James D. Hogan

Sundays | My Uncle Ken

On March 9, 2014

IN MEMORIAM

My Uncle Ken, holding our daughter, Julia, in July 2011.

There’s no small irony about what happened to my uncle, who spent his life as an automobile insurance claims adjuster.

When I told people that my Uncle Ken had been seriously injured in a car accident, invariably there would come a time when someone would ask how old he was. “Eighty-one,” I’d respond. “But that’s not entirely accurate.”

Ken was 81, but he was one of the most vibrant octogenarians I’d ever known. Scratch that. He was the most. He went to work every day. He shoveled snow. He took his dog all across Monmouth County–on schedule, even: Saturday mornings were bank mornings; the tellers eventually began stocking treats for Ken’s dog instead of lollipops. He made the world’s best stuffing on Thanksgiving.

Physically, he was the human being equivalent of a ’75 Mercury Marquis: big. Strong. Able to sustain the grave injuries delivered in the near head-on collision less than a mile from his home and still have the wherewithal to call my aunt and ask that she come quickly.

But I am speaking all of this in the past tense. Ken’s heart ultimately wore out last week, and he passed away.

Sundays | Thawing Out

By James D. Hogan

On December 8, 2013

In writing

LIFE WITH KIDDOS

I have been in a funk. I’m not sure if it’s seasonal blues, or if it’s just the weight of the world bearing down. There’s plenty of heartache and hurt in my family and friends circle at the moment, and instead of using that proximity as a caliper of measuring how frankly lucky and blessed we are, it’s mostly just dropped one wet blanket of disaffection after another on top of me. I’d gotten stuck.

Things kind of came to a head yesterday when Kel and I took the kids to try and come up with a Christmas card picture.

To begin with, we didn’t have the vision for the picture. We were starting off behind. We’ve both been busy as of late, and the ideas we’d tossed around for a Christmas card picture–because, you know, these things are supposed to be meaningful pictures, the kind you hang on your fridge for goodness sakes–well, those ideas weren’t working out. They were too complicated or required more planning than we had time for.

We had a hunch about shooting pictures downtown, so we dressed up everybody in Christmas Best Clothes and trotted into town, Red Rider wagon and reindeer stuffed animals in tow. I carefully parallel parked in front of Statesville’s historic courthouse, greened up with fir wreaths and lights.

It kind of went downhill from there.

The Opening

By James D. Hogan

On May 27, 2013

In writing

AMBER WAVES OF GRAIN

Memorial Day weekend is the opening to summer that Labor Day closes.

Years ago, I wrote a meditation on the fall that contained some version of the line, “If Fall had an archway, this would be it.” And a similar line would work here, that Summer officially started this past weekend.

All around us, the community sprung into motion, as if the spring season had pent up some untapped reserve of kinetic force. My friends filled their Facebook and Instagram and Twitter feeds with reports and pictures of movement, point A to point B, fun all along the way, pictures of barbecues and lake outings and beaches and camping and Nascar races and parties. The pumps are running at all of the swimming pools, and thousands (or millions!) of us braved the temperatures, this spring more fitting in October than May, and splashed around in glory.

As for me, I left work Friday around lunch and picked up my golf clubs, inspired by a friend who was doing the same thing, and drove straight to the little county course near our house. I bought a pair of hot dogs, and a cold beer, and a bottle of water, and a bucket of range balls, and a round of nine holes. It had been about two years since I’d been out on a golf course. Better to ease into it.