Sometimes a diary is just that, a diary. The truth is I am tired. I don’t truly feel like I have what you would call roots. I was born in Missouri, mostly raised in Texas, and now live in Arizona. If I dream of being anywhere, it is not a place, it is a time. A time where my grandpa and grandma pitched and played outfield in my wiffle ball games in the backyard.
A time where the smell of cookies permeated the home and hot chocolate was bursting with marshmallows.
A time before he was so sick he couldn’t swallow food, and a time where she could remember my name.
A time where we had a house, not a mobile home constantly moving.
A time before a drunk driver stole what was my mom’s youth.
A time when stairs were more of a adrenaline boost than a reminder of what I used to be.
Oh what I used to be. Fast, lithe, athletic. Grandpa called me a future quarterback and I had a good arm. My grandma would watch me race in the neighborhood and be convinced I could be in the Olympics. Those times are gone now. Whatever is left of my life is scarred by Covid and its assault on my joints and energy. It will, I am convinced, shorten my life. It will not, I am convinced, change my goals.
Time is merciless. To go home, I have found, is something deep inside of my mind, in the flickering light of where memories reside. I miss Texas in some ways. I miss Missouri in some ways. Over time I have made friends from all over the world. But I have no street I long to revisit, or local store I want to buy a soda from one last time.
My grandma did. Imperial, MO is where she grew up and at that time, it was mostly just my great-grandfather’s store and some farmland. He would eventually become a United States Marshal and in a passage that will forever serve as a source of family pride, his name is eternally inscribed on this White House record book:
(Mr. John Hilgert, Chief Deputy U. S. Marshal) (Judge Roy W. Harper wrote Mr. Matthew Connelly that Hilgert would be here today and if the President was not too tied up he would like opportunity to say "hello". Judge Harper thought Hilgert could give the President some idea of the feeling in substantial part of Eastern District of Missouri)
That is my great-grandpa, as part of the movement that would lead to this moment in history:
“John and Harry” were friends. As it turns out John Hilgert did a lot to secure the home state for the President. My grandma, even in her loneliest, saddest moments, was proud of that. So am I. The President that would desegregate the Armed Forces, the President that ended World War II, the President that oversaw the rise of a superpower was known to pour a shot or two and kick back with her dad.
Around this time she married my grandpa which eventually led to my mom, which somehow in a long and winding road led to me. A hardscrabble, yet loving stubborn donkey just trying to in some way make the world a better place. I don’t know if I am succeeding with my humble but heartfelt newsletter, or my videos, or my work on campaigns.
Sometimes I get down, because what I do is work, and sleep. I work long and hard then sleep, or nap, then get back up and work some more. I have a family to look after, and so many here have helped me, and I truly love you all.
In that sense you are also my family as well as a part of what makes up my home.
But I watched my grandma fade, and in the end she no longer knew my name. That cold January day in Affton, Missouri saw her stare at me blankly, her connection to me robbed by the ravages of dementia.
My grandmother could not feel the love of her grandson because she did not know me to be her grandson.
I broke down. I still do. I am now. But there was one last burst of recognition in the aging woman that was once agile enough to chase me around a ball diamond.
On the television in the activity room there appeared a video of a man with a bulbous face and orange skin. A brutal, uncompromising rogue, I saw her stare at this television and frown. I asked her if she knew who that man was.
She looked at me and said, “That bastard.”
Dementia had robbed my grandma of her ability to recognize her very family, but the pure evil that came across cut through one of the most vicious of illnesses. Her mind did not know me.
But her soul knew him. At that moment I vowed to never let go of the fight. To never stop working for progress, or the hungry, or the single mom, or the tired nurse with what would come later, Long Covid, and blisters from old shoes and too many double shifts in an understaffed hospital.
You see, I promised. So at that point I knew there was still a soul in this country as well. I knew no matter what kind of fog might confuse us, it would eventually be cleared by the light inside of us.
And so, on what would have been my grandma’s 96th birthday, I offer to her spirit the only gift that could possibly matter, aside from love, and that is to never turn my back on the fight that is a family tradition. A tradition of being stubborn loving donkeys, and establishing equality at a lunch counter, and providing for those in need, and preserving the peace.
For most people it is 2022. But to The Claw, it is already 2024. The other side is already assembling their propaganda army. There is no time to rest. I can do that when my time on this blue ball comes to a close.
I have dedicated my life to defeating “that bastard” and those like him.
But at least in this moment, thinking of her, and my grandpa, and of warm cookies, if only for an instant, I am home.
And to you, grandma, while your cognition deteriorated long before your body, your soul survived.
And so shall mine.
And so shall this nation’s.
Happy 96th Birthday Nan.
Love,
-Todd
Please consider joining our Claw Family at The Claw News. The fight rages on and I promise to as long as I live never walk away from the political battlefield.
Love,
-ROC