Monday, March 7, 2011

Being a Bixby

Growing up a Bixby never really meant much to me. At a younger age I felt like an outsider being adopted into the  Bixby family by my father. Yes I say father despite the lack of a biological connection because as I've aged I've also educated myself. I can honestly say that NO other man could have done for me what he has. It's not just what he has done for me but who he has been for my family and my mother. She could not have found a better man to stand beside her. It takes one look around at a Bixby reunion to know that I'm the odd one of the bunch. I've lived my life to different beat. Despite all of our differences though I rarely feel like an outsider.
Perhaps I say this now because I see the similarities between my father and I. I also now realize the similarities he and Grandaden share. I see it is a trait or lesson learned or passed down from one to the other, so subtly it could almost be called osmosis. A lesson about trust, respect,  compassion, empathy, humility, and love. About being a family despite differences and disputes.
While I was in high school and after more then 50 years of marriage  Gramma woke Grandaden one night to tell him that she loved him, their family and their life together and then passed in his arms as he waited. She was an amazing women and I wish only that we could have had much more time with her. She taught me the most important key to happiness;  One day she pulled me aside while we were making her super special chocolate chip walnut cookies. Even back then it was noticeable that I was different from the rest of the Bixbys. She told me she didn't care what I did with my life as long as I did the best I could at everything I would do. Grandaden never remarried. Instead when Carl Bixby passed during the winter I spent in Chile he had survived Edith Kenyon by living for more than decade after her passing.
Of all the great lessons Gramma and Grandaden taught me, the greatest was the enormous power that a strong family has to flourish, grow, and support eachother.

Being A Bixby

She rode with the Guachos,
And inspired a passion for persistant perfection.
He dreamed of sailing seas,
And taught dedication to daily duties.
Together their garden bloomed with love,
And cultivated a tree stronder then any storm,
Heartier then any festive feast
That they themselves prepared,
And more bountiful then the falls dire harvest.
For generations that follow
I know I'll swallow
And savor like a fine wine
The love and acceptance of a family divine.
Together afain her, his whole.
Find the tide that takes you back to her ride.
It's meant the world that we yet to unfold.

Thank you Gramma and Grandaden. I'm trying.

adam

Thursday, March 3, 2011

The Aids Shack and more

My time in Chile and Argentina was one of the most amazing experiences in my life to date. I could write pages and pages about it. In fact I already have in my traveling journal. Reading back over things my writing journal seems to say things much clearer. 

To Chile, the greatest adventure I've had so far.

Aids Shack

Just a run down red shack
No ice box but a shower and a stove. 
Two simple rooms full of history,
Friendships new and old.
Sideboards pealing, tin roof flapping
On a foundation held aloft by stone and stump.
Tucked in back. Hidden from view
Amongst  Poplars and Willows
That serve as a perch for my nest with a leafy window
To a fantastic dream that resides here
In this dilapidated run down shack on a lake.

Coming home to the Aids shack after a successful mission.
                                                                                                                    




I'm as confused about what I am doing
As to the words, the language coming from 
Your sweet soft lips. That I enjoyed by
the lake this cool afternoon as we
Spoke with our eyes and I tried to 
Roll my Rrrr's and still resorted to a reference.
                                                                                                                      




Second to last night and the rain rolls in.
Blanketing my beach with millions of moist kisses.
My hammock rocks and sways as the rain fly beats,
To the symphonies baritone wind section.

Waves crashing harder and harder. And I wait.
It's early and not quite time to rise up emerging from this chrysalis.
It's warm and cozy. 
And I don't feel ready to fly away so soon.