Melody's got an Oprah playing in the next room and I've been listening in. And I'm just furious. In the rush to assign blame for domestic violence we ignore the real cause and guarantee that it will happen again and again. The same people who laugh at Nancy Reagan's "Just Say No" campaign (well not all of them because I laughed at it, too) seem to think the answer to violence is to just say no.

It's not that Oprah and the rest are clueless, its just that they refuse to open their eyes.

I know what we all learned about T/F questions that have 'all' or 'never' in them, but this time the correct answer is TRUE.

People (like the other animals on this planet) don't get angry until they are hurt, or even worse, believe they are about to be hurt. If you don't think that watching your relationship, your world, dissolving out from underneath you is painful, well, I don't know what planet you are from. It's horrific. It questions everything you have tried to believe about yourself. A woman in that situation is angry, too. If her fear shows up as physical aggression, no one will ever know. A man will absorb the rage and certainly not report it. It's more likely that in the failing relationship her anger will just mean she is cold, distant, and unsupportive. Or she may be looking for a verbal fight where she wins control by emotionally punishing the man until he simply can't bear it any more and must resort to violence to regain control.

Or, hopefully, walk away. From his wife, his life, his children, pets, home, everything. I did. I still spent a night in jail because leaving isn't even enough in this county, if you take your children with you.

So, I don't think it does any good to point fingers, particularly around our romantic relationships where even the participants usually don't understand what is going on. I'd rather focus on the solutions.

Much of it hinges on the concepts and understanding that are the basis of the Great Sex Seminars. They provide a way out of the mad cycle. You can be sure I'll blog about that later on.

One other area that really is a tragedy and sets up so many marriages for failure is the way so many boys are abused. They are forced to live in emotional deserts. If we didn't teach them from such a young age that their feelings were less than worthless, that they needed to be kept hidden where no one can know, then maybe they would be better equipped to survive relationships. They might even thrive.

Our summer guest

This summer my family has had the delight of hosting a college student during his Internship at a law firm in Downtown Dallas. We live out side of Dallas in Lewisville. It’s a good 45 minutes to downtown from here, so we had tried to find him a host closer to his work. Fortunately for us, we were unsuccessful.

Though our four bedroom house is already was already bursting at the seams, Alex came to stay with us in the middle of June. Three of our four daughters and our son have been in and out of the house all summer. Heather was still here, until July 1^st, when she started her own Internship for Samsung Mobile Fresh Films. Jenny came home at the end of May, as did Hayley. Jenny was returning from a study abroad in London and Hayley graduated from UTSA. Jenny set off to Australia for yet another study abroad on July 15^th. Hayley has been working part time and looking to find her first “real job”. Meanwhile, Wayne has been here for two weeks at a time, plus some, over the summer. Heather has completed her Internship and is home, now about to graduate from UNT in a week. All of this never rattled Alex, in fact, he seems to have enjoyed the comings and goings of all our crew.

Alex

I don’t even know where to start when talking about Alex. Someone I met with yesterday said “Our kids are just as great when they are guests at someone else’s home.” Well, I certainly hope so! Alex has been cheerful, childlike and yet so grown up all at the same time. He has gotten us to have more sit-down meals together than we have had in all the nine years Mike and I have been married. He participates in these meals, too, volunteering to help cook, set the table and clean afterwards. Some nights he comes in wanting to “bake something” an makes us a cake, crepes, or pudding or something. Every night he brings with him his sweet nature and bright energy.

Every morning he gets up, puts on his freshly laundered white shirt, tie and suit. He has a bowl of cereal and heads for downtown at about 7:45. I can’t say I am always up when he is preparing to leave but when I am, he greets me with his bright “Good morning” and chatter about the toils of going to work for sometimes 14 hours a day. When he gets home early enough he takes a long walk or bike ride. One Saturday afternoon he was bored and cleaned out and rearranged our entire pantry. Another he sat down and made a paper mach¢e bowl. Other times he sits out by the pool or in the park reading. He has also made the best of his time here by exploring area attractions and events. He went to the Dallas Symphony one night, to the Arboretum, to Fair Park and to Sundance Square and the Ft Worth Zoo. He often went to the store for something for himself and either picked up something for us unasked, or thoughtfully asked if there was something he could pick up. Somewhere along in there he took a hold of our hearts.

Stressful summer

It has been a stressful summer anyway, and he has kept us cheerful throughout the difficulties. I became ill going out to California for Athena’s graduation from Law School at the start of the summer. We went to Kerrville New Folk for our annual trip and or fellow Kerrvillian Ronzo died of a heart attack. Mike had a horrible spasm in his shoulder one night and we spent the entire night in the ER. Then I came down with a case of Shingles. Just as I was recovering from the Shingles I underwent a minor operation to remove a pre-cancerous cyst on my side. And of course, we moved my things out of my office, and re-arranged two entire rooms of our house to accommodate my things. Alex helped us with it all, even scrubbing the office floor on his hands and knees to remove the gunk left by the lining used to keep the (now removed) rug from slipping on the wood floor.

Yesterday was Mike’s birthday and he is the only one- none of our kids - got him a card. And last night he got me a huge bag of Sour Patch Kids (my one real vice.)

The gift

When Jenny left for Australia, he got her a gift as his “host” for the summer (it was her friend from NYU that asked Jenny to find Alex a place). Jenny thought he would get Mike and I something, too. At the time I thought, “Wow, that’s completely unnecessary. Alex has been such a gift to us- we should get him something.”

He is leaving tomorrow and I am not ready! I didn’t fully understand how much I am not ready until I woke up this morning crying. I had a dream about his leaving in which he gave us each a gift card as a going away gift, and I handed mine back to him. I told him, “You don’t have to do this because you have been such a gift to us.” Then I put my arms around him and started to cry, I said. “We don’t want you to go!”

I woke up sobbing, Mike heard me and put his arms around me. It was then I realized how close Alex is to the age Lance would have been now. Alex is 19 and Lance would be 20. Saying good-bye to Alex feels like saying good-bye to Lance. Lance was seven weeks old when he dies of Sudden Infant Death.

Oh, I get it now

Coincidentally I am closing my office today. It marks the beginning of my moving into a new career path. Oh, I will still be seeing some clients in another office, but the move is a clearly defined moment of moving my career path. And my counseling career has been a kind of monument to Lance. It was after he died that I went back to school and got my degree in Counseling. For me, it was a way to make some meaning out of his passing. The coincidental convergence of these two losses in one day is strangely poetic. I let go of both my “monument” to Lance and (while I wasn’t consciously aware of it) an adult representation of of who Lance might have been in the form of Alex.

I don't know how to say good-bye

As I write this he is upstairs getting ready for his last day at his Internship. We are leaving tonight, probably before he gets home, for my 35^th (yes, that’s right, 35^th) High School Reunion. So I will say my good-bye this in a few minutes with a bittersweet pain in my heart.

BYE ALEX!

Welcome Home!

Since 1971 Kerrville has been the home of one of the most renowned and celebrated folk festivals in the country. I listened to broadcasts of the shows on public radio and even watched live shows on PBS when I was in college. I moved to Dallas in the late 70’s and got so busy trying to get my life going I forgot about the festival until someone mentioned it to me at work one day. Once I knew where it was and when it was, I was determined to go.

I drug my then 9, 9 and 15 year old daughters to the campgrounds somewhat against their will. None of them claimed to be that “into” music and were not the least bit sure what folk music was anyway. When we drove up to the gates and my 15 year old looked around at the growing line of traffic and saw the sprawling campgrounds she said, “Oh, I have a really good feeling about this!”

As we drove through the gates the all volunteers greeted us with “Welcome home!” My daughters were speechless with excitement and we had what is still one of the most memorable vacations we ever had together.

Camp Bungie

In the 13 years that have passed I’ve only missed two Kerrville Festivals. The girls have grown and moved away and don’t go with me any more. My husband and his son went with me this year. In my second year at Kerrville I met a group of friends that I have come to know once a year every year (almost) since then. This group of friends is collectively known as “Camp Bungie”, named for the unique solution the members discovered for handling the sometimes 50-70 mile an hour winds that sweep through the valley. They have worked out an elaborate design for connecting their cover tarps with bungee cords flex to and fro with the wind and stay attached easily to the ground.

But the bungee cords are not what connected me to their ground. It was the delightful, giving, loving and talented group of people that welcome us, open arms every year.

One year we became known as the “plastic people” because after a show one night it had begun raining quite hard and we all donned those cheap clear plastic ponchos to keep us (relatively) dry.

Our friends, Sherry, Greg, Gumby and Pokey, Michael, Karen, Terry, Ronzo and Cat were there every single year, oh yeah, and Zoid, too. We met hundreds of others during our weekends there, but these were the constants that excitedly greeted “the plastic family” every year as we drove in and set up camp. Sherry quietly sat and read and chatted with us at meals. Michael, Ronzo, Terry, Greg and others entertained us with their playing and conversations. Ronzo had his flashing red lights, funny shaped balloons, knee high socks and shorts to accompany his wacky sense of humor. Turns out he was a clown by trade. Cat, Ronzo’s significant other knitted and talked very knowledgably with us on a variety of topics. She even bought a copy of my first book one year. Michael has always had plenty of wisdom about the world and a calm way of reacting to everything. They have always had plenty of food, shared their time, their resources and chairs with us and never asked anything in return. We always try to think of ways to help out, but its rarely accepted.

We made it!

“The plastic family” missed attending the last couple of years and we waited until the last weekend to attend, since this was the weekend “Trout Fishing in America” was going to play. “Trout” is a couple of guys who play funny, thoughtful, melodious tunes that get everyone to their feet.

We had a great night listening to Small Potatoes and Kathy Mateo Friday night with the most temperate weather we’ve ever experienced in Kerrville. I don’t know what the temperature was this past weekend, but it stayed cool late into the morning and cooled off again early in the day. This is a vast diversion from past years where it was 120° in the shade… that or pouring down rain. One year we were almost washed off the mountain.

A breezy Saturday morning

The pleasantness of Saturday morning made for a casual slow morning. Michael was all set to start cooking breakfast as we sat around drinking coffee and taking in the company. But, everyone wanted to wait for Ronzo, who seemed to be still sleeping in his tent.

One of the many traditions of the Kerrville New Folk Festival is that every night after the shows on the main stage, all around the many campsites across the valley and up on the hills are song circles that go on all night long. No one sleeps much at night and no one cares really how much sleep they get anyway. The music energizes everyone.

But some people do try to sleep in mornings as long as they can. We figured Ronzo was doing the same.

The Quadraplex

Along about 10:30 Sherry and Greg wandered down to the “quadraplex” (the latrine) and as they were coming back they saw that someone was being given CPR and was then taken off by an ambulance. Know one knew who it was, Sherry and Greg didn’t recognize the person’s shape on the stretcher. I passed them on the road as I walked down for my own trek to the latrine. People were buzzing all over the valley about the poor guy who looked like he probably wasn’t going to make it.

When I got back to “Camp Bungie” we sat around the kiddie pool with our feet in the cool water and talked about how sad for the guy and I said, ‘”Well, I have to say, if you’ve got to go, this is how I’d want to go. To be doing what you love to do surrounded by people you love.”

Reality check

About that time a Festival staff person walked up and said she had been told the name of the man that had been taken to the hospital. It was Ronzo. No one could believe it, except Greg who jumped up and said. “I’m going to town.” Someone held Sherry as she cried.

An hour or so later we got the news that Ronzo had not made it. Tears flowed around the campsite. People from all over the ranch came, hugged, cried and sat with us. I sat by Michael and patted his arm as he cried.

Looking for BLAME

Of course, our system goes on, as it always does. The police came by about an hour after we got the news and searched Ronzo’s tent. There was the potential of their having been a crime and they had to rule out foul play. Searching through his tent, getting witness reports, and eyeing the group suspiciously the police went about doing their job. We waited until the detective had done his job and drove off. That was a somber, silent time as we sat comforting each other in the shade of the billowing tarps.

Paradox

It was still a beautiful day with the sun shining brightly and the cool breeze lifting the tarps to and fro. Trout Fishing played a rousing set under the roof of the Threadgill Theatre as normal, and went on to perform at the main stage that night to a thunderous crowd. Karen and I danced and hugged as we listened to Guy Forsythe sing ‘Thank you for my friends”.

Ronzo

I learned a lot I didn’t know about Ronzo. He had been one of the original supporters of the festival and was a stockholder. The campground “Camp Bungie” was annually parked on had been provided by his investment and support in the festival. If not for supporters like Ronzo the festival could never have gotten off the ground. Ronzo had been with his significant other for more than 20 years. He was a political activist and had been a caucus member at the county level supporting Senator Obama for the Democratic Nominee for President. Later I learned that he had specifically requested no memorial service or funeral, that what he wanted was “a big party”. That definitely sounded like the Ronzo I knew and loved.

A sweet tribute

That night after the show, the “Leopard Lounge” down the hill and across the road from “Camp Bungie” hosted a spontaneous group of guitar pickers and singers singing songs about friendship. The “Leopard Lounge” campers all wore shorts, knee high socks and bright red flashing stars in honor of Ronzo’s normal apparel choices. We toasted Ronzo from time to time, but mostly sang songs about friendship and some of Ronzo’s favorites. Greg was the primary singer/picker for the evening and he ended the evening with a raised glass and the words, “Sail away Ronzo”.

I can’t imagine future festival’s without Ronzo, as I am sure most of our “Camp Bungie” group cannot. His lighthearted wit and generosity set the mood for play and gave us giggles and love. Thank you Ronzo for being a part of the “plastic family’s” love of Kerrville. We miss you already.

What about you?

Ever had a sudden loss of a compatriot? How did it affect you? Let me know. I’d love to hear your story.