Dad was diagnosed one year ago today.  This  evening, we held a tribute benefit for HopeLink where I work and these were the words I delivered to the 175 in attendance.

My dad and I met for coffee this morning.

It was about 3am, my usual wake up time.

I got out of bed, took the dog out to pee, brewed a pot of coffee and sat in the living room to watch him work in the stillness of the morning like I’ve done so many times in my life.  I scanned from frame to frame watching his broad strokes of genius on each of the memories hanging on my undeserving walls.  We exchanged opinions about the lighting in each scene, his choice of shadows, his mix of colors and over his shoulder, my tears dripped onto his palette as he again dipped his brush to paint his sky as they have each morning about this time for the last few months.

Mike Miller may be gone, but he will never be absent.

It was July of last year when my boss at my new job called me into her office and closed the door.

She said they were beginning to plan tonight’s event and she delicately asked if my dad wouldn’t mind if we paid him a small tribute this evening as part of this celebration of art, artists and artisans of many genres.

I was enroute to visit him in California that evening, midway through the battle that took him home last October.

I told him of her proposal for the February event and, predictably, he said that while he’d be honored  by the thought, I should hold off buying him a ticket.

Mike Miller may be gone, but he will never be absent.

Not just  a creative genius, he was a funny, funny man.

I’ve never written a tribute speech.

I spoke at his memorial.

But even there, he one upped me and everyone else in attendance  if you recall.

But tonight is no memorial.

Tonight is a celebration of the arts and what they give to us.

It is, indeed, a night about giving.

Mike Miller gave us a lot more than we realize.

He gave us countless pieces of beauty captured eternally on the canvasses of our walls.

He gave us big pictures of scenic designs  in many of Disney’s  first animated films.

He gave us caricatures, cartoons and creative campaigns of art and illustration.

He gave us bronze sculptures, mountain men and a glimpse into the hard life of the old west.

He gave us award-winning, provocative advertising, slogans and designs for 50 years.

He gave millions of dollars to the university and traded them a buck for it.

He gave thousands of children reading adventures withTomas the Tortoise.

And, he gave me, hands down, the best campaign signs for high school student body president, bar none.

Mike Miller may be gone, but he will never be absent.

The most unique attribute of art, is that it  continues to give well after the artist is gone.

Few of us will be able to do that in our lifetimes.

You see, the true heart of giving is not merely about that moment.

It’s about a contribution to a moment  that will inspire future moments

That will inspire future moments

That will inspire future moments of giving.

It’s about being the artist.

Truly, giving is about the artist in us all.

What will we create for others that will last well beyond our years?

What picture will we paint that will change the normal for so many who know no different?

The very last conversation I had with my dad at his bedside before he died wasn’t about his art.  It wasn’t about his childrens’ books.  It wasn’t even about “Hey Reb!”

It was about how proud he was of me of the choice I have made in my own life to do the work that I do that changes lives.

In essence, he called me his peer, an artist, who, by my work, will leave impressions on people I may never know or see.

Mike Miller gave so much.

He may be gone, but he will never be absent.

He mixed  his final stroke with my tears on the palette, and it was a masterpiece at 3am. The coffee was cold and I told him it was gonna be a busy day today getting ready for tonight’s event. I said thanks for giving a few of his pieces for tonight’s auction and for the memories. He said pick some nice pieces, Don.  It’s a great cause.

And could feel that funny grin over my shoulder….and he said, very quietly….

“But tell them I’ll be watching who’s bidding and how much.”

Summer had come and gone and little Timmy was more than a little disappointed. But not for the same reasons as the other kids. He was back at school and like every September it just felt different. Though it was a new school year, he carried the same old duct taped backpack and torn shoes that now fit just a little tighter.
Timmy had always felt different, even before summer vacation. But now, a season later, little Timmy had grown up some and become a more curious little guy. This year, he was determined to figure out why he felt so different.
Though a little smarter now, little Timmy hadn’t grown much taller over the summer like some of the other kids at school. And that was probably a good thing because the pants he was wearing, like always, were too short from last spring. Mom told him it would be awhile before she could afford anything new. As the oldest of three brothers, he grew up always knowing that there were no hand-me-downs for him.
As she left for work in the early morning hour, Timmy asked his Mother, “Our family is very different isn’t it?” She said “Well I certainly hope so. All families are different in their own special way and it’s something to be proud of.” Timmy wondered why if it was so special, he didn’t feel so proud.
“Now you go help your brothers finish their homework and remember, I’ll be home late after work so be sure to get them to bed early tonight.”
This was what Mom said almost every time she left for her day job. Little Timmy began thinking about how the other kids at school talked about their parents helping them with their homework after the family dinner each night. He’d often hoped that someday his Mom would be able to help with his homework, and that maybe they could have a family dinner, but she was always working. He thought, “We are different.”
The next week was the end of the month and always a time when things around the house seemed especially difficult. But when Mom was there, she tried to make times fun for little Timmy and his brothers with flashlights and candles and an occasional ghost story before bed on her nights off before going back to her other job. Mom said the lights would be off until next payday but it was okay because he had his brothers with him and they could play flashlight games in the dark before bedtime. While they did have fun, he secretly hoped someday he would be able to help keep the lights on all the time. And again, he noticed how his family was just a little different.
The next day at school it was lunchtime. Timmy listened to the kids at the table next to him complain about how their Moms would pack their lunches with “leftovers” and wondered what upset them so much. His family didn’t have leftovers after meals. He could only hope to someday have something like a meatloaf sandwich in his lunchbox like other kids. His lunchbox always seemed to weigh a little less. “That’s different,” he told himself.
The more little Timmy put his mind to it, the more differences he found between his family and other kids’ families. And while his mom said he should be proud, he really tried.
When the teacher asked, “What do you want to be when you grow up?,” the kids yelled “Fireman!,” “A nurse!,” “I want to be an engineer!” Little Timmy always hoped someday he would be able to have a job but he had never really thought much about what it might be. In fact, he never really thought much beyond the week ahead, much less about what he’d be in the distant future when he was a grown up. Again, he felt that was a little different from the other kids.
At recess, some kids were petting a scruffy stray dog through the school fence, boasting about how cute their own dogs and cats were and what they’d named them. Little Timmy didn’t have a dog or a cat. His Mom had told the boys that someday they would, but that someday hadn’t come yet. Mom said it was an extra mouth to feed that she couldn’t afford right now, but hopefully at Christmastime. Though many Christmases had already passed, he continued hoping that someday he might open a little wrapped box with a puppy inside on Christmas morning. Now that would be different!
Little Timmy went home that night with his homework. His teacher had told the class to come prepared with an idea for show and tell. After feeding and bathing his brothers and getting them in their sleeping bags, he made his own bed on the sofa. Like most nights in that darkened living room, he waved his flashlight around on the ceiling and drew pictures with the beam of things he dreamed of, like little puppy faces which disappeared as quickly as he drew them. It was at that moment that Timmy came up with the best show and tell idea ever!
His Mom had come home very late from work but Timmy was still awake thinking of his wonderful idea. Though tired, she listened to Timmy describe his show and tell idea and she cried. He didn’t mean to make her sad but she said they were happy tears. “Timmy, nobody hopes and dreams like you. Never stop, Timmy. I have always said you can do anything if you put your mind to it.” Little Timmy smiled, blew out the candle and put himself to sleep.
It was his turn next at show and tell.
He’d waited all day for this.
“So Timmy, what do you have for us today at show and tell?” Little Timmy had already cleared the corner of his desk and arrived at the front of the classroom before she had even finished the question. From the pocket of his high-water pants, little Timmy pulled out a small, white light bulb and held it up for the class to see. A bit puzzled, the teacher asked “So little Timmy, what does the light bulb mean to you?”
Proudly, little Timmy replied, “It’s like an idea!”

“I’ve noticed that my family is different than the other kids’ families, but that being different is okay because it’s really just being normal, but in a different way.”
“I don’t have new clothes or a home-made lunch or a puppy like the other kids, but that’s normal for me. That’s what my family is used to. Like this light bulb, some families shine in ways other families don’t. Either way, all families make light and shine not because of what we have but because of how we love.”
“And it’s okay to be different…. just like everybody else.”

And that day, little Timmy got the only “A” for show and tell.
And Little Timmy was no longer Little Timmy, for he grew a whole inch taller that same day Mom came home with a big barking bow-tied box.

One in five in your kid’s class today will go to bed hungry tonight.

Thousands of  fixed income elderly  are deciding at this very  moment, if they can afford a second meal today.

Parents will serve their children dinner  and a lie this evening, telling them it’s okay, they already ate.

And someone in your office is googling the nearest food pantry to stop by discreetly on the way home.

None of them are proud of it.

All of them hide it.

But they’re hungry.

These are the facts.

This is their normal.

HopeLink of Southern Nevada wants to change their normal.

For the amount of change in your pockets, we can feed hundreds of hungry people

And take away their shame.

Please go to link2hope.org

And help HopeLink change their normal.

I winced

And grit my teeth

And let the tears roll from my eyes

As I listened to the cries

And was angry.

I thought

And bowed my head

And pondered nothing but everything

As I strained for a whisper

And heard none.

I stood

And called to them all

And begged for their affirming voice

As the echo returned empty

And disgusting.

I looked

And found one soul

And passed him my  filled cup

As he stared through me

And dared a smile.

I knew

And loved them all

And cared for one by one

As they came my way

And I found peace.

LMSM,

Don

Barring any currently hibernating disease or unfortunate future accident, I have decided that I would like to live quite a while longer.

I’m confident that I have a lot left to offer this world before my expiration date.  Surprising to most—including yours truly– this is a new revelation. Not that I have been suicidal or had a secret death wish, I had just arrived at a place in my life where I neither feared death nor the idea of it.  The death part is acceptable, not so much the idea of dying.  I have never been a fan of suffering, but I digress.

However comfortable that revelation was, I have since realized it had stolen my zest and zeal for the long term.  I have always had purpose and drive and known my life has had meaning. That was never missing.  But I have lacked that kernel or spark that comes with a future orientation.  Subsequently, I haven’t paid much attention to taking care of myself—which, apart from genetic destiny, is probably the best predictor of longevity.

So far, cancer, diabetes, hypertension and heart disease appear to be genetic markers in my family tree.  And at 54 years old, if these diseases are going to manifest or really blossom into something, I’m about ripe for it to happen.  If I can stave those four horsemen off for even a few years, I’m totally down for it.

So, I think it no coincidence of timing that I should have this revelation at this time in my life.

I have some bad habits involving food, nutrition, exercise and cigarettes.  I realize change is necessary.

So here’s my purpose for this post:

I need to bond with someone who will help develop a plan of attack on all levels.  One that is gradual and comprehensive.   I am willing to empty my refrigerator, freezer and pantry and start over.  I am willing to make time for stretching and exercise and fitness stuff, too.  I am also willing to make a full-on attack against the loaded revolvers I put in my mouth several times a day.

I’m not into being sold on fad diets or buying fitness equipment.  There are many friends who swear by their programs and businesses.  I’m happy for you and don’t doubt your belief in your products.  Frankly, I don’t have the extra money to buy a killer blender or a meal program and maybe not even a gym membership since I have a moderately equipped gym at my complex already.  I really would like to consult with someone who can help put together a practical and reasonable program of personal self improvement which will give my insides a better than even chance, help me lose a small belly and increase my energy and vitality.

In short, I’m looking for someone who thinks it would be a good thing for me to live as long as I am able unless, of course, I’m hit by a bus or succumb to a predetermined, diseased fate.

If Life Means So Much, then I  guess I better live up to my words.

If you think that is you and you are interested in taking me on as a project, I can write an incredible testimonial story and keep a good daily journal along the way.

Email me at dondida180@gmail.com

Thanks.

Don

More likely than not

today will be just another day

when we wake at different hours

and our redundant routines will

interact creating each other’s daily fate.

More likely than not,

today will be just another day

handing us much of what we want

and some of what we don’t

according to our emerging random mood.

More likely than not

today will be just another day.

through which time slowly passes

a gradual assessment and assigns a label

of good, bad or something equally myopic.

More likely than not

today will be just another day.

which retires our minds, bodies and souls

to tomorrow’s worries

which are, more likely than not,

going to be the same as yesterday’s.

And more likely than not

the day will arrive when we wager the next

on a random hope

that tomorrow is more likely than not.

And we will lose.

And more likely than not,

we will have expired the lesson

that each day is just another

and another, and another

for those with empty dreams and purposes

which inspire them to live like

today is just another day.

LMSM,

Don

New Year’s is a bad time to do a good thing.

Statistically speaking, that is.  88% of resolutions fail.

Your good intentions have a much better chance of sticking through the new year if you resolve to start today versus a few days from now.

A resolution isn’t so much about stopping a bad thing or starting a good thing. A resolution is a reasoned act, a state of mind, an informed decision which ties itself to no time or place or predicates itself upon no white-knuckled act.

Simply, if you reason yourself into a good enough conclusion, the dissonance you experience when your decision is first tested should produce such discomfort that siding with any decision other than the one best reasoned will make you crazy in the head.

Resolutions begin there and succeed there.

So maybe the best use of the next few days would be to do your research about what you’d like to achieve, begin, stop or otherwise resolve to do.  Write down good arguments for your goal and even the lame arguments against it.  The juxtaposition of the “for and against” list will help you see the empty reasons you’ve been believing that have kept you from making this resolution sooner.

Then, when you’ve completed that list, make a separate list that tangibly describes what you imagine your life to be like having achieved your goal (i.e. $200/month  savings from not buying cigarettes, fitting into your favorite jeans again, a richer spiritual life from morning scripture reading.)

Statitistically speaking, today is the best day to make a meaningful resolve for a better life.

For that matter, isn’t any day?

LMSM,

Don

Well, we did.  At the moment she needed it more than anything else.

I always tell the truth.  All my stories are true and actually happened at some usually bizarre era of my life, which constitutes most of it. In this instance, it was 6th grade and we not only slapped her, we tackled her to the ground and jumped on her head. Many times. Afterward, she and her parents  were grateful.

My best friend was Steve. He lived across the street and we attended the brand new neighborhood elementary school Cyril Wengert.  It was the same year I had ‘called out’ Tony Francisco in Mr. Saxon’s class at recess.  At 94 pounds clothed and wet, I’d no business calling anyone out (an expression which, in that era, meant “I’m mad and want to hit you but I can’t do it in class so by all means, let’s beat each other up in front of the entire school at the next recess when we can both be horribly embarrassed and humiliated at this critically formative and  impressionable age.”  Tony my scheduled adversary, was the class fat boy and as scared as me as we watched the hours pass, counting down, knowing that when the bell rang, thirty two kids were expecting a show that neither of us were equipped to perform. If he was the class donut, I was the french fry in a mismatch of weight divisions.

But I digress.

Steve and I had good parents. That is to say they were parents who forced us to be well rounded in extracurricular activities, which necessarily included Chorus class.  At that age, it was a gender humiliation exercise because, to my recollection, we were the only boys in a big sea of cooties.  I could be wrong, but when you hear our story, you’ll understand.

It was Christmastime and the final day of school before Christmas break.  Miss Neurosis (not her real name, but appropriate) had drilled us on the Christmas concert rehearsal for weeks. She was less concerned with how we sounded but she was absolutely ape shit about choreographic perfection. It was her first year teaching in a new school with a reputation to build and this Christmas concert was the pageant in which her disorder would be revealed to all.  Vocally, 6th grade is typically not good for on-the-cusp pubescent boys, but to her, the sound was much less critical than the spectacle she’d prepared for staff and parents.

Okay, so the night of the performance had arrived and Miss Neurosis had gone over the procedure for blowing out our individual candles at the very end of the last song for the very last time before we made our dramatic ascension up the stairs.

The room was packed and the choral ensemble was robed in perfectly ironed black gowns with white starched collars framing 70 partly pimpled faces illuminated by individual candles. Two lines entered up the stairs from both sides of the room. It was quite dramatic. Steve lead the group on the right and the little black girl lead the group on the left with me right behind her.  Our lines met in the top center of the library balcony, candles aflame on the last line of the final chorus of Silent Night. We all were looking forward to our two weeks off.

Flanked on either side by Steve and I, the little afroed black girl’s head was a huge, bulbous globe of stiff AquaNet flocked hair, like a dandelion, only black and with no breeze. It was the style back then, but not for much longer.

Miss Neurosis’ choreography was for one slow, unified and dramatic move whereby our candles and illuminated faces would extinguish simultaneously as a group one the last sung word. Each student was to blow “Peeeeeaaacceee” as a stream of air that–at least hypothetically– would blow out the candle as we bowed our heads in unison. We had never practiced with real flames.

Try it now. “Peeeeeeaaaacceee.”  There is no fricative with sufficient air force to extinguish even a match stick much less a 12 gauge candle.  Though we all tried our best, Miss Neurosis was flustered in the back of the room at this huge error in enunciative judgment which kept the staircase of candles flickering much longer than expected.  But as if that wasn’t enough humiliation….

Bulbous AquaNet afros are flammable, and 6th grade boys can’t do two things at once. Especially without fricatives.

She burst into flames between me and Steve like some not so silent night explosion. For a moment, it was beautiful. Like a Chia Pet caught fire.  The flame rounded her head in a circular pattern faster and faster until she didn’t know what hit her.

Recognizing the heroic opportunity, Steve and I pushed her to the floor and pounced the smoldering do. In the back of the library, Miss Neurosis had long since fainted in disgrace missing the crescendo of applause offered for our valiant effort.

And with the stunned little black girl still on the ground in ashes, we stood up and took a bow to a roaring audience.  And Tony Francisco and the entire 6th grade class forever knew me as a hero the same year someone invented the cornrow.

And we all had a Merry Christmas for two whole weeks!

Peace on earth is wished in greetings of prose and song this time each year. But is peace on earth really possible or just a relic, an outdated greeting from simpler times long ago when there was a lot more of it? Giving up on peace would be a resignation of hope and I don’t think most of us are ready for that just yet.

But fewer and fewer believe peace on earth is genuinely attainable.  It sounds warm, lovely and hopeful like many  season’s greeting cards, but is just as quickly drowned out by the next hostile report of murder, war and mayhem next door or across the globe.

I, however, believe peace on earth is still possible.

Peace on earth is a movement.

What if you abandoned the impossible thought of global peace and viewed peace on earth emerging as a series of individual efforts which, consistent and connected, create the cause of peace and move it forward, if but an inch with each?  Movements by definition, move. They gain momentum.  They don’t stop.  Those who would pay peace forward do so in small, imaginable, deliberate ways.  And not because of a season.

Peace is the easing of pain, the healing of wounds, the comfort of the afflicted. Peace is a warm coat, a hot meal, a ride to the store or a touch to the untouchable?  We can do peace. Each of us.

Peace on earth is a sacrifice.

It takes effort.  Selfish people will never have peace because they never give it.  It’s up to the rest of us.  And this time of year, there is more indulgence than at any other.   But conversely, peace-full people make extra effort.  Stories of individual and family gives, abandonment of conformity to the commercialization of the holidays and ensembles of strangers uniting for the purpose of sharing with the impoverished abound.

Peace on earth is deliberate.

Peace on earth will not ride in on the coattails of a determined leader.  It won’t take residence in a world of good intentions.  It cannot be legislated or mandated.   It won’t arrive in a wave of mass conviction.  Peace on earth will come only deliberately, one act of goodwill at a time.  And peace on earth is not bound by a time of year.

Peace on earth is an all-year commitment.

When the holiday season ends, so does the giving.  Corporate giving isn’t expected to continue throughout the year when PR opportunities are fewer and less available.  Likewise, individual giving drops.  People justify their inaction by complaining they are tapped out.  But the movement of peace doesn’t slow or stop simply because the season is over. It never lacks resources. It doesn’t take a break.  It moves. It has to.

Very shortly, the celebration will be over.

But the cause of peace will go on, feeding the hungry, warming the cold and touching the neglected, with or without you, albeit with less momentum, but never lacking intention.

At this time and at all times, our wish must be

let there be peace on earth, and let it begin with me.

Don’t give up the hope. We can get there.  Vow with me to keep the momentum.