DC Reflections

Light flickering in my grandmother's eyes

St. Paul, Minn. -- I arrived at the party and locked eyes with a little brunette I had to meet. 

"What's your name?," I asked.

"Hailie," she said, with gusto.

"And how old are you?"

"I'm eight. I'm in second grade."

"You doing well in school," I continued. "What subjects do you like?"

"Of course," she said. "And I like English and math."

I don't often connect with young children. Ten and up and able to understand the finer points of executing the wheel play on a baseball field and I'm good. Young ones not so much. But my cousin Hailie and I hit it off and spent much of the day laughing together. She knew she had my number, especially when I asked her for one good reason that I should stop spinning her around and set her down. I asked her for the magic word, naturally expecting to hear offer up a "Please."

"Chris is awesome!," she said, making me laugh so hard I nearly dropped her.

I managed to set her down gently and then turned my attention back to the woman I had traveled 1,100 miles for one day to see -- my 97-year-old maternal grandmother, Myrl. My first hours with grandma had been about as rough as I expected. I had not seen her in more than a decade, her in Minnesota and me in Atlanta until last year. I saw her a lot when I was growing up, though -- first in St. Paul, where I lived from birth to about the age of 3, and then on road trips. She and my grandpa had later moved to Picayune, Mississippi.

I began bracing myself for the trip long before my plane left the ground for the family reunion. I knew her mind was fading; I had spent enough time around the elderly to know there was a good chance she wouldn't recognize me. My Alzheimer's' stricken paternal grandmother didn't know me the last time I saw her, and I've done volunteer work with other folks whose wires no longer connect.

Still, I wanted to show my love and support for a woman whose face used to light up every time she saw me ... a woman who had done so much for so many in her lifetime. (My uncle said she'd some times walk a very long way home after working a late shift at a restaurant so she could save 15 cents on bus fare, then get up and take him, my aunt and my mom on a bus to a pool hours later.) I even allowed myself the faintest hope that I might spark one glimmer of recognition in her eyes, that I could have my grandma back for even a moment That hope dimmed when my mother, aunt and uncle arrived at her assisted living center. She knew them, getting their names right on the first shot.

But she just couldn't make me out.

"Who is this man?," she asked. "He's good looking!"

We all laughed.

"You got the most important part right, Grandma," I said with a smile. "I'm Christopher, your grandson. Diane's son."

Nothing registered but she tried all day long on Saturday to figure me out. It didn't matter to her that she couldn't place a lot of other folks but I could see it bothered her that she couldn't make me out. She couldn't remember taking care of me every day when I was little and my parents were working. Couldn't remember taking me to the hospital when I felt the need for speed on my tricycle and busted my chin: Even my still-visible scar didn't ring a bell.

I didn't take it personally; you can't allow yourself to get rattled around people in that condition. You just have to maintain a happy, loving spirit and convey with your soul what words no longer allow you to express. I tapped into that understanding most heavily when we pulled into the reunion an hour later.

Others were afraid to try to lift my wheelchair bound grandmother out of the car like the man had taught us at the home, but I knew I could do it. I leaned in and tried to put her hands around my shoulders and neck.

She was terrified.

"No!," she screamed, trying to pull back. "Don't touch me, sir. Who are you, who is this man? Please don't touch me!"

She couldn't put up much of a fight and I tried my best to soothe her fears as I bear hugged her and lifted her out of the car and into her chair. 

I kept all my sad thoughts, and the darkness they lent themselves to, out of my mind -- mostly. As hard as it was on me, I knew that seeing grandma like that was a lot harder on her children. I feared there would come a day when I might have to care for my parents the same way, and that they might not recognize me, either.

"But who is that man?," Grandma would ask as if on cue to lighten the mood. "He's good looking!"

Then Hailie would come by and plop herself in my lap, or leave me no choice but to give her my famed "Big Brother Belly Buster" that I used to give my kid brothers at that age. One adult cousin sang for us. Another told jokes. We wolfed down some barbecue. I revisited old times with relatives I had maintained a relationship with, and greeted a great many people I was meeting for the first time.

The sun went down and the reunion drew to a close. Hailie cried when we said goodbye and said she wished we could keep hanging out. Me too, sweetheart, I said. I promised her I'd send her an e-mail soon (she told me she had an address and I could write her) and threw her on my shoulders for a ride to her car. She was heading back to Texas.

I had to get to the airport the next day. My mom, stepfather, uncle, aunt and I went to see grandma on the way.

Grandma resumed the previous day's query with me, continuing to break my mom's heart.

A moment later, something flickered in my grandmother's eyes.

"Christopher?," she asked, hesitantly.

"Yes!," we all said. Her face lit up like a kid at Christmas and she put her arms out so I could slide between them for a hug. She kissed me on the cheek and pressed with her little might on my shoulders.

"I love you, grandma," I said.

"Christopher!," she said, confidently. "I don't believe it."

Tears welled up in my eyes, and adrenalin in my veins, as I had received the gift I didn't think was coming.

We all made small talk and then said our farewells. She said goodbye to each of her children by name, then turned to me.

"Who is this man?", she asked. "He's good looking."

Cherry blossoms -- and tiny loans -- blooming

I'm sitting in my home office on a glorious Cherry Blossomy Saturday but my mind is on a woman in Mexico I've never met. Her name is Susana Gabriela Urbide De La Cruz. A divorced mother of two, she is toiling to grow her business selling tacos and menudos. She's probably slaving over a stove in Santa Catarina right now, her legs tired from who knows how many consecutive days of work without much rest. Susana seems determined to succeed, to provide for her kids and to give them the opportunities all children deserve.

I feel the cross-border connection to Susana because I made a tiny loan to her through Kiva, a great nonprofit organization that makes "loans that change lives" to entrepreneurs in the developing world. I heard about Kiva through praises in The Washington Post last Christmas and decided to give it a try. I chose a loan candidate in Mexico for a couple of reasons -- the sympathy I feel for people struggling to survive in nations south of America's border, my fluency in the language and love for the people who speak it.

Regardless of their destination, dollars lent to people helping themselves are dollars well dedicated. I started with a $25 loan that got pooled with 1,100 other dollars to provide Susana what she needs. She has already repaid me $13 in just a few months, and Kiva sends me regular reports to let me know when a payment has been made back to my account.

Meanwhile, I've started giving Kiva loan certificates as gifts -- encouraging friends and family to get involved. They made for unusually meaningful stocking stuffers last December. My stepmother Roselyn paid tribute to her heritage by making a loan to a tailor in the country of Ivory Coast, on the continent  of Africa. Gombila Kabore has already repaid everyone the $925 he borrowed. Roselyn and my father have since taken the first repaid loan and sent it to a woman in a country I confess I've never heard of -- Tajikistan. That's another benefit of getting involved with Kiva: I'm inspired to learn more about people and places I otherwise would know little about it.

I plan to pass on my first loan when it's paid in full rather than pocketing the money. I'm also going to make a few larger loans in the next few months. After all, it's a form of philanthropy that doesn't really cost anything. Kiva reports microscopic loan default rates so there's not much risk.

And it's so easy.

I go online, pick entrepreneurs to help, and put $25 or $50 or $100 toward the goal of helping people lift themselves out of poverty. In exchange, I get the satisfaction of knowing my money is out there playing a role in solving global economic issues ... while I'm sitting here in my office, listening to music, staring out my window at the pretty trees, and wishing the best for a woman in Mexico I've never met.

(Photo by Paula Trujillo)

Farewell to a man I never met

One of the last threads in the blanket of my childhood memories just got tugged out. It's Sunday afternoon as I write, and broadcaster Skip Caray has bid farewell after calling his final game on a TV network that has carried the Atlanta Braves for 30 years.

Sitting here with a tear in my eye for a man I've never met might seem a little odd. But kids grow up watching their sports stars on TV and listening to the broadcasters who describe their exploits. The stars tend to fade from the sky quickly but the play-by-play guys live on.

I was eight when Skip first starting calling games for the Ted Turner-owned network that ultimately became TBS. The Braves were awful then, yet going to games year after year was a right of passage for the die-hard Atlanta sports fan. The miserable on-field performance usually meant you could buy the cheapest seats and move on down to nicer ones. Ushers didn't seem to mind -- it made the stadium seem less empty. Many people in the stands often had radios because Skip and his colleagues switched back and forth from the TV booth to the radio side. It wasn't enough to see a play with my own eyes; I had to hear Skip describe it.

As a kid, I lived close to the stadium the Braves played in. Sometimes, my dad and I would walk to a game. We'd pass the guy in a wheelchair selling pencils, me never quite knowing how I should react when he weakly lifted the box for passersby to inspect. We'd get a mound of roasted peanuts and a Coke and head on in to see if the Braves could pull off a win. In the days before political correctness overtook the country, Chief Noc-a-Homa would dance on the pitcher's mound and run all the way to the outfield fence. He was faster than any human being I ever saw, and he ignited the crowd every night -- no matter how weakly his team would inevitably play. (The Braves had a different mascot then, too, and it also disappeared in to the night.)

My dad and I were also in the stands for one of the most historic nights in the history of baseball -- the fateful day when then-beloved Charlie Hustle (Pete Rose, for you non-sports types) brought a 44-consecutive game hit streak to Atlanta Fulton County Stadium. The place was packed on August 1, 1978, and many if not most Braves fans were pulling for him to continue his march toward breaking the record of 56 set by Joe DiMaggio.

Rose hit one foul ball that was headed straight to my hands. My heart pounded as I watched the ball zero in on me like destiny, only to hit an electrical wire 10 feet over my head and leave me crestfallen. I felt the same when Atlanta reliever Gene Garber struck Rose out in the ninth inning. I was 9 at the time; I still have the ticket stub from that game. The same is true for the gift tickets I had as an adult for a game that got canceled. It was September 11, 2001.

I don't remember being able to hear a radio as Rose stormed off, mad at the world for Garber throwing him a tough pitch instead of a meaty fastball, but I would listen to Skip for many more years. He even had for a while the double misfortune of calling the yet more abysmal Atlanta Hawks basketball team. I couldn't help but feel sympathy for a man sentenced to such a fate.

Skip fought through the misery with an exceptionally dry humor that made games bearable even when hopes of victory were rare. "We head into the bottom of another fifth," said Skip, a man who didn't mind a good drink.

I got older, and the Braves got better. I hung on every one of Skip's words as the Braves went from worst to first one season, making it to some alien-sounding concept called "the playoffs". The "Tomahawk Chop" became all the rage, fans thrusting their arms forward and signaling to other teams they were doomed. Skip was just thrilled something other than the long-cliche "wave" had captured fans' attention. Skip still hates the wave.

No matter what was going on in my life, Skip was there. Jobs would come and go, girls would break my heart, friends died ... and Skip was there. I finished college and Skip was still doing games. I moved to Alaska and cranked up the TV volume while I stood outside barbecuing moose with a sauce my stepmom taught me how to make from scratch.

I moved to Spain and lamented I could not hear Skip describe one of the greatest-ever Braves moments; I had to read about slow-footed Sid Bream sliding home to beat the Pirates in the International Herald Tribune. The play in the seventh game of the National League Championship Series sent the Braves to the World Series in 1992.

Baseball players went on strike in 1994 and I was done with baseball. I haven't bought a ticket since. Millionaires who get paid to play a sport for a living going on strike, thinking they deserve as much financial reward as the entrepreneur who takes the risk to build the business ... well, that just doesn't sit well with me. I never forgave baseball players for that, and the refrain of a great song from either that or a previous strike year still play in my mind -- "Winfield, Garvey, Rose -- stick it up your nose."

The Braves demolishing a stadium I grew up in only further irritated me. My disdain for the players aside, I would still sometimes tune in just to hear Skip. Whether life was good or bad, Skip was there. I needed him most when I was down on my luck ... when the gentle, soothing tone of his voice would make me feel normal again. Like things would get better.

I read in a newspaper that today would be TBS's last national Braves telecast, and that Skip would be in the booth one last time. He is still going to do a few local games but I live in D.C. now, so I decided I'd sit through an entire game just to spend the day him.

I sat there watching a Braves team working its way back toward sour apple days, but it didn't matter. Skip was doing the game with his son, a fine broadcaster in his own right who will continue on with the network. Skip reminisced about old times, a great many of them we had been through together. He got choked up, as did I, when he thanked all the fans for the support they've showed him when his spirits were down.

An Atlanta batter struck out to complete a loss in the ninth, just like the Braves of old. Skip pronounced the end of an era and the turning of a page.

I turned off the TV, letting the sounds of my childhood caress my ears one last time.

Michael Vick hasn't even begun to get what he deserves

Take a good look at this dog's face. This is the kind of damage admitted dogfighter Michael Vick has caused animals for the past SIX YEARS. The man fought, tortured and killed innocent animals. He gave his blessing, if not his own hands, to drowning them, electrocuting them, and slamming their heads into the ground.

And yet after he speaks for a whopping 4.5 minutes today, it seems like half of America is ready to forgive him. To that portion of the population, I ask this: Are you really that stupid? What part of your moral character is so misguided that you think someone who tortures animals for SIX YEARS should be forgiven because for the first time in his life, he accepts a bit of responsibility for his outrageously offensive actions?

ESPN's Chris Berman continues to refer to the case as a "tragedy". Berman should be fired today, as should many journalists and commentators who so greatly mis-characterize the Vick story. September 11 was a tragedy. A child getting abused is a tragedy. A flood wiping out an entire city is a tragedy. An over-paid, over-hyped athlete with an already long track record of vile behavior going to jail for reprehensible actions he committed ... that is not a tragedy. The SIX YEARS of engaging in that behavior is an abomination, and anyone thinking Michael Vick did something worthy of praise today is sadly mistaken.

Vick should not get praised when he is so boxed into a corner and fighting so desperately for his own career that he finally stops hiding behind his OJ Simpson-esque legal team and PR hacks. Vick shouldn't get praised because because he spoke for four whole minutes "without notes", as too many reporters chirped today. You're not "being a man" when you're saying anything to save your own skin. Not after telling lies for months. Not after trying to proclaim to the world you would prove your innocence. Not after telling a local TV reporter about how much "the world" loves Michael Vick.

I'm going to scream if I hear one more idiot refer to Vick has having made "a" mistake. Vick didn't make "a" mistake in the heat of one moment. He tortured innocent animals for at least SIX YEARS that we know of. Cheating on your spouse one time is "a" mistake that, if you should be so lucky, you might be forgiven for. But imagine that your husband or wife says, "I've had an affair with 65 or so people for the past six years. It was 'a' mistake. Forgive me, OK?"

You're going to forgive your spouse for that in five minutes? Hell no. You're going to kick that pig or slut to the curb.

Imagine an employee comes to you and says, "I have been stealing money from your company for SIX YEARS. I made 'a' mistake."

I guarantee you that you're not going to see it as "a" mistake. You're going to fire that person in a heartbeat.

All Michael Vick did today was confess what had already become clear: He's a miscreant. A thug. That's all we saw in 4.5 minutes today.

And Michael Vick was a poster who should have come down a long time ago. This is the same man who, given the keys to a major sports franchise and who had to understand what comes with cashing $130 million in paychecks:

• Knowingly gave a woman a sexually transmitted disease
• Made an obscene gesture to fans in his own stadium because he couldn't stand the heckling
• Walked into an airport with a bottle that a secret compartment containing a marijuana-like substance (evidence that mysteriously disappeared)
• Blew off an opportunity to speak to Congress because he couldn't be bothered to make the trip
• Threw his teammates under the bus in so many interviews I lost track. Last year's HBO interview in which he claimed he was as good as now Super Bowl champ Peyton Manning and three-time Super Bowl champ Tom Brady was stunning even for Vick. He said he often wished he played with other teams' players. This is the same guy who has the lowest pass completion percentage of any starting QB in the league with more than 500 passes thrown. He's an over-hyped player who for years has fooled his idiot fans by making them believe that "exciting" equals "effective". So he set the single-season QB rushing record -- big deal. The Falcons still had a losing season, and have never had two consecutive winning seasons with him at the helm.

Michael Vick breaks his silence for 4.5 lousy minutes and people already want to start forgiving the guy for SIX YEARS of vile, criminal, reprehensible behavior?

If you think one little neck-saving speech aimed at trying to lessen his jail time and save a now floundering career is praiseworthy, you've lost your damn mind.

Hurt a human being or an innocent animal and you should be in jail for a good long time. The whopping 4.5 minutes of discomfort he experienced today does not warrant forgiveness. Let him pay his debt to society then we can talk about redemption. For now, Michael Vick hasn't even begun to get what he deserves. The animal graveyard at his Virginia home can attest to that.

Cleanup on aisle six

Speeding through a Giant grocery store in Silver Spring, I got through the first few aisles in record time. Behind a cart, I am Speed Racer. I get in, stock up, and get out. Got many other things in life I'm more interested in doing than grocery shopping.

By about the fourth aisle, I had to slow down. A very old woman hunched so far forward I thought she was falling down was hanging on to the edge of her cart. She shuffled her feet no more than a few inches at a time while her 50-something-year-old son gently guided her forward.

I couldn't help but stare.

As we danced around the spaghetti sauce section, the son asked his mom what kind she wanted. She had very specific thoughts on that subject and on every other item she needed. She also wanted to see and touch everything along the way.

I might have lost my mind moving at that pace. The man never did.

Inch by inch it was. No question was left unanswered. No deliberation was too long. Had he left his mom at home and done the shopping for her, he could have been in and out in 30 minutes. He could have already been en route back to his wife and kids or anyplace else he needed to be.

I am still learning my way around that store so I had to retrace my steps a few times -- noticing on each passing the gentleness of the man's voice and the love in his heart. For a split second, I allowed in the thoughts so many people my age begin to have ... thinking of the inevitable future in which my parents will begin to decline. I watched them suffer miserably when they lost three of my grandparents. I can not imagine the emptiness I will confront when I endure the same trauma.

When my parents' bodies do begin to break down, I thought, I want to be like that man. I want to be able to put the hustle and bustle of the daily grind behind and help my parents fight to remain as active as they can be for as long as they can.

I completed my circuit and headed toward the automatic doors. "Cleanup on aisle six," the intercom blared. I figured that was about where the two were by that point. I suspected the old woman must have knocked something over. She must have felt horrible. Her son, though ... I knew it wouldn't phase him a bit. He would make it all better, just as she did for him a lifetime ago.

"Uninhabitable for human beings"

A neighbor asked me yesterday if I saw the condemnation sign on a house up the street.

I hadn't noticed.

"The sign said the house was 'uninhabitable for human beings' -- and everything in it was gone," Thomas said. "Did you have a chance to meet the old man who lived there?"

I hadn't.

"I didn't really know him," he continued. "I'd see him out walking around sometimes wearing just his bathrobe. He was always smiling and he seemed happy but I guess he died in the house and a long time went by before anybody knew it."

Thomas and I stared at each other in silence, the same questions likely entering each of our minds simultaneously. How is it possible any human being can be dead for an extended length of time without a single person caring? Did he not have one friend or relative in the world who missed him? Can you imagine what the authorities must have found to declare a house uninhabitable for human beings?

The cloud of sadness lingered in the air between us. We both got spooked and forgot for a moment that we are blessed by an abundance of friends and family who would most certainly notice if they had not heard from us. We both pictured what we might look like 50 years from now walking around in bathrobes and talking to no one in particular. And what if we didn't have friends and family? We could be that man.

What a crappy way to die.

The tears she was holding back

Standing in line to pay my veterinary bill after finding out my half-husky Alexis may have more serious problems than an upset stomach, the environment was bringing back painful memories of the last time I was in a vet's office ... back home, saying goodbye to my first dog, Orion, just six months ago.

Despite my fidgeting and discomfort, I noticed someone who was in worse shape -- a young black woman sitting all alone in an office surrounded by white people. She dabbed a tissue to the corners of her eyes trying to fight back the flood I knew was there. No one else paid her any attention as the people whose pets were doing the worst had come in pairs.

I fought the urge to flee my memories the second I signed Alexis out; I knew I had to reach out to her. No one else was going to.

I've only been here a few weeks and I worried the woman might think I was crazy for approaching her. But that's what we do back in the South.

I thought just maybe I had something to say that could put her pain in perspective.

"Ma'am," I said, not sure exactly what words were to follow. "I think I might know what you're going through and I wanted to talk to you. Do you have a dog or a cat?"

She took several gulps of air before she could get a word out. I told her to take her time.

Thank you, she said. He's a dog. A puppy. He's just a few weeks old.

"What's wrong with him?"

"He isn't eating. He can't lift his head up. I don't think he's going to make it. He's been back there a long time. I'm a nurse. I help sick people every day. But I've never understood the human-animal bond before. I never had a pet. I've never been responsible for the entire care of another living being. Now I've got this puppy and he might not make it."

I put my hand on her shoulder and asked if I could share with her what I had been through lately, in case it might provide something she can later find comfort in.

"Yes," she uttered. "Please."

"I know this is hard to hear right now," I began, cautiously. "But I lost my dog this year. We were together for 10 years."

"What kind was he?"

"A pure-breed husky with blue eyes like mine," I explained, breathing slowly and trying to keep myself composed, strong and positive for this woman I had known for two minutes. He was about 13 and had just gotten a clean bill of health on his checkup. But a few weeks later, he had either a heart attack or a stroke. I still miss him terribly."

She peeled her eyes wide open hoping there was something more to the story.

"I still talk to him every day," I continued. "He's still in my heart. He always will be. But I've learned something from all of this. First, though, this vet has a great reputation. If there is anything that can be done, this place will make your dog stronger. I just moved here and I have heard great things about this hospital. So you need to stay strong while they do their work. But know this: one way or another, your dog won't be in pain. He's either going to make it and you're going to have a great life together, or he's going to go on to heaven and grow big and strong up there. Just like my Orion, he's going to keep an eye on you for the rest of your life. He's going to look out for you. And you know what's even better?"

"What?"

"One day, you'll see him again. I believe that now. I do."

"Yes," she affirmed. "All God's creatures go to heaven."

"I know this is hard, but it's harder on us than it is on our dogs. One way or another, they're going to be happy. We're not going to let them suffer. We're not going to let them be in pain. And I am absolutely certain the dogs we care for are grateful for the time we spend with them ... that each dog we have in our lives, for however much time, is a dog that we can take care of better than anybody else. So hang in there. Stay strong for your puppy. But know either way, he's not going to be in pain. He's going to be happy."

I reached out to hug the stranger just as my friends held me as I grieved for Orion. She sobbed onto my shoulder for a minute, finally opening the dam.

She caught her breath, looked me in the eyes, and thanked me again for sharing the story.

I headed out the door and gave Alexis a hug as I told her I couldn't stand it if I lost both of my dogs in the same year.

She looked at me with those Tootsie Roll brown eyes of hers and conveyed a very clear message.

"You stay strong," she said. "But hit the gas already. I'm hungry and it's time for a walk."