Quiet Heros

The day before the 2008 presidential election, Barrack Obama learned the news that his beloved grandmother, who helped raise him, had passed away in Hawaii. Overcome with emotion, that night he gave a pre-election day speech in which he honored the woman who had instilled in him his values, beliefs and his strength as he pursued the presidency. He called her a quiet hero.

"She was somebody who was a very humble person and a very plain-spoken person,'' he said. "She was one of those quiet heroes that we have all across America. They're not famous. Their names aren't in the newspapers. But each and every day they work hard. They look after their families. They sacrifice for their children and their grandchildren. They aren't seeking the limelight. All they try to do is just do the right thing. That's what America is about."

A majority of my life was spent wanting not to be a quiet hero, but rather the center of attention. I was going to be an Olympic athlete, first as an ice skater after I saw Dorothy Hamil win the gold medal in 1976, and then as an equestrian after I saw the movie "International Velvet." If that didn't work, I'd go to Hollywood and become a movie star, or at the very least, marry one. I was going to sing, be a sports reporter and when Diana married Charles, I was going to be a princess. It was all about me and how I was going to shine.

Although fully supported by my parents, I was never pushed, as some kids are, to win an Olympic gold or marry Hollywood or European royalty. I was pushed to say please and thank you, place my hand over my heart during the national anthem and to just be nice to people. I was taught by quiet heros, many of them in fact, to simply do the right thing.

This was a lesson that took decades for me to understand and one that I still struggle with on a daily basis. I have led an extremely imperfect life. I have lied, hurt people's feelings, neglected my family, neglected myself, taken the easy way out and picked wrong when right was so obvious. I am happy to report that a majority of this activity took place when I was a teenager and young(er) adult. But on many occasions, pretty much everyday, I still have to remind myself to do the right thing. We all do.

So, who are your quiet heros? Who shaped you, molded you and taught you to at least attempt to make good decisions? Who advised you to think before you speak? And if you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all? I bet that a majority of the people reading this can think of a few people right off the bat. What we need to take into consideration is that not all kids have a quiet hero. Not all kids have a role model or someone to set a good example. We would hope that between parents and teachers, someone would surface in these children's lives who could teach them that violence isn't the answer and that respecting people is. We would hope that there is someone in their lives encouraging them to do their best in school, but that's not always the case. And we would hope that these kids would have at least one person who loved them unconditionally. But that isn't always true.

The time has come for us to take the lessons we learned from our quiet heros and put them into practice. We, all of us, need to stop judging people, to lend a helping hand where it's needed and to truly make this great country we live in a better place. We need to be the quiet heros for those who have none.

When my dad passed away, we knew it was his wish to be cremated. We didn't need to pick out a coffin or more importantly, figure out what to have written on a headstone. If we had, my vote would have been the following:

William C. Causey
January 30, 1938 - November 23, 2008
A Quiet Hero

LESSON LEARNED #3 - Most heros do not make the headlines.

Making The Play

As a kid, my mom, dad, sisters and I spent a majority of the Christmas holidays with my mom's side of the family in St. Louis and Evansville, Illinois. Not to be confused with Evansville, Indiana, the little town in Illinois sits on the Kaskaskia River and has a booming population of about 800 people. My grandma and grandpa owned a small, three-bedroom home where we would all my aunts, uncles and cousins would gather for Christmas Eve. My grandpa put up beautiful lights outside and as kids, we loved arriving at night so that when we crossed the railroad tracks we could see the star on top of the house which meant we were only a football field away from a plate of fried chicken and a cold glass of milk. It was truly an "over the river and through the woods" kind of moment.

How my parents made that trip every Christmas, I'll never know. They somehow packed the car with gifts, luggage, three kids and usually a dog. As an expert packer, my dad was always able to hide the "Santa" gifts under everything else so that we couldn't see what Old Saint Nick was bringing us. Truly amazing.

With no DVD players, Ipods or books on tape, we three girls sat side by side in the back seat with a small bag of stuff to keep us busy during the 8-hour drive. Jenny always brought a book, Vicky had crayons and coloring books, and I had an electronic football game. You know the ones..red digital X's and O's for players. Arrow buttons so that you could move those same X's and O's side to side and backwards and forwards until they scored a touchdown. Kept me occupied for hours until one of my sisters crossed the imaginary line and a fight would ensue. Believe me, nobody was happier than my parents when we pulled into my grandparents' driveway and they could take a breather from the hassle of traveling with children.

The great part was that once we arrived, usually a few days before Christmas, we got to stay until right after New Year's, which meant we were always there when the Orange Bowl was played on January 1. Throughout the late 1970s and early 1980s, the University of Oklahoma, more often than not, played in this bowl game. Although my dad didn't attend OU, he did grow up in Oklahoma, and would always retreat to the basement on New Year's night to watch the game.

While everyone else was upstairs playing games, watching Johnny Carson and eating snacks, my dad was cheering for the home team in crimson and cream. And on many occasions I was by his side. At that age, it wasn't so much that I loved the thrill of the sport. I wasn't raised to be a diehard OU fan, although after watching the game, the song "Boomer Sooner" stuck with me for a few days. I had no dreams of going to school there, I had never even been to Norman, and at that point touchdown and field goal were the only terms I understood.

What I loved about watching those games with my dad was simply that it was just me and my dad. I had him all to myself. Every now and then, someone would open up the basement door and tell us to come up. But we rarely did. Instead, I'd watch the game and cheer and boo at the appropriate times, my dad would try to explain the rules to me and when it was over, we would return upstairs to announce the outcome. Nobody really cared, but by emerging from the basement together, I felt a strong sense of comradeship. We had been to battle together and come out alive.

We usually returned to Tulsa within a day or so of the Orange Bowl. The car would be repacked, my grandpa would send with us bags of popcorn for the road and my sisters and I would draw our imaginary lines on the car seats to mark our territory. Back to the routine of going to school, going to work and making ends meet, I knew that time with my dad was special. I didn't realize how special until last November. The night before he died, OU played Texas Tech. Earlier in the week, my dad and I talked about watching the game as it was a big one for the Sooners. I ended up watching most of it by myself in an empty hospital room next to my dad's.

With that being said...

LESSON LEARNED #2 - Winning or losing doesn't really matter...it's how you watch the game.

Terms And Conditions

For those of you reading this, keep in mind this is my first go-round with blogging. I love to write, although I can't vouch for how good I am at it, so I figured this would be a way for me to continue my "real" job which pays the bills and keeps a roof over my head, and allow me to express myself with words on paper. I am much more capable of writing how I feel as opposed to saying what I feel. On paper, I can tell someone how much I love them, how much I despise them, how much I'm hurting or how happy or, on some days, unhappy I am with my life. Even when I'm speechless, I can write. So, here are the terms and conditions of this blog. Read them and then mentally check off the box staing that you agree to them:

1. Read it, don't read it, you are not obligated to even return to this site ever again.

2. Understand my views are my views. I don't expect everyone to agree with them.

3. Feel free to comment, good or bad. I'm a big girl and can take the constructive criticism.

4. Keep in mind this blog project is more for me, than you. I want to share it, but if I go off on a tangent or things don't make sense to the reader, it probably makes sense to me. Just sayin'!

That's it. So here goes...

When my dad was sick, I sent out weekly updates to let our friends and family know how he was doing, what was happening with treatments and ultimately, that he had passed away. Throughout those six months, I learned a lot of things about living, about dying and more importantly about how to live so that when you died, you had no regrets and no worries. My dad taught me many of those lessons, not just during his illness, but since the day I was born.

It's been over a year since he died. They say it takes about 18 months after a person passes away to get all of his/her affairs in order. That may be true, but I have a feeling it takes a lot longer to get used to the fact that your loved one is no longer around. To this day, I still find myself picking up the phone to tell my dad a funny story about one of my many adventures. I still add "mom AND dad" to my party invite lists. And, I still find projects around the house and think, "I'll have dad come over and fix it." Sounds strange, yes. Uncommon, no. I have found out from talking to many people who have lost parents, spouses and dear friends, that these thoughts are normal. So, score one for me. I'm not losing my mind.

My dad and I had a very special relationship as I was his only single daughter. Because I didn't have the responsibilities of my sisters, Jenny and Vicky, who are married with kids (great kids if I do say so myself), I was able to spend more one-on-one time with my dad. Every now and then, he would meet me and my friends for happy hour. Sometimes we would spend Saturdays watching college football or basketball together, complete with a cold beer in hand. He would pop by during the day to say hi. The point is, I just didn't lose my dad, I lost my pal.

However, this relationship didn't come easily. Like my dad, I am stubborn. Like my dad, as a kid I did not always use common sense, which more often than not, landed me in a heap of trouble. But also like my dad, I feel like I learned lessons from each experience...hence the title of my blog.

The events of my life that I share will ring familiar to some of you. Not so much because you were there sharing them with me, but because you can relate to a similar experience. Each story will end with a lesson learned, mainly from my dad. He wasn't perfect...no one is. And he would be the first one to tell you that. But even through his not-so-perfect moments, I have been able to create an arsenal of do's and don'ts to use in everyday life.

With that being said...

LESSON LEARNED #1 - There is always a lesson to be learned. You just have to look for it.