All Hands On Deck

I want to preface this post with the notion that there is nothing funny about it. At all. Also, there is no sports content, and there is nothing linked to it, there are no images, no nothing of that sort.

I know that mentioning of this sort of thing isn't something that would normally happen on a blog of this sort, but in this case, it's relevant to me, to the House of Georges, and to anyone that's paid any mind to it whatsoever in the last year.

This morning, after a gruelling battle with cancer, Ann Wilke, the wonderful-and-loving mother of our very own Lone Reader, passed away.

While those words may mean little, if anything to any of the House of Georges readers, please know that it means quite a bit to me, and to everybody in our community that has known her for as long as we can remember.

I'll put it out there like this:

Imagine that one friend. That one guy who, in the world of failed relationships, divorces and family dysfunction, has the cool parents. The guy whose folks always understand, no matter how foolish your mistakes, no matter how many times you've been told, against better judgment, not to do that thing -- yet you do it anyway -- your folks understand and forgive you. The guy who has the folks that are geared up for every sporting event, every wedding shower, every holiday, every new relationship, every life success, and, equally, every failure. That guy, ladies and gentleman, is The Lone Reader.

And today, our very own TLR is minus a mama.

At this very moment, right now, hovering in the very instant of CyberSpace, I'm torn between whether or not I should go on about the dynamic, incredible person that Mama Lone Reader was, and, in the time it took me to write that half of a sentence, I've decided: I won't.

You never knew Mama LR, and you never will. But, I'm confident that you've known someone like her. Well, someone almost like her, anyway.

So, I have a favor to ask of you: whether you've come to the HoG because you're a faithful reader, or because a Google search has brought you here, I'll ask you to raise a glass to MLR. I'll then ask you to pound the table, or other surface before you -- not a shattering type of pound, but a hearty tap of sorts -- and then consume your spirit, to the Lone Reader in all of us.

And I'll ask you, as you swallow said spirit, to remember someone you've met that made you wish to make your own life more like the life of the person to whom your cheersing.