Three Rakes

My father's father, Albert, died when I was in elementary school. Like with my 87-year-old dad, who passed away Jan. 13, it was a stroke and its wicked complications.
Albert was only 72, I think. On the day he died, I remember coming into the house and seeing my dad sitting in a chair, head hung low, sad but not in tears.
Then, in silence, we went out to the front yard and started raking. I've never fully understood why, but I'll never forget it. There wasn't much to rake, but we did it anyway, with little more than the sound of rake on grass. I remember the weight of sadness in the air.
We created a few piles of mostly dead grass and began stuffing it all into a lawn bag. I doubt we needed more than one bag.
At one point, I broke the silence by asking if I could go with him to New York to help take care of funeral arrangements. He said he appreciated the gesture, but it was probably best if he went alone.
I must have been in fourth or fifth grade. Thinking back, and having two sons of my own now, I wish he would have taken me, but I understand his reasons for not doing so.
On Friday, we buried my father at the veterans cemetery in Houston. I played "Taps" on my trumpet. VFW members fired guns and gave stirring messages. One of them handed my mom a bag full of spent shells. Another gave her a folded American flag.
But what got me the most was the VFW member who walked up and shook my hand, and in his hand was something cold and metallic. He was giving it to me but didn't want anyone to see it.
It was one of the spent shells.
I don't know whether he gave it to me because I played "Taps," which veterans funeral services folks told me no loved one had been able to do before, or because I was a first-born son.
Either way, it put a cannon ball in my throat and tear in my eye.
We left the cemetery and drove my mother home. There, I grabbed two decades-old rakes out of the garage and crammed them in the back of my car before loading up the family and heading home.
Later that afternoon, I choked back tears as I sat my sons down in the garage and told them what my father and I did on the day Albert Pearson died. Then we gathered up the old rakes, plus one I already had, and went into the back yard.
The raking, however, didn't turn out like it did with my father.
First off, the giant inflatable Moon Bounce arrived for my son's birthday party the next day. When having to choose between Moon Bounce and raking, you'd think there really wasn't much competition in a boy's mind.
Nevertheless, after taking the apparatus for some test bounces, they soon exited the thing, picked up the old rakes and joined me.
My boys are far younger than I was when my grandfather died, and there was a heck of a lot more leaves to rake.
There wasn't much silence, either.
Instead, it was the sound of innocence, laughing, happiness, goofing around and a little hard work. We raked up a leaf pile the size of an SUV and muscled it into the burn pit.
It filled my heart with pride and joy.
I would like to believe that this is how my father would have wanted it.

Eulogy For My Father-Jan. 17, 2007

Ten decades. Two centuries. The dawn of a new millennium.
From Model T’s to SUVs. Biplanes to space shuttles. Ragtime to rap. Penicillin to Viagra.
16 presidents. From Woodrow Wilson to Gee Dubya.
And then there was World War II. Korea. Vietnam. Iraq.
The creation of air conditioning, television, jets, atomic bombs, jazz, space ships, rock and roll, the Super Bowl, microwave ovens, MRIs, VCRs, DVDs, computers, the Interstate and the Internet.
This is just some of what Curt Thure Pearson witnessed and experienced during his long, colorful life. He was part of the Greatest Generation during perhaps America’s greatest century. He was a Swedish immigrant who found his way to Texas and became as much a Texan as anyone you’d care to name. He saw a country’s population swell from 104 million to 300 million, and a world population soar from less than 2 billion to more than 6 billion.
Born Dec. 27, 1919, in Helevik, Sweden, not long after the guns of World War I had cooled, he was an only child who spent six years with his mother in Sweden while his father, Albert, toiled to start a life in America, building houses on Long Island, New York. The price of a stamp was only 3 cents.
He immigrated here in 1925 and grew up in Huntington, Long Island, during the last half of those roaring 1920s. Charles Lindberg’s historic flight took place. Flappers. King Tut. Prohibition. Al Capone. The great stock market crash.
His family weathered The Great Depression of the 1930s. He read news about the Hindenburg. The Dust Bowl. The Empire State Building. “The Star Spangled Banner” becoming our national anthem. Adolph Hitler’s rise to power. And then World War II.
Like other young men during that time, he heard the call and joined the military. He didn’t have to be drafted. He didn’t ask his parents. He just up and joined the U.S. Army Air Corps.
Like others who wrought death and destruction during that defining historical moment, he talked little about his war experiences. And, like others from that time, he came home from war ready to work, build and better our country. Stationed for a time in Texas during the war, Curt fell in love with this state and decided that this is where he wanted to be.
He spent years working as an engineer for a Houston company and later went into business for himself, a tough, gutsy move. If you’re ever driving up U.S. 71 toward Austin, on the right you’ll see two huge smokestacks rising out of the horizon. My dad was part of the project on one of those, as he was on so many industrial projects in Southeast Texas, Canada and overseas.
He and my mother, Marion, built a home in what was then Houston’s remote, heavily wooded west side. They moved in on their wedding night.
And I was born nine months and two days later.
He fathered three children, all of whom have found success in our fields and, hopefully, lived the kinds of lives he wanted us to live.
This muzzleloader builder, silversmither and gifted artist taught me how to throw a baseball, shoot a gun, hit a golf ball, gut a deer, throw a punch, camp, drive a stickshift, cook a steak to perfection and tell really, really bad jokes. He attended almost every baseball, softball and soccer game as well as eight years worth of his children’s marching band performances. He taught me a profound appreciation of the outdoors. We had so many fantastic adventures, too numerous to mention.
So many stories. So many good times. So many life lessons.
It was a bit different being raised by parents who skipped a generation to have children. I could have been a hippie, or perhaps raised by one. My parents’ old-fashioned values, discipline and a demand for children to have manners and to respect their elders sometimes was a bit different from what was taking place in some of the neighbors’ homes.
I might have felt their approach to be odd and anachronistic at times, but I find myself, now that my wife, Amy, and I have two children of our own, passing what was instilled in me on to our boys, Luke, and pawpaw’s namesake, Curt Thure.
Curt Pearson was a tough guy, the kind of man they just don’t seem to make anymore. In his later years, he beat bladder cancer, prostate cancer, heart disease, three hip surgeries and blocked arteries, and it was the latter that ultimately got him.
I was only part of half of my father’s life timeline, and I feel blessed to have had him in my life so long and that he reached the age of 87. So many of my closest friends lost their fathers at a much earlier age, and that has kept me from taking my dad for granted. I look out at you who have come today, and I see a wonderful cross section of Dad’s life and all of those whom he touched, with his kindness, generosity, selflessness and gentle nature.
As my life’s journey continues, I’ll see his spirit all around. In the scent of gunpowder. The sight of limestone rocks of Central Texas. A grilling T-bone. Roadside bluebonnets. A hawk casually gliding on an air current on a cloudless day.
I owe it to him to pass all this on to my children, so that they’ll, in turn, pass it on to their children. And while I feel such profound sorrow over my father’s passing, I also have an overwhelming sense of pride, joy and being blessed to have been raised by such a great man.

- Brian Thure Pearson

Curt Thure Pearson Dec. 27, 1919-Jan. 13, 2007

To all:
My dad, Curt Thure Pearson, passed away at 9:15 p.m. Saturday, Jan. 13, after more than a month of hospitalization following complications of carotid artery surgery. He was a 87.
He died peacefully in a Hospice bed in Houston. Just hours before, I got to see him. I held his hand and told him how much I love him. I said I was taking good care of his beloved wife of 44 years, my mother, Marion.
Although his eyes were closed, and I wasn't sure he knew I was there, he apparently was waiting on my last visit to let go, a Hospice nurse told me. There were no telltale signs that the end was near. His vitals were good one minute, and the next minute he was gone.
In one of those things that makes you realize there is a Higher Power, the electricity at my parents house went off at exactly 9:15 p.m. and came on again 6 minutes later, according to my mom, who got the call about dad's death at 9:30 p.m.
Due to the threat of an ice storm, services are pending with the Veterans Funeral Home in Houston.
He was a great, colorful man, the kind they just don't make anymore, the very definition of the Greatest Generation. Born Dec. 27, 1919, in Sweden, he came to the United States in 1925 and grew up on Long Island, New York, where his dad built many houses. He got a mechanical engineering degree from Lafayette College, flew B-29s during World War II, fell in love with Texas and then moved here after the war. He was part of numerous industrial projects in Southeat Texas and beyond. He married my mother in June 1962. They never moved from the Houston home they moved into on their wedding night. He leaves behind his wife, Marion, three children, me, Kristen and Caren, and six grandchildren.
Despite being a full-blooded Swede, he was more Texan than anyone I've ever known.
He was my father. He was my dad. He was my friend.
I will miss him dearly.
But I also feel so blessed to have had him in my life as long as I did. He dodged myriad medical bullets over the years, including bladder cancer, prostrate cancer, heart surgery, left carotid artery surgery in 1995 and three hip surgeries.
The odds were against him just before Thanksgiving as he had surgery to remove plaque from his right carotid artery. Typically, surgeons for carotid artery procedures deal with blockage between 80 percent and 90 percent, with the plaque typically 1 inch long. In my dad's case, he had 98 percent blockage, and the plaque was 4 inches long and ran into the brain, where surgeons could not go.
The surgeon thought he'd gotten it all, but apparently a small, raised-up piece - called a flap - snapped off up in his brain and remained stuck to the artery wall. Here, a clot formed, cutting off blood supply to the brain's right side. The only reason it didn't kill him immediately is because his body had already compensated somewhat for the 98 percent blockage by directing blood flow from the brain's left side to the right. However, it was clear that almost his entire left side was paralyzed, and he could not swallow, meaning the rest of his life would be spent using a feeding tube.
Due to a hematoma at the incision sight, it was necessary for a breathing tube to be inserted. Subsequently, a compromised brain in addition to a tube-related respiratory infection as well as infections throughout the body, partially caused by his immobility, caused his organs to just shut down.
The past month and a half has been hard on our family, because even up until the end, there was hope that this tough, brave man would somehow pull through, but when his kidneys started failing early last week, we knew we were going to lose him. During this time, fond memories of my father have been flooding my mind. I'm remembering little things that I haven't thought of in years.
Yesterday, I began scanning in almost nine decades worth of photos for a slide show at the funeral services, and I felt overwhelmed with my dad's life story, being witness to all the remarkable things that occurred during the 20th century and beyond. So many of you had a chance to meet him.
As his only son, I feel it is my duty to keep his memory alive, live up to his example and ensure that my two boys pass his story along to the next generation.

Movie Experience Not The Same

My wife and I used to love going to the movies.
Now we have children, and we've only been to the theater three times in the past five years.
We don't go to the movies much for several reasons.
First off, in my opinion, there hasn't been a must-see movie come out since "Saving Private Ryan" in 1998. I've been interested in a few movies over the past eight or so years, but they either get terrible reviews or I'm just willing to wait until it comes out on DVD. Watching it at home is cheaper and less inconvenient.
Plus, I can drink a beer or a glass of wine.
The big cost of going to a movie these days isn't the theater. It's hiring a babysitter at $7 to $10 an hour. That means spending $21 to $30 on a sitter, and that's if the film clocks in at under two hours.
If we hire a sitter, we go on a dinner date, so we can have adult talk, drink a little wine and enjoy a good meal.
Just before the birth of our first son five years ago this month, we went to see "Black Hawk Down," a really great film. I don't know if the soon-to-be-born baby liked all the noise, because he almost kicked his way out during all the explosions and machine gun fire.
The next one we saw, while the grandparents babysat, was "Catch Me If You Can" in 2002. I really liked that movie, but the wife got ants in the pants because the film ran longer than expected, and she was worried about the toddler we left behind. It was understandable, because it was the longest she'd been without the boy since his birth.
Last Friday, we decided to go see "Children of Men," one of the first movies in five years that I really wanted to see in the theater.
I remember paying under $4 for movies. On Friday, we paid $7.25 a ticket. At least we didn't pay upward of $10, as movie goers do in some cities.
For about $5, the wife got the large bag of popcorn. I paid about the same for "nachos." I expected a big pile of chips in a boat and covered with piping-hot processed cheese and a fistful of jalapenos that would make me crap fire in the morning.
However, what I got was luke-warm pre-packaged nachos. And nary a jalapeno. This wasn't nachos. It was cheese dip.
Like most movie goers do, I ate the whole thing before the previews started and then started in on the wife's popcorn, which I'd hoped would come in one of those big buckets and free re-fills, like they used to.
The film was fantastic, though. I'd give it four out of five stars, in fact. I won't tell you anything about it. You can just Google that.
For a new release, and one that got fantastic reviews, I was surprised that more people weren't at the theater. We hit the 7:30 p.m. showing, and the theater wasn't half full, from what I could tell. I wonder if going to the movies just isn't that popular anymore.
Maybe they should re-think the elimination of the bottomless popcorn bucket and the nachos with butt-searing jalapenos.
Or maybe just make better movies.

Bat Fight Ugly, Scary and Bloody

The bat war started Saturday morning.
I caulked and foamed up every little crack, hole and potential new bat habitat around the house. Next time, when using that foam, I'll follow the directions that tell you to WEAR GLOVES. It took me half the day - and almost a gallon of acetone - to get that crap off my hands.
Just before dusk, my neighbor and I put up a long sheet of dark netting around the bat exits, securing it on three sides with staples and duct tape. At the bottom, we stapled it up so there were only a few places that they could drop through.
Then as the sun went down, I poured us a couple of big glasses of Knob Creek, got out the lawn chairs and sat down to watch the show.
Man, those bats were mad, chirping and struggling to figure out how to get out of that netting. It was warm, humid and buggy out, so we figured it would be a big bat night, and it certainly was.
One by one, they struggled around under the netting, popped out and flew away. On Sunday morning, I got up before sunrise, got a big mug of coffee and watched 'em come home.
One after the other, the bats came by, went and flew off. I guess the netting buggered their radar. There was one persistent little guy who kept going 'round and 'round and trying to find a way to get under that net, but he finally gave up after a few minutes and flew away.
It had to be my friend Dopey.
So I went back inside, satisfied that the netting was working, although it must be left up for a while because not all the bats go out on any given night.
I'm downstairs, feeling cocky and proud that my scheme worked, but then my wife screamed from upstairs.
That meant bat.
She had opened the door to the master bedroom closet, and one flew straight at her. She slammed the door in his creepy little face.
The closet runs between the master bedroom and a room over the garage, and there is a back staircase. I grabbed the fish net, opened up all the windows in the room over the garage and then slowly opened the closet door.
The bat was hanging from the ceiling on the far end of the closet. I tried to net him, but he flew off and out into the room over the garage. I quickly closed the door and went out through the door leading to the bathroom.
The wife left to go to her church job, and I set out to check for bats in every corner of the home's interior, starting with that closet, which the bat told me was the place where they were getting into the house.
I started with my wife's bathrobe hanging from the right side, and sure enough, there was a bat hanging on the wall behind it. He was in the corner, making it difficult for a clean netting.
Horrified, I backed out of the closet and into the bathroom. Here, I found a long, hollow plunger. Using it and the net, I managed to trap the bat inside the plunger. He immediately starting loudly chirping. He was inside the plunger, but I had his creepy little bat leg pinned pretty good.
Bats are not only loud, but they're smelly. They smell like wet puppy.
The boys, who were downstairs playing, found the bat amusing and interesting. I took him outside and tried to set him free in the street, but instead of flying off, he just remained face down, wings spread, looking back over his shoulder and chirping at me, as if he were saying, "LOOK WHAT YOU DID TO ME, MAN!!! SHAME ON YOU."
I felt guilty, and I knew what I had to do next.
I brained him with a pitching wedge, ending his life as quickly as I could.
Knowing there was perhaps another bat in the house, the one that flew out of the closet and into the room over the garage, I resumed my search.
And there, at the bottom of a closet wall, I found a golf ball-sized hole, leading to the chimney cavity where the bats called home. This led to the horrifying realization that bats had been living in our closet during the day. We didn't see them until Sunday, but they were certainly there.
After clearing the closet, I went into the room over the garage and found the other bat hanging in a corner high up on the ceiling. I tried to use a limb cutter to stir him so that he'd fly out a window, but he wouldn't budge.
So I shot him twice with a pellet gun. His little bullet-riddled bat body now rests in peace in the woods behind our back fence.
These were not big brown bats, as featured in an earlier blog entry. These definitely were Mexican free-tail bats. So not only have we had at least two kinds of bats living with us, it is pretty clear that our house is where they migrate to in the winter.
I resumed clearing the room over the garage and heard my son crying downstairs. Upon investigation, he claimed a bat was flying around the den. I wasn't sure to believe him, but his little brother said, "I saw him. He was flying 'round and 'round."
Then there he was, coming out of nowhere and circling the den. I believe - and hope - this was the mysterious second bat that my wife swore she saw the other night. It had been hanging around somewhere inside the house for days.
Eek.
I opened doors and windows, and the bat flew away.
Last night and this morning, we had no bat sightings, but it was cold, and there might be ones who didn't go out Saturday night and are still in that wall.
We'll see.
All I know is that I'm more of an expert on bats and bat eviction than I've ever wanted to be.

Batacular Weekend Ahead

Well, I thought they were gone, but they ain't.
I thought there was only one left, but there wasn't.
Last night, another one of those buggers got into the house.
I was on my way to a Buffalo Blonde get-together and got sidetracked by my wife's panicked call that there was one crawling around on the floor in a highly creepy sort of way.
I thought, great, a dadblammed SICK bat now!
My wife had just put the boys to bed upstairs and sat down at the computer to goof off, and she heard some flopping around in the utility room. She went in there to find a bat crawling out from under the dryer.
That's when she called me.
She went looking for a way to contain the bat, but then it decided to fly and started flapping around the house. He got near the stairs, which I guess confused his radar, so he dropped down and started crawling around again in a highly creepy sort of way.
Then my son, Curt, came out and stood atop the staircase with a shocked look on his face, and my wife started screaming at him to go back in his room.
Panicked, she also called my neighbor, who knows just about everything about everything, and he came over with an aquarium net.
Sometime during the proceedings, the bat managed, in a highly creepy and alarming sort of way, to crawl out of view.
The neighbor found him hiding behind a trunk in the dining room, scooped him up and tossed him outside.
It was all over by the time I got home. After a thorough search of the house and a heavy duct-taping of the upstairs fireplace, it took two glasses of whiskey to calm me down enough to go to bed.
I have no idea how the critter got into the house, but he and his friends have overstayed their welcome.
The War on Bats starts this weekend.

Flag Flap

I spent 1997-2001 as editor of the Killeen Daily Herald, a small daily located near one of the world's largest military installations, Fort Hood. Many who retired from military service made their home in Killeen and surrounding area.
When you're the newspaper in a military town, you better know U.S. flag protocol. Otherwise, some crotchety old retired colonel, still bitter from not making general, will call and give you an ass-chewing. You don't make it to colonel unless you're an elite ass-chewer.
Today, I got a call from a Beaumont resident who noticed that many flags around town are not flying at half staff. (She said "half mast," but I'll get into that in a second.)
When a sitting or former U.S. president dies, American flags are to be flown at half staff for 30 days after the death date, according to http://www.ushistory.org/betsy/flagetiq.html, your one-stop shopping for flag etiquette. The site has every little rule there is regarding U.S. flags. It also notes that you don't need to burn your American flag if it touches the ground.
Now, back to half staff versus half mast.
People - including some of my reporters over the years - have incorrectly said "half mast" when referring to flags flown in a community. Obviously, a "mast" is part of a ship, so the correct term is "staff" for land-based flags.
But even the big-league news services get it wrong sometimes:
http://news.yahoo.com/s/afp/20061228/pl_afp/uspoliticsford_061228094131
Anyhoo, you should fly your U.S. flag at half staff - or half mast if you're on a boat - until Jan. 25.
I'm sure I'll get a call first thing in a morning if I've got that date wrong.