses of work e-mail. As the room began to fill (more than 120 people in all), a middle-aged woman sat next to me. She looked around and asked, “Do they really need this many people to pick 12 jurors?” I told her that we would be part of a pool that would be sent to several cases. “Oh, so you must have done this before?” Having not, I gave the same overview that the jury coordinator would give moments later.

Our coordinator introduced herself as “it is my fault that you all are here today.” She then explained that we were selected because we had a driver’s license or photo ID issued by the state. “For all of you who have not registered to vote for fear of being selected for jury duty, it did not help out at all. We have forms at our desk if you want to go ahead and register now that you know it will not spare you.” A court officer took the first pool of 30 away, while another came ten minutes later to take the second. I was part of the third.

We waited for another 10-15 minutes outside the courtroom before entering and then filed into the audience seats across the room from the bench. The state’s assistant district attorney (colloquially referred to as “General”) had his back to us, while diagonally across the room sat the defendant and her attorney. After a brief introduction and a swearing in for all of us, 13 were called to sit in the jury box while the rest of us waited. The judge read through the allegations against the defendant, stressing that these were not the facts of the case, merely the charges brought forward by the state. She asked some standard questions about whether the jury would be able to impartially decide the case without preconceived notions. All agreed, and the state’s attorney took over.

All of the seated jurors were asked to describe their line of work, how long they had been doing it, if they were married and if they or a family member had previous encounters with the criminal justice system. It was a long process, but then the more prodding questions about details surrounding the case came into play. The defense attorney did the same, only with more specifics related to the case. He was a younger guy, and apparently his youth cost him one trip to a sidebar conversation with the judge and assistant district attorney when he asked a rather leading question of the jury. Having all that behind him, he went back to the lectern with a more carefully worded question.

Three jurors were dismissed by way of notes passed to the judge from the prosecution and the defense, so three more of us were called to the box. The judge asked for a 20 minute break before those jurors were asked the same questions. After the jury was set, the rest of us were dismissed to go back to the assembly room. The coordinator dismissed for lunch from there.

I walked down the Subway on Second Avenue and met up with Chuck, another juror. We talked a bit about the case from which we had just been dismissed. I learned that he was an acupuncture therapist with a gift sales side-business. His inability to make sales calls today was particularly painful, and our $10 stipend would not cover the losses. I had heard similar stories from others in the assembly room. We walked back the jury room only to be dismissed a few minutes later. The docket was covered, and we would no longer be needed. A group ahead of us was called to serve tomorrow morning if the case from which we had been excused reached a conclusion by the end of the day.

I got back to my car, thinking a bit about our criminal justice system. From my perspective, there was nothing wrong or bad about what had transpired today. Sure, I gave up a day of work (my employer still paid me, less the $10 I have to sign over to them). Sure, I had my doubts that the jury in that particular case could be completely fair and impartial. I really wonder if the defendant’s representation was up to the task today. But I have no complaints about my time as a prospective juror. I enjoyed the experience as much as most college students enjoy classes — an inconvenience, but a necessary part of serving a greater good.

We were sitting on the bleachers at Vanderbilt Stadium on Saturday, waiting for the evening’s performances from Robert Earl Keen, Jason Mraz and the Dave Matthews Band to begin when it all came rushing in. It caught me a bit off guard, but not totally surprised. Everything must be dealt with in due time.

It was a festive atmosphere, with thousands gathered for what was arguably the biggest concert of the spring. College students, middle aged men and women and those of us in between crowded the field and throughout the stands. Women walked around in sundresses, guys in t-shirts and jeans. It did not take a lot of effort to spot “that guy” — the one who shows up the concert wearing the merchandise of the band he has come to see. I never really understood the appeal. Perhaps it is matter of pride, likened to the way a sports fan will wear a throwback jersey to prove that their dedication to the team spans more than just the here and now.

The week that was. I had escaped it just long enough to sleep once peacefully through the night, but there it was waiting in the bright sunlight in Section R, row 60. The tensions, the disappointment, the unpleasant news on a Friday afternoon. A handful of familiar faces were about to become a lot less familiar. Survive this round to fight another one. Things will turn around soon. We hope so because hope is certainly a more solid foundation than anything the pundits can tell us.

The sound ripped through the field and up to the rim of the bowl. Dave and company turn in a great show, no matter where they play. The music is organic, powerful and more than a little unpredictable. A cover of “Burning Down the House” and various fakes and teases segue into popular hits. The visuals fill your eyes with wonderment, captivated by the larger-than-life imagery and searchlights that bathe the crowd with patterns and vibrant color. Thousands sing along to almost every word. It is a very surreal experience.

Eight hours later we were standing behind an elementary school, moving mulch, gravel and leaves around to help out a parents’ group build a garden. The project was one that a friend (and former co-worker) had helped organize, a great example of how every parent should stay involved with their child’s school. Being childless ourselves, Samantha and I came to lend a hand and to hang out a bit. Light physical labor is a surefire way to keep my mind from wandering (or more accurately, dwelling) on things that happened before the weekend started. I still have a bit of a sunburn and sore arms, but I would do it again if given the chance.

I have tried to take a different approach to the day-to-day struggles in times such as these. It is built around acknowledging the reality rather than painting a rosy picture. I accept that not everything ends well. That has been the hardest, because I have always subscribed to the philosophy that things that go wrong frequently lead to a better opportunity. I am sure that it still happens in the long run, but there is far too much pain in the meantime to make a direct correlation between the setback and the prosperity. You cannot say that the person who loses a job and his or her home is suddenly in a better place than when they started; It is simply not the truth.

Guilt comes easy. We still lead a rather comfortable life as a dual-income-no-kids yuppies while others in very close social circles barely get by, or simply do not get by at all. I have become more acutely aware that even this supposed life of leisure is a very fragile proposition. Can gratitude and guilt be one in the same emotion?

I have spent a bit of time around other people’s children lately. I often step back and see the defined roles in society, where the parents worry about the future while the kids approach the world with curiosity, boundless optimism and limitless potential. I wonder exactly where that innocence is lost and if it can ever be recaptured, even in a fleeting moment. The way they play, the way they learn and the amount of trust they place with those of us that spend far too much time worrying is a thing of wonder. It is just an amazing contrast.

I do not know what will happen tomorrow or the day after that. I cannot guarantee that everything will turn out just fine in the long run. My only prayer is that we can take care of one another well enough to see us through to a brighter day.