Papa and Little One: Recent Episodes
Michael Persson
If you had the opportunity to deliver a voice message to the future generations of your family, what would you tell them about the life you've lived and the world you've lived in? What would you share about all that you've learned and have come to believe? The episodes of this podcast are excerpts taken from messages recorded by a grandfather for his young granddaughter, so that she will always be able to hear his voice, even long after his own life has passed. A unique legacy best described as "Messages for life, love, and learning, delivered across time."
There is nothing more rewarding than when we see our children and grandchildren embrace cherished family traditions. Often they are the events and customs of our most endearing holidays. But, what I really love, is creating new traditions, big or small, forever weaving more colorful threads into the beautiful fabric of our way of life. Whether at home, on vacation, or during a fun filled calendar of seasonal events and festivals in the regions where we live. There is nothing quite like the excitement that comes with having something special to look forward to and experience. For this poem I have endeavored to express the wonderful times when my beloved granddaughter, visits our home for a long and glorious weekend, filled with traditions, old and new. Stories, games, colorful art, sunshine, tasty meals, outdoor activities, and gardens are all the things we experience and do. Beginning with the ringing of our very own Liberty Bell. And what a feeling for me, as Papa, when I see her beaming smile, enjoying every single moment of her days with us. As sure as the sun will always rise, so will the life, love, learning, and laughter rooted in our family’s creative heritage and rich traditions.
Without a doubt, there is an insatiable fascination with the extraordinary structures of every architectural interpretation that dot the surface of our world. Particularly, for those us who are from well-traveled societies, mainly America and Europe. No question there is something uniquely exotic about having the opportunity to view, first hand, worldwide monuments, some of which date all the way back to antiquity. However, history does tell us that only one of seven wonders of the ancient world still stand today. The Pyramids of Giza. And even though they have endured, unlike, for example, the Hanging Gardens of Babylon or the Colossus of Rhodes, the Egyptian dynasties that actually built them have long since passed from prominence. In the same way, the ancient emperors who built the Great Wall of China and the Royals who built Windsor no longer reign as they once did. Nonetheless, there is a profound and persistent tendency of many nations, as well as, religions to revere locations they deem sacred to either their cause or reputed origin. I must say, writing this poem was particularly enjoyable. As it slowly evolved over the course of about three weeks I began to see a wonderful opportunity to use these icons, symbols, and philosophical sentiments to express a very different message about a very different kind of empire. The one that will always last, now and forever. The one that lives in the midst of all the others. The one that we will always honor in my home. Regardless of where that may be.
Beginning with my early adult life in Arizona, taking walks has always been very important and rewarding for me. Whether it was on the many paths of Dreamy Draw Mountain Preserve in Phoenix, Soldier’s Pass in Sedona, the lanes along the Arizona Canals, or even the quiet streets of Sonoran Mountain Ranch, I always enjoyed the opportunity to walk and talk with my thoughts. Morning or late evening, feeling the springtime warmth or the approaching season of Fall was absolutely soul lifting. And, as much as, I have enjoyed a lifetime of swimming, whenever the occasion afforded it, walking is truly the finest form of exercise for the body and the mind. I must say, those who walk for the health benefits and yet listen either to music or a podcast are, in my estimation, missing out on the richest part of the experience. To clear one’s mind. And now, living in the Finger Lakes of New York, the richness of village life during the four seasons coupled with unparalleled sights and sounds when taking long walks, has sent me back home to the spirit of my life growing up among the brave working class of the Ohio River Valley north of Pittsburgh. As James Taylor sang, “Sunny days I thought would never end.” And by the grace of the Good Lord, I now understand that they never did. Even when it rained.
Regardless of our age, loneliness is a desperate feeling for anyone to endure. No matter how brief or how long it may last. The causes are many. The solution is one. Love. Even if only in your memory, find that someone who always loved you, unconditionally. Just as I will always be, no matter when, no matter where, for my beloved granddaughter, a uniquely creative and sensitive child who, I have no doubt, will someday grow into a brilliant, bright, and wonderful woman.
Many years ago, I had the occasion to briefly share an elevator with four professional basketball players while in Phoenix, Arizona. Now, I should tell you that Iam 6’5”, which when compared to the average man, I am aptly described as tall. But in that elevator for those few seconds, I was patently small. Proving that it is only by comparison that anything is defined, including us. Whether it be objective, which is quantitative, or subjective, which is supposed to be qualitative. However, the factor which now greatly diminishes the validity of subjective comparisons is that those who are viewed as the pinnacle of their respective form, are all too often based solely on their social notoriety. Not the ‘quality’ of their skill, creativity or knowledge. Therefore, don’t be lured in by a desire for main stream public approval. Remember, today’s cultural appetite for social adoration, laden with prejudiced peer reviews, is not now nor will it ever be, the true measure of the uniqueness of you.
I have always felt the worst nightmare for any parent would be to outlive their child. I cannot imagine the grief for those who have experienced such a heart wrenching loss. And yet, now more than ever, I have become acutely aware of the other side of the proverbial coin. Dying before my time and not having the opportunity to do everything I possibly can for my beloved granddaughter and her baby sister. For many years, I have contributed to St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital. Where faith in God and the miracle of science have joined together to fight for every single child who have received their exceptional care, fruitful research, and servant love. May the Good Lord bless every single individual who works there and, of course, the extraordinary man who will forever be remembered as the genesis of its divine mission, Danny Thomas.
A radio broadcast, nationally syndicated during the late 1980s, spawned legions of followers who became known to agree with everything that was postulated about socio-political issues. As the story goes, during the early days a caller into the show, and there were many of them, responded to the hosts comments by simply saying “ditto”. What followed soon after was the cultural creation known as, Ditto Heads. A moniker rabidly mocked by the social and political left as a symbol of mindless conservative minions. And yet today, we clearly see a new form of blind allegiance as so many are now spending most of their time on social media simply retweeting the views of those they idolize. I have no doubt this phenomenon comprises the majority of all postings. Which leads to another question. Why is it that a blessing, and broadcast media is certainly one of them, always walks hand in hand with a curse?
Consider this; our greatest blessing as Americans, personal freedom, was exactly the weapon used by nineteen foreign terrorists, who quietly and freely boarded airliners on 9/11 and then proceeded to kill nearly three thousand people without firing a single shot. So then how do we eliminate the curse? In the case of that fateful day more than twenty years ago, we have unrelentingly built a society of electronic surveillance that today monitors virtually every aspect of our personal behavior, and now, even our beliefs and opinions. Effective? Sure. Slowly eroding, if not eliminating the blessing of personal freedom as well as free speech? Absolutely. All the while creating a perfect haven for faceless hate driven rhetoric cloaked as enlightened views.
I have lived sixty-six years and yet I can only think of one time when I cried instinctively. Five years ago, when I witnessed firsthand, the very second a beloved pet passed away. When her eyes quietly closed and her tiny head gently laid down for the last time, I immediately began to cry. No warning at all. Natural and true, heartbreaking, and yet, liberating. As quickly as it started, it stopped. Nothing quite like I had ever experienced before. I can only imagine what it must be like to witness a loved one actually take their last breath and then pass away. This poem is my humble attempt to understand one of the most extraordinary threads woven into the fabric of our hearts and minds.
What was once described as Mob Psychology, during the 1960s, has now evolved into the more current titles of Herd Mentality and Group Think, to name just two. However, the study of this social phenomenon dates back much further, to the middle of the 19th century, and remains the same. People will often follow the most sensationalized public view, with little or no regard to its validity. The burning desire to be a part of the latest rage of thought, blissfully believing it to be new and true, is far too great to give way to common sense, history, and now, even science. Nonetheless, in the same manner people doubt the very origin of our species, others spend endless static energy raising every possible question, even those which have already been irrefutably answered. All the while convincing our society’s most naïve to blindly join them by seductively labeling this treadmill of superficial thought as progress. Never considering, even for a single moment, that the genesis of what we are and why we were endowed with the ability to think, began at the exact same time in the exact same place for the exact same reason. And that will never change.
Many years ago, as a student, I heard the venerated poem “If” by Kipling. The truth is, I never understood the need for a young male to successfully pass through a gauntlet of random statements before he could be considered a man. However, during these most peculiar times, we are now faced with the renewed need to illuminate what it takes for a girl to become a woman. Inspired by my young granddaughter, I wrote this poem for her and for every precious child born as female.
A month before my radiation treatments for throat cancer were set to begin, my youngest granddaughter was born. A day or two later, when she was brought home from the hospital, I held her, asleep, cradled in my arm. Her delicate little hands gently folded under her chin. In that moment, both hope and fear cascaded down on me, culminating in a single question. Will I survive long enough for this precious child to have any memory of me? This poem, entitled The Day When I See, relives that daunting moment in time.
What a story right now in the NFL. Brock Purdy. Third string rookie at the beginning of the year, now leading the 49ers on a Super Bowl run. You gotta love it. In the words of Pat Benatar, “Sometimes the good guys finish first.” No doubt Purdy is surrounded by a good team and he knows it. When interviewed, he’s all about We, never I. Not bad for a young man drafted last, earning him the quirky nickname, Mr. Irrelevant. What I liked is when playing the Seahawks, he caught the attention of Lebron James, who captured him perfectly on Twitter. “PURDY GOT GAME!!!!!!!!!”
No More Mr. I Guy
Not the greatest arm. Not the quickest on his feet.
Not a big guy either. But hey, a young man tough to beat.
Faith, Family, Football. Like many other players, he’s got it all.
And smart enough to know only with his team does he stand tall.
A year ago, the last pick in the draft.
But now the 49ers, who rolled those dice, have the last laugh.
Brock Purdy. Rookie QB leading an amazing run.
Another one of those guys who just gets the job done.
Mr. Irrelevant? Hahaha. Not anymore.
When you hear him talk, it is no more Mr. I Guy that you can sure.
Today, there are many stats to measure a player’s impact.
But, leave it to King James of NBA fame, to look beyond the numbers and say it best.
Purdy Got Game. A statement of fact. Above all the rest.
During the summer of 1995, I had the occasion to take a one-hour helicopter tour in Hawaii. Departing from the airport on Maui we had a perfect Birdseye view of the renowned resort destinations along the Kaanapali coast and the less traveled island of Lanai across the nine-mile ocean channel. However, it was on the far side of the third island, Molokai, where, from high above, we could see the small array of buildings along the northern shore that, more than a century earlier, housed the leper colony of Father Damien. In the fourth stanza of this poem, I make reference to the many words of Milton, written during the 17th century regarding the fall of humankind in the Garden of Eden, and then contrast it to the one word that is the foundation of the Christian faith, which I reveal at the end of the fifth stanza. Sacrifice. With respect to my reference to a place I would be destined to know in the third stanza, I am not speaking about either the island or the colony, but rather a place of faith where they once were and I now am when any of us are challenged by the spectre of a potentially fatal long-term illness or disease. The vantage most high that I identify near the end of the poem is one of said faith, not a mere flight. Paradise Found is a retrospective look at a unique place in the history of faith, which when I first saw it as a tourist, was nothing more than a momentary curiosity.
On March 30, 2022, I began seven weeks of radiation, five days a week, for throat cancer. I wrote Three Sounds of Light to describe what I experienced during any given treatment, each of which lasted about ten minutes. I would lay on my back, my eyes closed under a mask that had been previously formed fitted to my likeness. It would press against my forehead, face, and neck when the radiation technicians anchored it down to the table on both sides of my shoulders. During the sessions of the first week, I learned to distinguish between the different sounds of the linear accelerator. There were three separate segments, each about forty-five seconds in length, when I would hear the very distinctive high pitch of the stimulated emission of radiation. At those times, I remained perfectly still, not swallowing and breathing only once or twice, very shallow and gently through my nose. After each appointment, I would drive back home, which was about thirty miles away. Unable to eat or drink or even swallow without significant pain, my dedicated and caring wife would, throughout the day and into the middle of the night, feed me through a G-Tube which had been surgically inserted into my stomach two days before my treatments began.
Every morning, I listen to music while having breakfast. I like many different genres, but for this I usually choose an instrumental on YouTube. In fact, I have many favorites and enjoy hearing them over and over. However, very recently and for no particular reason, as I sat down to eat, I said aloud to myself, “I want to find a new song.” Within just a few moments, I came across a song entitled, Aniron, performed by Enya. Instantly, I was captivated by the pure quality of the melody along with her remarkable voice. I then learned that the title of the song is a word in the Elvish languages conceived by Tolkien for the Lord of the Rings. It means, I Desire. Right away, I thought it would be a great title for a poem and even more fitting, a poem about me wanting to find a new song. Then I thought, why not make the new song I am seeking a metaphor for a renewed view as I look back on my own life. From there, the poem evolved into the idea that by finding a new song, in other words a new perspective of my personal journey, I could find true happiness, here and now on earth and perhaps even eternally. Because, I have long since held to the belief that for anyone, happiness begins with establishing continuity with your past. When you realize that every moment, every event, and every experience during your lifetime, the good and the bad, successes and failures, your virtues and vices, were all necessary steps to where you are and who you are today. All that remains, is to accept it, let go of any remaining regret, and then resolve to live this day and every day forward with faith, hope, love, and forgiveness. Because, there will come a time when your song, that is to say, your life, is written, recorded, and done. Just like mine.
Lady Witch and Little Mouse, quickly came to life this past Halloween, 2022. When all it took was the delightful photos of my two beloved granddaughters, dressed in their costumes for me to then, shall I say, conjure up this endearing little story. Our young grade schooler dressed as a magical witch and the baby as a snuggly little mouse!
During the summer of 1995, I had the occasion to take a one hour helicopter tour in Hawaii. Departing from the airport on Maui we had a perfect Birdseye view of the renowned resort destinations along the Kaanapali coast and the less traveled island of Lanai across the nine mile ocean channel. However, it was on the far side of the third island, Molokai, where we could see from high above the small array of buildings that, more than a century earlier, was the leper colony of Father Damien. In the fourth stanza of this poem, I make reference to the many words of Milton, written during the 17th century regarding the fall of humankind in the Garden of Eden, and then contrast it to the one word that is the foundation of the Christian faith, which I reveal at the end of the fifth stanza. With respect to my reference to a place "I was destined to know" in the third stanza, I am speaking not about the island or the colony, but instead the spiritual place where they were and I now am. Challenged, like so many others, by the spectre of a potentially fatal illness. Finally, the "vantage most high" I identify near the end of this poem is a reference to undying faith not a mere flight. Paradise Found is a retrospective look at a most unique place in the history of faith, which when I first saw it as a tourist, was nothing more than a passing curiosity.
Heaven on Earth is the first poem I wrote, inspired by a beautiful family photo I remembered during one of my earliest radiation treatments. Taken six years ago in an antique shop, it is the image of my daughter, who with a smile of unfettered joy is holding my first granddaughter on her lap. They are seated on a Victorian style dining chair, looking directly into a vintage hand-held mirror. Beyond priceless is the look of innocent wonder in the eyes of my beloved grandchild, adorned with a strand of classic white pearls, as she sees the reflection of herself and her mom together.