Well, it’s official.  I’m a girl who craves a happy ending.  Not that I ever really doubted it.  But, Sunday afternoon, as I was lounging on my red couch (that severely needs to be replaced), I switched over to the AMC channel.  A list of upcoming movies flashed on the screen.  It was a day of Paul Newman movies…a tribute to the recently lost - and incredibly handsome actor.  The next showing?  Hud.  One of my father’s favorite movies.  I’d never seen the classic, and in an attempt to dive into my father’s early adult head, I decided to continue my couch-lazing and take it all in.

The movie began.  Hud’s teenage nephew, Lonnie, disembarked from an ancient bus onto the streets of the small Texas town in which he lived.  He was on a quest to find his uncle, who had apparently left a path of destruction behind him after a night of partying in the tiny town outside his father’s ranch.  It was clear that Hud was a force to be reckoned with.  His well-deserved reputation seemed both revered and hated by the townspeople, and as his nephew tracked him down in the light of early morning - pulling on his boots as he exited the home of a local married woman - my stomach turned a flip, then a flop.  Because even in the poor lighting of an old black and white film, this man was breathtakingly beautiful.  With a cocky smile and crystal clear eyes, he expertly sidestepped the wrath of the just-arrived-home husband, blamed his presence on his unsuspecting nephew, and screeched off with the confused boy in tow.

Without the luxury of a commercial to take it all in (something meant to be a “plus” on this channel), I lay there wondering, what was it about this man, this character, that so captivated my father?  I suspect my father was, as a young man, much like he is today. Unrelentingly moral, balanced with just the right mix of bone dry humor and a hint of mischievousness.  Nothing like Hud really, who was anything but moral…but maybe that was the appeal.  There’s something about a man, any person really, who doesn’t give a damn how his actions affect the people and the world around him.  We witness their outlandish antics with judgment and sometimes disgust…but we watch, don’t we?  We give them power.  Because there’s something incredibly interesting about the train wreck.  We wonder how they got there…to this place where empathy and foresight are nonexistent.  Was it a tough childhood? In Hud’s case, he lost his mother at a young age.  He killed his brother in a car accident.  We have empathy, even though they may not.  Through our outward mask of disgust, we root for them to climb into the cacoon a slimy worm, and reemerge a beautiful butterfly.

“What is it about Hud that you liked so much?” I finally asked my father, tired of formulating my own baseless opinion.

“It was the setting.”

“Really?” I asked.  “What do you mean?”

“It was so much like where I grew up.  A small, sometimes lifeless town.  Not much going on.  The landscape not horrible, but somewhat barren and sad.  And the people…Hud’s father…a quiet moral man.  A farmer…rancher.  I knew a hundred men like that.  I still remember where I was when I saw that movie,” he said.

“Where?”

“In Lubbock, Texas, at a drive-in movie theatre.  It was 1963.”

“Who were you there with?” I asked, always digging for dirt.

“No one,” he said.  “I was by myself.  I wanted to see it…so I went.  I thought it was the most amazing movie I’d ever seen.  Still do.”

“Why?”

“It was so expertly cast.  You hated Hud, but Newman played him so perfectly…you wanted him to succeed…you wanted him to finally ‘get it’.”

“But he didn’t,” I said.  “I hated that ending.  I wanted him to get it.”

“But that’s life, kiddo.  Some folks never do.”

“I think you’re like Lonnie,” I said.  “He looked up to Hud in a way…he, like everyone else, was drawn to his ‘bad boy’ ways. He wanted to hang with him, thought he wanted to live that exciting life.  But in the end, he was more like his grandfather…a moral man, and he finally realized that Hud was just pathetic…not someone to be revered or to emulate.  Someone to pity.”

I thought of my dad watching that movie - alone at that Lubbock drive-in.  He must have been months, or possibly weeks away from marrying my mother.  He must’ve seen that movie as his past, and wondered what would happen as he looked toward the future - much like Lonnie did as he walked away from his old life, and Hud.  Just a young man, hoping to do better, scared that he may not be able to.  But with that youthful confidence we all wish we could regain.  The confidence which stems from inexperience…naivete.

If I think about where Lonnie’s life may have taken him…I see success.  Because he would likely take with him the best of all those from his past…even Hud.  Just a little bit of arrogance and that certain twinkle, but balanced by his grandfather’s goodness and hope and a responsibility to do right.  I think that’s why, in the end, I liked Lonnie so much.  He reminded me of my father.  And if I followed Lonnie’s life in my mind…one that may have taken a very similar path to my dad’s, I see a happy ending.  I get my happy ending.

Mom and I are off to Amarillo…to be by Kaye’s side as they lay her grandson to rest. 

I received an email from her yesterday (in response to my last blog entry) and as I struggled to read it through the endless stream of tears, two words kept running through my mind - over and over and over again: steel magnolias.  And I realized, once again, how lucky women are.  How in the deepest, darkest of moments, we are able to melt the tension away - with a home-cooked meal, or a perfectly-timed expletive, or a tension-melting comment.  The pain doesn’t disappear, but for a few precious moments, we feel alive again.  We think, “maybe I can get through this.”

“I hope these tears are a help to healing,” Kaye wrote. ”Otherwise, they’re just tearing the hell out of my sinuses.”  God, I love her for that.

Women are healers, don’t you agree?  They are the glue that binds it all together.  Families.  Friendships.  Organizations.  Celebrations - for those living and for those to whom we’re saying goodbye.  It’s what we do.  It’s what makes us so very special.  And on those days when I wish I could pee standing up, or bring in a comparable salary or have control over the dating game, I remember.  I remember how lucky we are.  I look back at pictures of girl’s weekends or weddings or the beauty of my sister’s belly as she carried my precious nephew.  I revel in the thought of my mother’s fingers stroking my hair, or huddling together with friends for that latest juicy tidbit, or spilling the beans - for hours - about the beautiful boy I just met…or just “re-met”.

As I was packing this morning, I wondered, “Does Kaye have waterproof mascara?  I’ll bring some just in case.  And I better pick up some eye-makeup remover.  Curel lotion doesn’t do the trick on the tear-resistant stuff.  I should bring my camera as well.  So I can show her the pics from my girl’s get-together last Saturday…she’ll get a kick out of the one we slyly snapped of the guy with the hair plugs.  And then we’ll start talking about dirty old men.  And for a moment…just a moment…the tears will come from a different place.”  Steel Magnolias.  That’s what we are.

Tomorrow we’ll stand shoulder to shoulder, hands clenched together, as Kaye and her daughter do the unthinkable.  We’ll cry without embarrassment, embrace those that love us most, share precious memories and then maybe, a little later, when exhaustion sets in, we’ll pee with laughter at the absurdity of old pervy bastards.

My dearest “Aunt” Kaye:  Let me first say that we love you more than you will ever know.  That we are here for you, just as we always have been and just as you always have been in return. 

I spent this past weekend with my girlfriends and was prepared to draft up a cute post about our goofy escapades.  But Mom called me yesterday.  And she told me about the accident.  And now the only thing I can think of is how I wish we were with you - somehow helping to ease the burden - even a tiny bit - of your breaking heart.

Please know this.  You couldn’t be a better grandmother.  You couldn’t have loved or cherished or supported him more.  Through all the hard times, when he may not have shown it, he knew.  He always knew.  Don’t ever doubt that.

I won’t pretend to know what you must be going through.  I won’t tell you it will get better or that time will heal all wounds.  He was your first grandbaby.  You were his “Gams”.  And you were a damn good one.  In these tough days, weeks, months ahead…remember that first day, the first smile, the first steps and first words.  Remember his funny little quirks, the overnight visits and how much he adored you.  That was his true soul, Kaye.  From the mouth of babes, they always say.  Remember those times…

We love you and will soon be there by your side.

I’m back from western Oklahoma where I witnessed the once sleepy Elk City/Hammon area transformed into a thriving boom town (thanks to deep gas wells and soon-to-be monstrous windmills). Recession be damned. I also survived two hours in a torrential rain storm on the runway of the Houston Hobby airport…with a two-year-old. I caught up on the latest Wynn-family gossip, ate my body weight in home made desserts and stood guard as several of my cousins helped my father bury the ashes of his old friend, Max, and Max’s mother, Velma in our tiny family cemetary in Carpenter.

“People will wonder how these two Germans ended up in our Welsh-filled graveyard,” my father said with a smile.

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What do you say to the man who has never - not once - made you feel unloved?  Not even for a second…a nano-second…a half-a-blink of an eye.  Never.  I’ve been a bit headstrong at times (I’m being laughed at right now for severely downplaying this trait).  It’s possible my “terrible twos” were, well, terrible.  And my teenage years?  Try multiplying the difficulty of my terrible twos by a thousand.  Then multiply it again.  You’ve just reached the half-way point of what a pain-in-the-ass I was.  But through it all…through the tantrums and rolled eyes and missed “thank-yous”, my father’s unwavering support never faltered.  Even when I didn’t deserve his devotion…he was there.  And on the few occasions he did lose his cool (which was more than warranted, by the way), I truly believe the strong words were harder on him than me.

I don’t have a full library of vivid memories from childhood.  I certainly have plenty, but they’re not overflowing.  And I have a theory on this:  My childhood couldn’t have been better.  I couldn’t have been happier.  I couldn’t have been nurtured more, or taught more, or loved with more intensity.  Were I to remember every amazingly content day I experienced in those early years of life, my brain would have exploded or, at the very least, been unable to pack in the adult-sized memories to come. 

There are, however, a few gems that do stand out.  One of which is the time my Dad lost his cool with a neighbor.  The man - who was a bit odd, to say the least - was annoyed by the branches of a beautiful tree in our yard that hung over his side of the fence.  Before heading out to a swim team meet (go Memorial Northwest Marlins!), my Dad gave the strange bird permission to trim the limbs “invading his space”.  When we returned from the meet - sunburned, waterlogged and exhausted - we found that the tree had been cut down…completely.  The psycho had come into our yard and cut it down.  To say that my father was angry, would be the understatement to trump all understatements.  I’m not sure I’d ever seen that color of red on a human face, or heard the string of expletives that poured from his mouth.  My mother quickly shuffled my sister and I inside.  And even though I was surprised by my father’s uncharacteristic loss of temper, I knew in my gut, even as a young child, that this wasn’t about a tree.  This was about fairness.  And the difference between right and wrong.  And standing up for what you believe in.  This was the classic battle between good and evil.  I knew then, as I had every day before and have every day since, that my “Pops” is as good as it gets.

Through decades of a successful business career, when he could have sold out, fallen prey to greed, backstabbed or manipulated, he chose the high road.  To those in his industry, he was known as extremely intelligent, a gifted businessman, and most importantly, trustworthy.  He was on the fast track, and at a time when he could have taken the private jet to CEO glory, he chose a different, much less gilded path…he stepped down to allow my mother to blossom.  He built an office above the garage, became a private investor and a stay-at-home dad.  He gave my mother the opportunity to finish grad school and realize her dream of becoming a Psychotherapist. 

Through my junior high and high school years (not my glory days, to put it mildly) he carted me around, answered the call from the school nurse when I was knocked down by menstrual cramps, and signed (begrudgingly) my detention slips.

“How do you get ten tardies in two weeks?” he’d ask.  “What in the world is so important that it can’t wait until after school to be discussed?”

Look, I said he was committed and present, not that he developed breasts or a female mentality.

I’m not entirely sure why my father chose to take the detour he did.  I think he felt guilty that - in his mind at least - he hadn’t been around enough in our early years…that he’d spent too much time climbing the corporate ladder - working to ensure his children would never know the hardships of a poor, small-town Oklahoma farm boy.  I remember it differently, of course.  I don’t recall his absence.  I just remember his electric presence when he was there.  Testament, I believe, to the fact that quality is much more important than quantity.

As a father, my Dad is off the charts, but more importantly, he’s the best man I’ve ever met.  Probably the greatest man I will ever know.  His quick wit…his sharp, logical mind and passionate thirst for knowledge…his gut-level sense of right and wrong…his open and ever-expanding heart and his unwavering support and powerful devotion to our family…it’s all an amazing gift that, selfishly, I never want to lose.  And so I don’t even let my mind go there, because even the thought of it brings me to tears.  And I don’t feel like crying.  I prefer to believe that medical geniuses will soon find a way to extend the average human life to 120.  Because maybe when I’m 90, I can imagine a life without the daily phone calls, the smartass comments, and the invaluable advice.  Yeah…right.

So, Pops, on the eve of your birthday and Father’s Day, I say this to you (without concern that the rest of cyberspace is spying):  I love you.  I always have and I always will.  I humbly thank you for everything you have taught me, and everything you will teach me in the future.  There is not a day that goes by that I don’t thank God that He chose you, Mom and Kim to guide me through this world.  And I am so proud to say I’m your daughter. 

If, at the end of my days, I’m half as loved and respected as you are, my life will have been a rousing success.  Yours?  Well, yours is a grand slam.  And as far as I’m concerned, you’re a good twelve outs from the 7th inning stretch.

One last promise:  I will have that damn book done by next week.  Or I will cause you immense bodily harm for sending another reminder smiley via IM.  One or the other.

P.S.  For those of you who have spent any time with my family, you know that I’m doubly blessed…that my wonderful mother deserves just as much praise…and she will get it.  I’m thinking a Mother’s Day tribute in July.  Keep on the lookout, Momma…I love you.