That haunting movie was on again the other day and, after hours on the road within the last few weeks, it hasn't quite left the brain. The other day the t.v. remote found the instinctive impulse to stop and take another peak, if only to remind oneself of the soft underbelly of a respectful, middle-aged man. It isn't quite the Halloween scare you'd think, but rather a mental numbness of another sort.
It has been over 20 years since I was dragged kicking and screaming to see the movie The Remains of the Day. Yet the image of Anthony Hopkins, Mr. Stevens the Butler, sticks in one’s mind. Although the character is a man of honor and dignity, he is, for the most part, alone and unfulfilled. Empty. It is a fairly dark image of a man countered by a hefty respect for long hours, hard work, and putting the needs of others first.
It isn't currently important, really, just timely. When the movie was released in the early late 80s I saw it and I understood it, but did not truly get it. Fresh out of college, not yet married, and just starting a professional life of work, I was still in the making. The movie should have been forgettable and unremarkable to the college self save for the fact I knew men like Mr. Stevens. I worked with them. They were former professors. They were the middle class dads of friends and collegues who grew out of the depression era influenced generation ahead of me. It is a bit of my own father, who devoted his artistic soul to a vibrant career in music to struggle with early retirement and only a handful of gigs to satisfy his soul. And it is now me, twenty years into a career of giving my talents and dedication to one work project after another and coming home to happily cook, chauffer the kids, and attend to all the elements divorced/re-married dads do.
The Mr. Stevens character tapped into the silence and the unspoken hush of most dignified men. His self reflection is not lost on me. It is the dark, tacit part of us men not often shared. Though it could be Halloween-esque, it isn’t really a scary depressing place at all. It resembles center stage of an empty theater with a single, glowing bulb. It is a cigar, a glass of scotch, and an hour by oneself on the back patio. It is fishing or driving in silence. It is being. Respectful. Contemplative. Alone.
Men don’t share it because the answer is almost too simple. Get into the game. Stay in the light. Just leave the darkened mind-set and let that Emma Thompson character know of your true feelings and life can be complete. Yes, it can. I have. And, I am immensely happier for making the leap and trusting again. I didn't follow the script. But...
Apologies if you have read to this end with no real conclusion to offer up. All this rambling makes for incredibly boring reading, I'm sure. Most blogs of note get much further in today’s on-line culture by loudly bitching about something. But, to mer there is a sense of celebration in the balance between a man’s light and dark. One thrives in this balance. And that is ok.
Although he wasn't a role model, per se, Mr. Stevens taught me something once. And it has become clearer at the end of this day.
Showing posts with label Family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Family. Show all posts
10.30.2012
6.13.2011
Daddyism. A Father's Day Tradition Like No Other.
As another Father’s Day approaches, one muddles over the unfortunate things inflicted on the kids over the years, despite a Dad's best efforts and intentions to do the right thing in the right way. Given the relevant, recent history with a divorce and now a new marriage, I worry if my own issues might have permitted the kids to fall a bit into the cracks.
I should have known things had gone off-kilter when my Father’s Day gift a year or so back was a glass butter dish. A butter dish! Seriously! This kids crack falling thing is not the most celebratory thought right before another Father’s Day. Yet, it is just another part of Daddyism.
Daddyism relies on a heavy concept that, all in all, the kids are relatively resilient. Whatever mistakes and missteps their Dad makes, the mere attempt at doing the right thing as a father seems to prevail. One can only hope.
June 19th, 2011 is my 15th Father’s Day celebration. The number itself means very little except to offer a bench mark in time. It is easy to get caught up in it all, to look back upon experiences and events and feel time as fleeting. Looking forward to events yet to come there are driving lessons and SATs; high school graduations and proms; and, just a handful of remaining family vacations around the corner. All too soon (poof!) they should be off to college where both the fatherly influences and inadequacies shall have a relatively zero mitigated impact (thank goodness). Then, if history predicts anything, it’ll be another ten years before the kids return to perhaps see ‘ol Dad wasn’t/isn’t so bad after all.
The other day, I saw where the Houston Zoo had a rather unique day for Dads planned. Kid’s can name an endangered toad after their Dad and celebrate that splendor. How appropriate and funny and a wonderful illustration of a hidden truth. Somewhere in the layers and layers of parental phobias and decisions and daddy dogma, there is an uplifting calm, not to mention hilarity, in the humanity of Daddyism. I embrace that concept and philosophy, completely.
Daddyism holds perspective power. Most of us don’t truly realize our own kid-dom. We are mostly a product of the chronological listing of stretched stories and half-truths. Our memories change, filter, and reprioritize the important who-ness, what-ness, where-ness, when-ness, why-ness, and how much-ness (as well as, bad ass-ness) of our histories. Much is forgotten in the timelines from diapers to driving. We watch it happen, take a few notes, document it all as best we can, but the minutiae and wonderful details get lost on the shuffle to get to the inevitable what is next in life. Yet, the best part of Daddyism is our front row seat to watch it all unfold so we can, hopefully, talk about it later.
And it does unfold in strange ways. What seems like yesterday, I remember a small, chubby baby barely able comprehend the beauty of a simple fart, yet smiles anyway. Today, we belly laugh as we quickly roll down the windows of the car, knowing full well the profound accomplishment. Now THAT is human progress; an illustration of the overwhelming human experience boiled down into chunks one can more readily digest.
Yes, true Dads laugh. A lot! They harbor no overwhelming sorrow. No obvious fear. They are compassionate, yet strong. There is no status-envy as one would be hard pressed to think of a more cherished position for a man. True Dads love unconditionally. We promote productive, positive possibilities and a propensity for play, purposefully.
Sounds fun, doesn’t it? For those non-Daddyism endorsers, there isn’t a much more compelling argument for or against Daddyism than that. Daddyism doesn’t offer a cure-all to what ails you; quite the opposite, actually. It sells to Dads that front row seat perspective as the days, months, and years parade by offering you rare conclusions or quick fix solutions, but a heck of a lot of enjoyment along the way.
The risk is that, one way or the other, the kids might turn out to be just like you. Not the solace you are looking for, huh?! No harm, no foul. Life is elusive in handing one explanations and directions for happiness, significance, and reason. The Zen in me says, right there, THAT IS Daddyism in and of itself.
Maybe, the only real risk is that one day the kids offer you thanks by naming an endangered toad after you as you bask in the immense capacity of their love. This thought gives me hope. It is better than a butter dish and that there is progress. They are learning, in spite my fatherly falters and many misgivings.
Happy Daddyism and a wonderful Father’s Day to the Dads out there.
I should have known things had gone off-kilter when my Father’s Day gift a year or so back was a glass butter dish. A butter dish! Seriously! This kids crack falling thing is not the most celebratory thought right before another Father’s Day. Yet, it is just another part of Daddyism.
Daddyism relies on a heavy concept that, all in all, the kids are relatively resilient. Whatever mistakes and missteps their Dad makes, the mere attempt at doing the right thing as a father seems to prevail. One can only hope.
June 19th, 2011 is my 15th Father’s Day celebration. The number itself means very little except to offer a bench mark in time. It is easy to get caught up in it all, to look back upon experiences and events and feel time as fleeting. Looking forward to events yet to come there are driving lessons and SATs; high school graduations and proms; and, just a handful of remaining family vacations around the corner. All too soon (poof!) they should be off to college where both the fatherly influences and inadequacies shall have a relatively zero mitigated impact (thank goodness). Then, if history predicts anything, it’ll be another ten years before the kids return to perhaps see ‘ol Dad wasn’t/isn’t so bad after all.
The other day, I saw where the Houston Zoo had a rather unique day for Dads planned. Kid’s can name an endangered toad after their Dad and celebrate that splendor. How appropriate and funny and a wonderful illustration of a hidden truth. Somewhere in the layers and layers of parental phobias and decisions and daddy dogma, there is an uplifting calm, not to mention hilarity, in the humanity of Daddyism. I embrace that concept and philosophy, completely.
Daddyism holds perspective power. Most of us don’t truly realize our own kid-dom. We are mostly a product of the chronological listing of stretched stories and half-truths. Our memories change, filter, and reprioritize the important who-ness, what-ness, where-ness, when-ness, why-ness, and how much-ness (as well as, bad ass-ness) of our histories. Much is forgotten in the timelines from diapers to driving. We watch it happen, take a few notes, document it all as best we can, but the minutiae and wonderful details get lost on the shuffle to get to the inevitable what is next in life. Yet, the best part of Daddyism is our front row seat to watch it all unfold so we can, hopefully, talk about it later.
And it does unfold in strange ways. What seems like yesterday, I remember a small, chubby baby barely able comprehend the beauty of a simple fart, yet smiles anyway. Today, we belly laugh as we quickly roll down the windows of the car, knowing full well the profound accomplishment. Now THAT is human progress; an illustration of the overwhelming human experience boiled down into chunks one can more readily digest.
Yes, true Dads laugh. A lot! They harbor no overwhelming sorrow. No obvious fear. They are compassionate, yet strong. There is no status-envy as one would be hard pressed to think of a more cherished position for a man. True Dads love unconditionally. We promote productive, positive possibilities and a propensity for play, purposefully.
Sounds fun, doesn’t it? For those non-Daddyism endorsers, there isn’t a much more compelling argument for or against Daddyism than that. Daddyism doesn’t offer a cure-all to what ails you; quite the opposite, actually. It sells to Dads that front row seat perspective as the days, months, and years parade by offering you rare conclusions or quick fix solutions, but a heck of a lot of enjoyment along the way.
The risk is that, one way or the other, the kids might turn out to be just like you. Not the solace you are looking for, huh?! No harm, no foul. Life is elusive in handing one explanations and directions for happiness, significance, and reason. The Zen in me says, right there, THAT IS Daddyism in and of itself.
Maybe, the only real risk is that one day the kids offer you thanks by naming an endangered toad after you as you bask in the immense capacity of their love. This thought gives me hope. It is better than a butter dish and that there is progress. They are learning, in spite my fatherly falters and many misgivings.
Happy Daddyism and a wonderful Father’s Day to the Dads out there.
1.05.2011
Maybe This Year, Then
Maybe this year,
The economy completely recovers.
The $300 I loaned out is returned (after two years).
The go-ahead for that next big project is granted.
Family life stabilizes.
The kids turn into adventurous eaters.
Technology mastery is achieved.
The commute becomes milder.
Leisure time is prevalent.
Gas prices drop while the mpg triples.
The housing market normalizes.
Global warming reverses.
Then, I can,
Paint and draw.
Write and blog.
Discover new music, live music.
Read.
Garden and grow things.
Build and construct.
Travel and explore.
Cook new things.
The point is none of the Maybes are likely to happen. So, why wait on the stuff I really want make. Remember Rule number Six.
The economy completely recovers.
The $300 I loaned out is returned (after two years).
The go-ahead for that next big project is granted.
Family life stabilizes.
The kids turn into adventurous eaters.
Technology mastery is achieved.
The commute becomes milder.
Leisure time is prevalent.
Gas prices drop while the mpg triples.
The housing market normalizes.
Global warming reverses.
Then, I can,
Paint and draw.
Write and blog.
Discover new music, live music.
Read.
Garden and grow things.
Build and construct.
Travel and explore.
Cook new things.
The point is none of the Maybes are likely to happen. So, why wait on the stuff I really want make. Remember Rule number Six.
5.20.2010
1.17.2010
Painting
It is not rocket science. It is painting a wall (or eight). I’m comfortable with a brush in hand with a color at the tip. So, why do I despise painting walls in a space to be inhabited?
Time!
Quite simply, I want to do the job correctly and have NEVER had the time to do just that. Granted, I’m not fast. So, when time trumps quality, history has beaten me into cutting corners instead of doing what I know I am capable of doing. And thus mistakes happen.
However, this time around I enjoyed the process tremendously. I did hide. I escaped to go pack up a house I’m vacating. I ran errands that needed running. I cooked instead of painting, no doubt. Yet, I’ll argue that rewarding the painters with my version of mac’n’chicken’n’cheese was well worth the effort.
But when I did put the brush in my hand, I enjoyed today’s painting. There was no rush. Just Jillian and me with a similar goal to give the kids the room they envisioned. I think in the long run we did just that. However, it wouldn’t have happened without her vision, her patience, and her love.
So, yes, what can we paint together next?
1.06.2010
Transformation or Irritation
I had a long conversation with my father over the holidays. My mom and fiancee escaped to the other room as it sounded more like a squabble over computer issues. But, it wasn’t. It was just two men trying to make sure each other was understood or simply heard. It was really a discussion about the differences of our generations.
I’ve thought a lot about that conversation as the new decade begins and believe dad and I fall into two, distinct, generational directions or trends. Directions I don’t see easily turning around.
I call the first generational direction Transformation (or a change into something improved or useful). I’ll call the other direction Irritation (or impatient and exasperation).
Transformation happens. Growth happens. Change happens. Our technical infrastructure is simply massive today and getting bigger (and smaller). Take, for example, my phone. Cell phones that take videos/pictures, surf the internet, send text messages, calendar items, retrieve/send email, calculate, look up words, record grocery lists, store music, and play games are common place. The newest Generation Z kids (born from the mid 1990s to mid 2000s) fluently work technology without even needing a lesson (though they barely remember 911 or comprehend the historical perspective). They are now about to graduate high school and enter the work force. And I have to say, they understand the concepts of Transformation. And you know what? They embrace change because that is all they know. GenY and GenX (me) get it, too, although in distinctly different ways.
The alternative direction is Irritation. Frustration happens, too. It is only human to believe we’ll live and dream forever and that we can accomplish everything we want if we just work hard at it. However, as the Baby Boomers get older I fear the reality is they can’t keep up. Today’s tech world moves too fast. And whining about it doesn’t help because nobody can slow it down (though virus designers do try). To make matters worse, the Gen X, Y, and Zers blink unknowingly as teachers. There is no text book or manual anymore. If you have a question, there exists only a quick link to a help menu or a phone call to person in India (speaking of irritation). The best answer you can get from a GenXYZer is to just “figure it out”. That is what we do.
I guess the best answer to my dad is to draw an analogy. If one truly wants to learn a language, get into a total immersion program. If one wants to learn Spanish, go live in Spain.
Generationally speaking, we are all shaped by the events, leaders, developments and trends of our time. The GenXers like me, dubbed in part as the internet generation, are fairly comfortable with change and are naturally going to align ourselves with Transformation. The GenYers, having started the Facebook, MySpace, blogs, and instant communication technologies love “the next new thing”. So, they are going to chose Transformation. And these GenZ kids are simply amazing to watch “go”.
The Baby Boomers do have a choice. And being irritated about the ongoing transformations won't get you credit for doing both.
I’ve thought a lot about that conversation as the new decade begins and believe dad and I fall into two, distinct, generational directions or trends. Directions I don’t see easily turning around.
I call the first generational direction Transformation (or a change into something improved or useful). I’ll call the other direction Irritation (or impatient and exasperation).
Transformation happens. Growth happens. Change happens. Our technical infrastructure is simply massive today and getting bigger (and smaller). Take, for example, my phone. Cell phones that take videos/pictures, surf the internet, send text messages, calendar items, retrieve/send email, calculate, look up words, record grocery lists, store music, and play games are common place. The newest Generation Z kids (born from the mid 1990s to mid 2000s) fluently work technology without even needing a lesson (though they barely remember 911 or comprehend the historical perspective). They are now about to graduate high school and enter the work force. And I have to say, they understand the concepts of Transformation. And you know what? They embrace change because that is all they know. GenY and GenX (me) get it, too, although in distinctly different ways.
The alternative direction is Irritation. Frustration happens, too. It is only human to believe we’ll live and dream forever and that we can accomplish everything we want if we just work hard at it. However, as the Baby Boomers get older I fear the reality is they can’t keep up. Today’s tech world moves too fast. And whining about it doesn’t help because nobody can slow it down (though virus designers do try). To make matters worse, the Gen X, Y, and Zers blink unknowingly as teachers. There is no text book or manual anymore. If you have a question, there exists only a quick link to a help menu or a phone call to person in India (speaking of irritation). The best answer you can get from a GenXYZer is to just “figure it out”. That is what we do.
I guess the best answer to my dad is to draw an analogy. If one truly wants to learn a language, get into a total immersion program. If one wants to learn Spanish, go live in Spain.
Generationally speaking, we are all shaped by the events, leaders, developments and trends of our time. The GenXers like me, dubbed in part as the internet generation, are fairly comfortable with change and are naturally going to align ourselves with Transformation. The GenYers, having started the Facebook, MySpace, blogs, and instant communication technologies love “the next new thing”. So, they are going to chose Transformation. And these GenZ kids are simply amazing to watch “go”.
The Baby Boomers do have a choice. And being irritated about the ongoing transformations won't get you credit for doing both.
12.31.2008
In 2009 + Life's Lyrics 18 - Brand New Day
New Year’s Eve has always been a source of trepidation. For some, it feels like a night of mandatory feting. Everyone dressing up in garb they might never wear again (comfortably maybe, but, probably not). It can be an expensive night. People marinate their brains on alcohol in order to forget the previous year. Or celebrate/dread the upcoming one. It can be more of a hyped-up holiday where one must attain a socially respectable level of enjoyment.
However much I enjoy a good party, this NYE brings about much needed reflection. For the majority of the year, 2008 sucked. But with it came a ton of great and encouraging people and events. Suffice it to say, I would have soberly stared at you, blinking unbelievably if you had hinted to me that in 2008 I would teeter-totter between extreme emotions while crying/laughing along at each one:
From Joshua Radin's acoustic little ditty (sounding very Cat Stevens-esque) are these lyrics from the song Brand New Day. I hope when you wake up on Thursday, January 1 on 2009, this is the first song you hear.
However much I enjoy a good party, this NYE brings about much needed reflection. For the majority of the year, 2008 sucked. But with it came a ton of great and encouraging people and events. Suffice it to say, I would have soberly stared at you, blinking unbelievably if you had hinted to me that in 2008 I would teeter-totter between extreme emotions while crying/laughing along at each one:
- Surviving divorce and now a reveling in a new Love;If nothing else, 2008 was not boring. And you know what? I have no real regrets. Well, I might have done a few things better given a chance to revisit some things, but all in all I’ve come through the year looking forward 2009. I’ll be ok.
- Bush anger and Obama hope;
- Leaving what has been my home (living out of suitcase through all of 2008) and now starting a new home from scratch (with a permanent place to put my toothbrush);
- Fearing economic upheaval and being thankful for a job I love;
- Losing my dog of 13 years and thriving with my non-profit work for the zoo;
- Cooking for one vs. cooking for my kids/friends/Girlfriend; and,
- I will not miss the countless remote hours alone in a small condo from hell but will always cherish the memories during the multiple travels with friends/loved ones.
From Joshua Radin's acoustic little ditty (sounding very Cat Stevens-esque) are these lyrics from the song Brand New Day. I hope when you wake up on Thursday, January 1 on 2009, this is the first song you hear.
Some kind of magic
Happens late at night
When the moon smiles down at me
And bathes me in its light
I fell asleep beneath you
In the tall blades of grass
When I woke the world was new
I never had to ask
It’s a brand new day
The sun is shining
It’s a brand new day
For the first time in such a long long time
I know I’ll be ok
Most kind of stories
Save the best part for last
And most stories have a hero who finds
You make your past your past
Yeah you make your past your past
It’s a brand new day
The sun is shining
It’s a brand new day
For the first time in such a long long time
I know I’ll be ok
This cycle never ends
You gotta fall in order to mend
It’s a brand new day
It’s a brand new day
For the first time in such a long long time
I know I’ll be ok
10.01.2008
Celebration Man, Where Are You?
For most people the “holidays” don’t truly start until Thanksgiving, but for me October 1st is the turning point toward the wonderful insanity of celebration. Maybe because mathematically speaking it is the last quarter of the year. Maybe there is some truth that I feel this way because the Fall I know and love is finally here and the weather is starting, barely, to shift a bit more seasonal. But the truth is, for me, the holidays start in October because of the birthday celebrations I share with my two kids.
October is birth month in the house of Mud. November holds Thanksgiving, the best holiday of all. December ushers up Christmas and then into the New Year. Everything in between is packed with “other” and “getting ready for” those big days. And it takes Super Hero determination and powers to get through it all.
I’m having a difficult time getting motivated. I lack motivation and haven’t mustered the power to fly headfirst into the melee of festivities. Why? Because the Fall of 2007 was shear hell as my marriage was failing in October, falling in November, and fallen by December.
My last birthday was a blast in ‘07, no doubt, as my ex-wife threw me a party with my favorite band playing in our tree-house like setting off the back deck. Friends danced, drank great wine, and I believe everyone had a great time. Yet, reality and reflection shows it was a great going away party, a bon-voyage to the life I knew and loved. It introduced a whole new era.
I never before understood how people could despise the holidays. And they really do, some people. When I was a kid, I remember conversations from adults stating their profound loathing of the holidays. It caused headaches. It was more work than worth. I could never figure how adults could kvetch over loved ones (near and far), all the food, lights, gifts, pumpkins, trees, champagne, and fun. And the pies. Oh, the pies. All that stuff should make you happy, not grumpy, right?
I always wondered, even as an adult, about the negative people. Until last year.
Now, as I trudge through the calendar in my Treo, contemplating the filled events, driving in traffic, lines of last minute shopping, hordes of bitchy people, and the collective crappy moods I used to easily deflect, my mood is sinking. I wonder if I can do this again. I know I can. I know I will. I know the kids need the positive, not the negative. I know I will come out on the other side of 2008 looking at a rather hopeful, gleaming new 2009. I know. I know.
I just don’t feel that Super Hero feeling of Celebration Man today. October 1st is when I dust off the costume and polish the positive attitude. Today is October 1st and I don’t know where Celebration Man is. Last time I saw him was 2006. And of all the years, we need Celebration Man again.
But, I’m working on it. I am. I am Celebration Man and he’s here somewhere.
Update (10.01.08): It helped to walk in the door after work and being given the first "Birth Month" card. That helped a lot.
October is birth month in the house of Mud. November holds Thanksgiving, the best holiday of all. December ushers up Christmas and then into the New Year. Everything in between is packed with “other” and “getting ready for” those big days. And it takes Super Hero determination and powers to get through it all.
I’m having a difficult time getting motivated. I lack motivation and haven’t mustered the power to fly headfirst into the melee of festivities. Why? Because the Fall of 2007 was shear hell as my marriage was failing in October, falling in November, and fallen by December.
My last birthday was a blast in ‘07, no doubt, as my ex-wife threw me a party with my favorite band playing in our tree-house like setting off the back deck. Friends danced, drank great wine, and I believe everyone had a great time. Yet, reality and reflection shows it was a great going away party, a bon-voyage to the life I knew and loved. It introduced a whole new era.
I never before understood how people could despise the holidays. And they really do, some people. When I was a kid, I remember conversations from adults stating their profound loathing of the holidays. It caused headaches. It was more work than worth. I could never figure how adults could kvetch over loved ones (near and far), all the food, lights, gifts, pumpkins, trees, champagne, and fun. And the pies. Oh, the pies. All that stuff should make you happy, not grumpy, right?
I always wondered, even as an adult, about the negative people. Until last year.
Now, as I trudge through the calendar in my Treo, contemplating the filled events, driving in traffic, lines of last minute shopping, hordes of bitchy people, and the collective crappy moods I used to easily deflect, my mood is sinking. I wonder if I can do this again. I know I can. I know I will. I know the kids need the positive, not the negative. I know I will come out on the other side of 2008 looking at a rather hopeful, gleaming new 2009. I know. I know.
I just don’t feel that Super Hero feeling of Celebration Man today. October 1st is when I dust off the costume and polish the positive attitude. Today is October 1st and I don’t know where Celebration Man is. Last time I saw him was 2006. And of all the years, we need Celebration Man again.
But, I’m working on it. I am. I am Celebration Man and he’s here somewhere.
Update (10.01.08): It helped to walk in the door after work and being given the first "Birth Month" card. That helped a lot.
9.20.2008
A Safe Place
When I get into the house every other Friday, I’m typically not prepared to cook for either me or the kids. The Girlie and I do the weekly shopping on our Saturday morning ritual. So, Fridays tend to be pizza night. Last night was no exception. I still push for the three of us to at least sit down, stare at each other, and for me anyway, try to catch up on the missed week of my children’s lives. Sometimes all I get is a “not much”. Sometimes I get last night.
Between bites of pizza at a quiet moment, The Girlie asked me “Why are we still at war in Iraq? The news showed some little kids that were lost. I don’t like that at all.”
I was briefly taken aback and over chewed my pizza, hiding behind a façade of a smile so I could think about my explanation. I needed to think of comforting fatherly words to ward off the evil world that wormed its way into my daughter’s consciousness. I fished for the words that could blur the edges of an impoverished child or tanks or soldiers or worse.
I will admit, I’ve wanted to see more of what the war is all about on tv. I don’t believe it is good to hide our actions from the American people. We already seem to be a culture of sheep to a certain extent. I believe if we actually could see all the caskets with draped American flags and more of the devastation these leadership decisions have caused, the American public (I’m talking mostly about the Republican conservative folks) might not have been as supportive.
However, in this moment with my kids I was torn and I knew with frightened clarity that events happen every day. This wasn’t just about the war. I was actually a bit relieved she didn’t ask me about the fall of the American financial world, as I’m not sure I could have really explained that to my nine year old. Not sure I could explain it to me right now. But it was immediately apparent there is a new nightmare nearly every day. Nine year olds must ponder these things all the time. Or they blindly choose to ignore it all and go naively playing with their dolls all sugar and spice with everything nice.
If given the choice to rewind those moments for her, I would have gladly hit the double arrowed left button and rerecorded a newer, nicer video over her Memorex. After all, in spite of my personal world-view, I am her father. I’m Daddy. I protect. It is my job more than any other. If a part of this life didn’t depend on the tv as baby-sitter whilst I prepare dinner (and my addiction to big screen football Sunday), the tv would be on the curb.
Yet, the news is the news. It is on tv every night, and despite the lack of a credible reality counter for the Good to balance it all out, it should be a reminder to all of us that life is not fair. There is no escaping the injustices this world forces upon us. Dark things exist around some of the most seemingly normal places looking all rainbows and ribbons.
And that clue is what The Girlie wanted to know. She is a smart girl and getting more grown up all the time. She simply wanted a version of the truth she could stomach.
So, without going into my politics I tried to explain the basics of the war in Iraq to a nine year old girl; how it started, why we are still there, and my hopes that we end it soon.
I watched her think. I was apprehensive. I’d given her too much to chew on, politically speaking. Her face scruntched up with cute, little thought lines above her eyebrows, “If Obama wins the election will he get us out of the war?”
That’s my girl, I thought as I took a swig of beer to down my bite of pizza. “I hope so,” I stated.
And that was that.
I sort of wish the conversation had turned back to the scary things. I know she sees a lot of it anyway. There are other kids that go to school with her where the parents have restraining orders. She knows kids from abuse. Hell, she knows life can go pretty quickly from an assumed happy family of four to a divorce and alternating parents every other week. She knows.
After dinner, I cuddled up with both kids for a rousing round of Rock Band on the PlayStation. And I wondered if my heart could slow down a bit and keep time with the drum beats coming at me on the screen. I think it is important for us all to laugh.
That is my counter. That is what I, as dad, do. Teach, warn, prepare, love, encourage, and provide that one and only safe place. Home.
Between bites of pizza at a quiet moment, The Girlie asked me “Why are we still at war in Iraq? The news showed some little kids that were lost. I don’t like that at all.”
I was briefly taken aback and over chewed my pizza, hiding behind a façade of a smile so I could think about my explanation. I needed to think of comforting fatherly words to ward off the evil world that wormed its way into my daughter’s consciousness. I fished for the words that could blur the edges of an impoverished child or tanks or soldiers or worse.
I will admit, I’ve wanted to see more of what the war is all about on tv. I don’t believe it is good to hide our actions from the American people. We already seem to be a culture of sheep to a certain extent. I believe if we actually could see all the caskets with draped American flags and more of the devastation these leadership decisions have caused, the American public (I’m talking mostly about the Republican conservative folks) might not have been as supportive.
However, in this moment with my kids I was torn and I knew with frightened clarity that events happen every day. This wasn’t just about the war. I was actually a bit relieved she didn’t ask me about the fall of the American financial world, as I’m not sure I could have really explained that to my nine year old. Not sure I could explain it to me right now. But it was immediately apparent there is a new nightmare nearly every day. Nine year olds must ponder these things all the time. Or they blindly choose to ignore it all and go naively playing with their dolls all sugar and spice with everything nice.
If given the choice to rewind those moments for her, I would have gladly hit the double arrowed left button and rerecorded a newer, nicer video over her Memorex. After all, in spite of my personal world-view, I am her father. I’m Daddy. I protect. It is my job more than any other. If a part of this life didn’t depend on the tv as baby-sitter whilst I prepare dinner (and my addiction to big screen football Sunday), the tv would be on the curb.
Yet, the news is the news. It is on tv every night, and despite the lack of a credible reality counter for the Good to balance it all out, it should be a reminder to all of us that life is not fair. There is no escaping the injustices this world forces upon us. Dark things exist around some of the most seemingly normal places looking all rainbows and ribbons.
And that clue is what The Girlie wanted to know. She is a smart girl and getting more grown up all the time. She simply wanted a version of the truth she could stomach.
So, without going into my politics I tried to explain the basics of the war in Iraq to a nine year old girl; how it started, why we are still there, and my hopes that we end it soon.
I watched her think. I was apprehensive. I’d given her too much to chew on, politically speaking. Her face scruntched up with cute, little thought lines above her eyebrows, “If Obama wins the election will he get us out of the war?”
That’s my girl, I thought as I took a swig of beer to down my bite of pizza. “I hope so,” I stated.
And that was that.
I sort of wish the conversation had turned back to the scary things. I know she sees a lot of it anyway. There are other kids that go to school with her where the parents have restraining orders. She knows kids from abuse. Hell, she knows life can go pretty quickly from an assumed happy family of four to a divorce and alternating parents every other week. She knows.
After dinner, I cuddled up with both kids for a rousing round of Rock Band on the PlayStation. And I wondered if my heart could slow down a bit and keep time with the drum beats coming at me on the screen. I think it is important for us all to laugh.
That is my counter. That is what I, as dad, do. Teach, warn, prepare, love, encourage, and provide that one and only safe place. Home.
8.27.2008
Slippers
I was looking for some stuff under my bed and found a pair of slippers. I don't wear slippers. I don't know why I own them. My daughter saw me pull them out and look at them questioningly.
"Daddy, why don't you ever wear your slippers?" she asked.
"Because, I don't want to fall down," came my response.
She looked at me like I'd lost my mind.
"They don't call them 'slippers' for no reason, right!?" I continued. She paused, thinking.
"Daaaddddyyyyyyy!" came the realization.
Then she punched me.
"Daddy, why don't you ever wear your slippers?" she asked.
"Because, I don't want to fall down," came my response.
She looked at me like I'd lost my mind.
"They don't call them 'slippers' for no reason, right!?" I continued. She paused, thinking.
"Daaaddddyyyyyyy!" came the realization.
Then she punched me.
7.19.2008
7.09.2008
Childhood Revisited
My kids reminded me this evening it is our last night together until early August. They are leaving to go join my folks at my childhood safe place, a lake in the northern Midwest. This year I have too much going on to join them for part of it. Actually, because of Europe, I just don’t have the vacation time. But, …
My kids get to live my childhood for a bit, the childhood as far back as I can remember.
The Girlie will collect colorful, unique rocks harvested from the Big Lake near by and lovingly house them in empty Quaker Oatmeal containers with a paper towel between each layer. She will collect Queen Anne’s lace, dandelions, and young ferns from the shadow in the woods. She’ll put them in a large Mason jar and present them to my mom with that beaming, prideful smile.
The Boy will spend hours rowing around in the cool, clear water. I taught him to fish a few years ago. Maybe this is the year he will develop the nerve to touch the fish and remove it from the hook on his own. He is an explorer now. And the lake will provide countless hours of solitary entertainment.
They’ll eat outside on the picnic table in the shade and have fresh white corn and bbq’d steaks that my dad expertly prepares. My mom will make her pea and peanut salad. There will be lemonade, cheap beer, and even cheaper wine. They will eat in their slightly damp swim suits and sit on their drying towels. They will play board games at night with the windows wide open and the bugs bouncing off the screens. Through the glass in the front door, they’ll watch a spider make a nearly perfect web just underneath the overhang by the porch light. They’ll walk up to the small grocery store for candy and random errands from my folks. If they catch the right week, there will be renters with other new friends staying in the cottages near by. Bonfires. ‘Smores. Ghost stories. Jokes. Romance. Crushes. Silence.
The lake water holds my sanity. It is my safe place. Maybe it is the way it regularly captures a calm in the late evening to go with a mango sunset. Or, the way on a windy day the water matches the clouds in the sky and treats me to a marching rhythm of white caps that play a beat on the shore like a metronome. It is where I go at night when I’m far away and can’t sleep.
I’m going to miss my Lake. Not too much, though, because my kids will bring back two weeks worth of stories. Not having them be there would be worse because home and family need to continue on even if I can’t physically be there this year. There is a wonderful sense of balance knowing that some traditions are kept safe.
It comforts me to know that my Lake is still alive for my kids. They will bring fresh breath and a stronger heart home to me when they return.
7.05.2008
Sustenance 1
I don’t want to turn EHTT into a food blog. But ... I cook. It is more than a hobby but one I have no desire to take further than having it just BE an important part of my life.
I’ve been posed the question of how and why I learned to cook. Given their expressions I see their fear. Their eyes question me like I’ve gone through some cooking school boot camp where a secret cabal of iron chefs preside over age-old recipes of spice mingling and time juggling. If I could have only learned that way, it would be a better story. Though, the time juggling is still a huge conundrum. I don't do that part very well.....
My reply to the blank stare is relatively simple, “My mom taught me how to make breakfast.” That is where it started. Although, just between me and world, I think she taught me how to deal with scrambled eggs so that she didn’t have to get out of bed on the cold Michigan mornings at 6 a.m. before I ran out the door to catch the Jr. High school bus. But, that’s ok. No harm, no foul. And, I actually thank her for giving me the confidence to plow forward in the realm of the kitchen (and laundry, too).
The next question is usually, “Why?”
The answer is simple, because I enjoy it.
Now, I will admit I don’t fear the kitchen, but my recent foray into the creative side of recipes started with being told I had high cholesterol. Hyper-Cholesterolemia, actually. The kind of medical deal that could kill me in 10 years or so. Therefore, I took control of my diet, promptly lost about 15 pounds, and rededicated myself to the gym (and, I down a Lipitor every night).
But the cooking thing has stuck. No doubt it is a creative outlet. Healthy food and making it tasty is fun. It is something I hope to pass on to my overly food-picky kids. The Boy is already requesting that I keep the necessary ingredients for chocolate chip bars on hand at all times and he is a master at his own version of scrambled eggs. And, The Girlie loves to put on an apron and help chop stuff (my personal sous chef). When she helps me cook, the kitchen is fun.
For me, this cooking thing is nothing more than a way to cut loose, play, and trifle with folly. It’s pure fun with organic chemistry. Nothing matters. I’ve failed miserably yet I’ve had a mere handful of stunning successes. The more I try, the better I get. Practice is what it is all about.
Outside of baking (and I haven’t EVEN wanted to go THERE), I pirate every recipe. Everything is an improvisation.I am a pirate, no doubt.
It is all about intuition these days. I’ve enjoyed eating all my life so I trust what my palate has to say. I’ve learned to love the food and wine pairing. But, quite honestly, it gets a little over the top for me sometimes. Although, “Eat your Brussels Sprouts and finish your milk” is simple culinary disaster. No wonder kids hate green vegetables. Give them some wine with their meal, please! Kids drink wine in Europe!
Yet, I make mistakes. Catastrophes happen. It’s just a badge of honor or courage, I guess. Yet, while successes make great dinner parties, disasters get talked about. So, I have stories.
So, here we go. Just like the musical lyrics part of this blog (Life's Lyrics), I plan to share interesting meals and times. Wine. Beer. And Food. Because, quite honestly, nothing is better than creating a nice meal and sharing it with friends and family. Those are better stories.
Sustenance 1
Albertson’s had beef rib-eyes on sale. So, tonight The Girlie and I bbq’d us up some steaks and some sweet corn-on-the-cob. But the key part for me was the Confetti Salad…. A mixture of cooked brown rice, zucchini, carrots, tomato, red bells, green onions, red onions, cilantro all chopped up in tiny pieces. I'm talking borderline salsa chopped. Add a bit of lime juice, canola oil, some jalapeño, salt, pepper and a can of drained/rinsed black beans, and I was good to go. Who needs measurements? Go with what looks/tastes good.
It wasn’t amazing. But it was fresh and good with the steaks. Next time, I might add the bbq’d corn right into the salad. I'm going to knife it right off the cob and into the salad...
Wine of the night: Tobin James - James Gang Reserve Sarah (2004). It was paired more to go with the steak, but honestly worked well with the confetti salad, too.
Cheers.
I’ve been posed the question of how and why I learned to cook. Given their expressions I see their fear. Their eyes question me like I’ve gone through some cooking school boot camp where a secret cabal of iron chefs preside over age-old recipes of spice mingling and time juggling. If I could have only learned that way, it would be a better story. Though, the time juggling is still a huge conundrum. I don't do that part very well.....
My reply to the blank stare is relatively simple, “My mom taught me how to make breakfast.” That is where it started. Although, just between me and world, I think she taught me how to deal with scrambled eggs so that she didn’t have to get out of bed on the cold Michigan mornings at 6 a.m. before I ran out the door to catch the Jr. High school bus. But, that’s ok. No harm, no foul. And, I actually thank her for giving me the confidence to plow forward in the realm of the kitchen (and laundry, too).
The next question is usually, “Why?”
The answer is simple, because I enjoy it.
Now, I will admit I don’t fear the kitchen, but my recent foray into the creative side of recipes started with being told I had high cholesterol. Hyper-Cholesterolemia, actually. The kind of medical deal that could kill me in 10 years or so. Therefore, I took control of my diet, promptly lost about 15 pounds, and rededicated myself to the gym (and, I down a Lipitor every night).
But the cooking thing has stuck. No doubt it is a creative outlet. Healthy food and making it tasty is fun. It is something I hope to pass on to my overly food-picky kids. The Boy is already requesting that I keep the necessary ingredients for chocolate chip bars on hand at all times and he is a master at his own version of scrambled eggs. And, The Girlie loves to put on an apron and help chop stuff (my personal sous chef). When she helps me cook, the kitchen is fun.
For me, this cooking thing is nothing more than a way to cut loose, play, and trifle with folly. It’s pure fun with organic chemistry. Nothing matters. I’ve failed miserably yet I’ve had a mere handful of stunning successes. The more I try, the better I get. Practice is what it is all about.
Outside of baking (and I haven’t EVEN wanted to go THERE), I pirate every recipe. Everything is an improvisation.I am a pirate, no doubt.
(from Pirates of the Caribbean) Elizabeth: You're pirates. Hang the code, and hang the rules. They're more like guidelines anyway.ImprovWhat matters more than anything, is the longer one cooks, the better the learned alphabet.
It is all about intuition these days. I’ve enjoyed eating all my life so I trust what my palate has to say. I’ve learned to love the food and wine pairing. But, quite honestly, it gets a little over the top for me sometimes. Although, “Eat your Brussels Sprouts and finish your milk” is simple culinary disaster. No wonder kids hate green vegetables. Give them some wine with their meal, please! Kids drink wine in Europe!
Yet, I make mistakes. Catastrophes happen. It’s just a badge of honor or courage, I guess. Yet, while successes make great dinner parties, disasters get talked about. So, I have stories.
So, here we go. Just like the musical lyrics part of this blog (Life's Lyrics), I plan to share interesting meals and times. Wine. Beer. And Food. Because, quite honestly, nothing is better than creating a nice meal and sharing it with friends and family. Those are better stories.
Sustenance 1
Albertson’s had beef rib-eyes on sale. So, tonight The Girlie and I bbq’d us up some steaks and some sweet corn-on-the-cob. But the key part for me was the Confetti Salad…. A mixture of cooked brown rice, zucchini, carrots, tomato, red bells, green onions, red onions, cilantro all chopped up in tiny pieces. I'm talking borderline salsa chopped. Add a bit of lime juice, canola oil, some jalapeño, salt, pepper and a can of drained/rinsed black beans, and I was good to go. Who needs measurements? Go with what looks/tastes good.
It wasn’t amazing. But it was fresh and good with the steaks. Next time, I might add the bbq’d corn right into the salad. I'm going to knife it right off the cob and into the salad...
Wine of the night: Tobin James - James Gang Reserve Sarah (2004). It was paired more to go with the steak, but honestly worked well with the confetti salad, too.
Cheers.
7.02.2008
Life's Lyrics 6 - A Work of Fiction
I'm striking while the inspiration is fresh. I've decided to take the lyrics from Solsbury Hill and turn it into a short story. If you don't know the song, I strongly suggest you download it and listen while reading as that is how I wrote it. If not Peter Gabriel's original, then the cover version from Ingram Hill is quite impressive. Remember, this is fiction (with a smile).
Part I
Pete walked into the empty house, cascading his keys down the lengthy kitchen counter. They slid right off the end landing by the trash can. He made no attempt to retrieve them, hoping as he deposited his backpack on the dining room chair that he’d remember his keys resting place later. Instinctively, Pete opened the refrigerator and pulled out a beer. He just stood there and drank it, numb. He’d been like this now for nearly three months and it wasn’t getting better.
Life had changed beyond his control. His wife, his love, just left him, abandoning and crushing all he valued in one simple sentence, “I’m done”. The cavernous house felt like a mortuary. He felt the need to flee, to run away, and find an answer to mend the pain.
Maybe in a moment of pure inspiration or the simple need to move (or die), Pete set his unfinished beer in the middle of the counter. He retrieved his keys and grabbed his backpack slamming a locked door behind him.
He didn’t really know where he needed to go. He was lost yet he continued to drive around aimlessly. The radio was on, an old Genesis song, but it didn’t provide the needed distraction which is ironic because he really loved that song. After a while, Pete found himself on a vaguely familiar road winding up a hill into the darkening skies.
“Perfect,” Pete said out loud to break his own silence. He put the clutch in, took it out of gear, and coasted the car into a small pull out section with a view overlooking the city. It really was quite the perfect time and he wished he’d remembered to pack a few beers. He rolled down the windows to let the music ring out quietly and set the parking brake. He was only going to look for a few minutes. No sooner had he unsnapped his seat belt than the engine died.
“Shit,” he swore almost casually, “now what?” The needle was below “E”. He was out of gas.
“Figures,” he groaned and dropped his head onto the steering wheel, his hands fished for the keys and turned it to off, which did nothing but turn off the radio and the lights.
Sitting on a boulder, Pete gazed out over the city. The wind was blowing and he felt as if time was just standing still. His cell phone sat before him in his open palms. He no longer had anyone to call and for every twinkling light he counted down below in hopes to identify someone to help, he felt himself slip further into despair. He looked away to the silhouetted mountains on the other side of the valley and the purplish sky. He caught a glimpse of a big bird flying and followed it as it dipped under the horizon line only to be identified again as it cascaded up into the sky once again. It stretched its wings and swooped behind a large tree down below him by the road. And for a minute, as it vanished from view, it held the illusion of transforming itself immediately into an upcoming motorcycle. Pete blinked and cleared his eyes from tears in order to see a bit better.
It was a big bike and it pulled up slowly but with a sense of purpose. It was an amazing vehicle being almost all chrome. Even the bulging tank was shiny and reflective in the moonlight. It was something to observe and the driver pulled the bike up close, right next to the boulder.
Pete heard a voice, “You ok?” It was a deep, gravely voice.
“Yeah. Out of gas,” Pete pointed to the car. Funny, the presence of another person was comforting despite the larger than life persona in front of him.
“Mind if I join you,” the man said placing his helmet on the tank. “I’m Gabe”. He stood and stretched out a long arm. They shook hands and Pete noticed a taught, comforting grip. Gabe was a man easily in his late 60s yet had the physique and the moves of someone half that age.
“Pete!” he remembered to say, “My name’s Pete.”
The conversation immediately continued as if they were fast friends. Pete could not believe what he was hearing. This man, this complete stranger, was lifting a cloud. They laughed. They talked about everything and nothing at the same time. More than a couple of times Pete felt it might be a dream that it was all in his imagination. At times he even felt energized, like his heart felt lifted and healthy, like the downbeat of a song with an odd time signature in 7/4 time. He had to listen. He had no choice.
“It’s getting late,” Gabe stated. “Can I give you lift somewhere?”
“Yeah,” Pete blinked. “I’ll get my car tomorrow.”
“Son,” he said, “Grab your things. I’ve come to take you home.”
Part 2
A new chapter, no doubt, Pete still found himself months later in a rut. He was living day to day yet holding it together. He’d stopped having the arguments in his head with his ex-wife and was resigned to silence.
Much of the pain was drowned turning water into wine. Or beer. Occasionally tequila.
Friends and family took sides, as is typical in a divorce. It was only natural and Pete couldn’t really blame them. But, what were once open doors now were shut. He thought of things to say to them. He thought of all the losses and which friends were worth fighting for and which ones he should just cut and let go. It wasn’t like him to consciously hold those thoughts. It wasn’t part of the person he used to be. But sadly, he faced things he never thought he’d have to endure.
Pete saddled into a now familiar bar stool and ordered a beer and shot. He threw his work bag down by his feet. The t.v. was on above the bar with a news story of some sort of monkey experiments. He looked away and to the beer in his hand. The news made him feel even more desperate these days what with the high gas prices, a depressed housing market, the ongoing war, and a lack of even minimal leadership or solutions to any of it.
He didn’t want to be much in the world anymore having lost everything he believed in. So, he just existed. He was just a part of the scenery.
Pete ordered another drink before the long walk home. With gas nearly $5 a gallon, he’d starting using the bus to and from work. And although he loved the idea of green transportation and not leaving a carbon footprint, not using his car seemed like he lost yet another part of his identity. The beer was placed in front of him and he turned to watch the next patron come in from the bright light of the outside world. It was a familiar silhouette.
He’d completely forgotten about Gabe. His black jacket crunched with a comfortable leather sound as he made his way next to Pete and placed his helmet on the stool. He pushed a long strand of gray hair behind his ear, caught the bartender’s eye, and pointed to my beer.
“Good to see you again, son,” Gabe said casually. “How you holdin’ up?”
“Fine. Hangin’ in there,” Pete uttered.
And they talked. They continued right where they left off. They talked art and philosophy. They agreed Ayn Rand was right and wrong at the same time. They chided each other about the bands they both liked and disliked. They shared stuff together over a few more beers.
“I just don’t get it,” Pete said at an introspective moment in the conversation. “I consider myself a survivor. But I’m not doing a very good job of it right now. It’s too easy to just exist. Its a mess just trying to hold on to what pieces of my life I have left.” Pete elevated the last of the beer in his glass and drained the last drop.
Gabe turned from talking to Pete through the bar mirror and looked at him squarely. Pete returned the gesture.
Gabe’s voice held the weight of the world, “You need to rethink this place of yours. This is about being prepared to lose what you have for what you might get. It’s about what you are for what you can be. It’s about letting go.” Thumping his chest and pointing to his head, “Be the person in here and here. Go create. Make.”
Pete felt his heart beat faster. Gabe was right. “Make … that’s a good word.”
Gabe dropped some bills on the counter and picked up his helmet. “Hey,” he said, “Grab your things. I’ve comet to take you home.”
“Yeah. Back home,” Pete echoed. He knew where that was now.
Part 3
Pete sat with his heals in the sand. The heat felt good on his face. He leaned back and looked out to the water between his outstretched feet. He thought it would be a good picture. The water in front of him sparkled. He looked at surfers paddle out farther into the water and pirouette for the next wave.
Life is never where you want it to be. And he thought of the Stone’s lyrics, You can’t always get what you want. But if you sometimes, you might just find, you get what you need. Pete laughed because he figured Gabe would have issue with that saying something about “thinking your free.” But, it didn’t really matter.
His cell phone rang. Pete picked it up to see who called. He was shocked to see a number from an old friend, a friend who at one point became one of the empty silhouettes who watched the hurt and pain from a distance. They all closed their eyes then, but they saw. They watched. They just didn’t know and they weren’t taught the etiquette. It's all ok now.
Pete decided to call back later. He was enjoying new places, new opportunities, and new friends. Today, Pete was making. And tonight he promised a friend he’d make ... dinner.
He watched a surfer stand and spin. Tomorrow he might join in.
He picked up the cell phone and searched for a number. There was a guy holding onto a few boxes of his stuff from his old place. It was mostly furniture and some tools. Pete had managed to let go of most of his material things. These were things next on his list of what to let go. In fact, he’d paired his life down to what he could pack up and go in about 20 minutes.
There was familiar music in the air from a passing car. It was a familiar anthem and worked for the time and place. Pete sang along while he dialed the number.
The surfer rode a wave almost all the way into the shallow water. Pete’s heart was going boom, boom, boom.
Pete got the answering machine. “Hey,” he said into the recording, “Listen. You can keep my things.” The surfer was walking up the beach with a board under her arm. “They’ve come to take me home.”
Part I
Pete walked into the empty house, cascading his keys down the lengthy kitchen counter. They slid right off the end landing by the trash can. He made no attempt to retrieve them, hoping as he deposited his backpack on the dining room chair that he’d remember his keys resting place later. Instinctively, Pete opened the refrigerator and pulled out a beer. He just stood there and drank it, numb. He’d been like this now for nearly three months and it wasn’t getting better.
Life had changed beyond his control. His wife, his love, just left him, abandoning and crushing all he valued in one simple sentence, “I’m done”. The cavernous house felt like a mortuary. He felt the need to flee, to run away, and find an answer to mend the pain.
Maybe in a moment of pure inspiration or the simple need to move (or die), Pete set his unfinished beer in the middle of the counter. He retrieved his keys and grabbed his backpack slamming a locked door behind him.
He didn’t really know where he needed to go. He was lost yet he continued to drive around aimlessly. The radio was on, an old Genesis song, but it didn’t provide the needed distraction which is ironic because he really loved that song. After a while, Pete found himself on a vaguely familiar road winding up a hill into the darkening skies.
“Perfect,” Pete said out loud to break his own silence. He put the clutch in, took it out of gear, and coasted the car into a small pull out section with a view overlooking the city. It really was quite the perfect time and he wished he’d remembered to pack a few beers. He rolled down the windows to let the music ring out quietly and set the parking brake. He was only going to look for a few minutes. No sooner had he unsnapped his seat belt than the engine died.
“Shit,” he swore almost casually, “now what?” The needle was below “E”. He was out of gas.
“Figures,” he groaned and dropped his head onto the steering wheel, his hands fished for the keys and turned it to off, which did nothing but turn off the radio and the lights.
Sitting on a boulder, Pete gazed out over the city. The wind was blowing and he felt as if time was just standing still. His cell phone sat before him in his open palms. He no longer had anyone to call and for every twinkling light he counted down below in hopes to identify someone to help, he felt himself slip further into despair. He looked away to the silhouetted mountains on the other side of the valley and the purplish sky. He caught a glimpse of a big bird flying and followed it as it dipped under the horizon line only to be identified again as it cascaded up into the sky once again. It stretched its wings and swooped behind a large tree down below him by the road. And for a minute, as it vanished from view, it held the illusion of transforming itself immediately into an upcoming motorcycle. Pete blinked and cleared his eyes from tears in order to see a bit better.
It was a big bike and it pulled up slowly but with a sense of purpose. It was an amazing vehicle being almost all chrome. Even the bulging tank was shiny and reflective in the moonlight. It was something to observe and the driver pulled the bike up close, right next to the boulder.
Pete heard a voice, “You ok?” It was a deep, gravely voice.
“Yeah. Out of gas,” Pete pointed to the car. Funny, the presence of another person was comforting despite the larger than life persona in front of him.
“Mind if I join you,” the man said placing his helmet on the tank. “I’m Gabe”. He stood and stretched out a long arm. They shook hands and Pete noticed a taught, comforting grip. Gabe was a man easily in his late 60s yet had the physique and the moves of someone half that age.
“Pete!” he remembered to say, “My name’s Pete.”
The conversation immediately continued as if they were fast friends. Pete could not believe what he was hearing. This man, this complete stranger, was lifting a cloud. They laughed. They talked about everything and nothing at the same time. More than a couple of times Pete felt it might be a dream that it was all in his imagination. At times he even felt energized, like his heart felt lifted and healthy, like the downbeat of a song with an odd time signature in 7/4 time. He had to listen. He had no choice.
“It’s getting late,” Gabe stated. “Can I give you lift somewhere?”
“Yeah,” Pete blinked. “I’ll get my car tomorrow.”
“Son,” he said, “Grab your things. I’ve come to take you home.”
Part 2
A new chapter, no doubt, Pete still found himself months later in a rut. He was living day to day yet holding it together. He’d stopped having the arguments in his head with his ex-wife and was resigned to silence.
Much of the pain was drowned turning water into wine. Or beer. Occasionally tequila.
Friends and family took sides, as is typical in a divorce. It was only natural and Pete couldn’t really blame them. But, what were once open doors now were shut. He thought of things to say to them. He thought of all the losses and which friends were worth fighting for and which ones he should just cut and let go. It wasn’t like him to consciously hold those thoughts. It wasn’t part of the person he used to be. But sadly, he faced things he never thought he’d have to endure.
Pete saddled into a now familiar bar stool and ordered a beer and shot. He threw his work bag down by his feet. The t.v. was on above the bar with a news story of some sort of monkey experiments. He looked away and to the beer in his hand. The news made him feel even more desperate these days what with the high gas prices, a depressed housing market, the ongoing war, and a lack of even minimal leadership or solutions to any of it.
He didn’t want to be much in the world anymore having lost everything he believed in. So, he just existed. He was just a part of the scenery.
Pete ordered another drink before the long walk home. With gas nearly $5 a gallon, he’d starting using the bus to and from work. And although he loved the idea of green transportation and not leaving a carbon footprint, not using his car seemed like he lost yet another part of his identity. The beer was placed in front of him and he turned to watch the next patron come in from the bright light of the outside world. It was a familiar silhouette.
He’d completely forgotten about Gabe. His black jacket crunched with a comfortable leather sound as he made his way next to Pete and placed his helmet on the stool. He pushed a long strand of gray hair behind his ear, caught the bartender’s eye, and pointed to my beer.
“Good to see you again, son,” Gabe said casually. “How you holdin’ up?”
“Fine. Hangin’ in there,” Pete uttered.
And they talked. They continued right where they left off. They talked art and philosophy. They agreed Ayn Rand was right and wrong at the same time. They chided each other about the bands they both liked and disliked. They shared stuff together over a few more beers.
“I just don’t get it,” Pete said at an introspective moment in the conversation. “I consider myself a survivor. But I’m not doing a very good job of it right now. It’s too easy to just exist. Its a mess just trying to hold on to what pieces of my life I have left.” Pete elevated the last of the beer in his glass and drained the last drop.
Gabe turned from talking to Pete through the bar mirror and looked at him squarely. Pete returned the gesture.
Gabe’s voice held the weight of the world, “You need to rethink this place of yours. This is about being prepared to lose what you have for what you might get. It’s about what you are for what you can be. It’s about letting go.” Thumping his chest and pointing to his head, “Be the person in here and here. Go create. Make.”
Pete felt his heart beat faster. Gabe was right. “Make … that’s a good word.”
Gabe dropped some bills on the counter and picked up his helmet. “Hey,” he said, “Grab your things. I’ve comet to take you home.”
“Yeah. Back home,” Pete echoed. He knew where that was now.
Part 3
Pete sat with his heals in the sand. The heat felt good on his face. He leaned back and looked out to the water between his outstretched feet. He thought it would be a good picture. The water in front of him sparkled. He looked at surfers paddle out farther into the water and pirouette for the next wave.
Life is never where you want it to be. And he thought of the Stone’s lyrics, You can’t always get what you want. But if you sometimes, you might just find, you get what you need. Pete laughed because he figured Gabe would have issue with that saying something about “thinking your free.” But, it didn’t really matter.
His cell phone rang. Pete picked it up to see who called. He was shocked to see a number from an old friend, a friend who at one point became one of the empty silhouettes who watched the hurt and pain from a distance. They all closed their eyes then, but they saw. They watched. They just didn’t know and they weren’t taught the etiquette. It's all ok now.
Pete decided to call back later. He was enjoying new places, new opportunities, and new friends. Today, Pete was making. And tonight he promised a friend he’d make ... dinner.
He watched a surfer stand and spin. Tomorrow he might join in.
He picked up the cell phone and searched for a number. There was a guy holding onto a few boxes of his stuff from his old place. It was mostly furniture and some tools. Pete had managed to let go of most of his material things. These were things next on his list of what to let go. In fact, he’d paired his life down to what he could pack up and go in about 20 minutes.
There was familiar music in the air from a passing car. It was a familiar anthem and worked for the time and place. Pete sang along while he dialed the number.
The surfer rode a wave almost all the way into the shallow water. Pete’s heart was going boom, boom, boom.
Pete got the answering machine. “Hey,” he said into the recording, “Listen. You can keep my things.” The surfer was walking up the beach with a board under her arm. “They’ve come to take me home.”
6.24.2008
A Bond, James Bond
Times have changed. Decades ago sons would be mentored by their fathers, preparing themselves for the time when they’d take over the family farm or the furniture business, join the law firm after school, become a teacher, or essentially follow in their father’s footsteps in some way. The Industrial Revolution took fathers away into factories where kids couldn’t really see “Dad in action”. And now, modern divorce rates have started a trend of “weekend dads” or, in my case, an “every other week dad”.
I miss the daily, close proximity which I think is healthy for my son (and daughter). But, it is what it is, and I make it a priority to put my energies into something that can resonate. If modern ways have led to a physical separation for periods of time, I need to find way of keeping the sacred father-son bond intact.
So ... we bond, James Bond.
Last night, my son and I found ourselves home alone as The Girlie spent the night at a friend’s house.
My son asked sheepishly, “What do you want to do? Rent some video games and hang out?” He obviously wanted interaction with his dad.
“Yeah,” I thought. I searched for something in my brain that could be somewhat bonding and accomplished without spending any money. “Let’s see ... You’ve got leftover pizza and I want to make these crab cakes so I have lunches this week. But yeah, let’s make dinner, take some beverages up to the couch and just hang.”
So we set out making dinner. He even helped me chop up the red onions and cilantro. He heated up his pizza and he watched me pan fry my crab cakes. We talked. We quickly cleaned up. I grabbed a beer, he a glass of milk, and we headed up the stairs to the couch.
“Want to watch a movie?” he suggested. “You haven’t let me watch that new Bond movie, yet!” He’s good. He knows it is my favorite. And we’ve been letting him watch PG-13s these days.
“Absolutely,” I enthusiastically responded. “Put, it in and cue it up.”
And we watched it together and heartily laughed at this ...
Granted, we only watched a movie. We paused it numerous times so I could explain the subtleties of the Bond thing. We had a great time. We Bonded.
I believe if I make it a priority, as a father, to pass on my knowledge and experience, my son will reap the benefits. He will have a sense of place and a personal identity. Tonight we cooked and just hung out. It is debatable as to what he might have gleaned from James Bond. But there are worse roll models out there. Right?
I miss the daily, close proximity which I think is healthy for my son (and daughter). But, it is what it is, and I make it a priority to put my energies into something that can resonate. If modern ways have led to a physical separation for periods of time, I need to find way of keeping the sacred father-son bond intact.
So ... we bond, James Bond.
Last night, my son and I found ourselves home alone as The Girlie spent the night at a friend’s house.
My son asked sheepishly, “What do you want to do? Rent some video games and hang out?” He obviously wanted interaction with his dad.
“Yeah,” I thought. I searched for something in my brain that could be somewhat bonding and accomplished without spending any money. “Let’s see ... You’ve got leftover pizza and I want to make these crab cakes so I have lunches this week. But yeah, let’s make dinner, take some beverages up to the couch and just hang.”
So we set out making dinner. He even helped me chop up the red onions and cilantro. He heated up his pizza and he watched me pan fry my crab cakes. We talked. We quickly cleaned up. I grabbed a beer, he a glass of milk, and we headed up the stairs to the couch.
“Want to watch a movie?” he suggested. “You haven’t let me watch that new Bond movie, yet!” He’s good. He knows it is my favorite. And we’ve been letting him watch PG-13s these days.
“Absolutely,” I enthusiastically responded. “Put, it in and cue it up.”
And we watched it together and heartily laughed at this ...
Vesper Lynd: [after discussing poker skills on the train] What else can you surmise, Mr. Bond?It is good Bond dialogue.
James Bond: About you, Miss Lynd? Well, your beauty's a problem. You worry you won't be taken seriously.
Vesper Lynd: Which one can say of any attractive woman with half a brain.
James Bond: True. But this one overcompensates by wearing slightly masculine clothing. Being more aggressive than her female colleagues. Which gives her a somewhat *prickly* demeanor, and ironically enough, makes it less likely for her to be accepted and promoted by her male superiors, who mistake her insecurities for arrogance. Now, I'd have normally gone with "only child," but by the way you ignored the quip about your parents... I'm going to have to go with "orphan."
Vesper Lynd: All right... by the cut of your suit, you went to Oxford or wherever. Naturally you think human beings dress like that. But you wear it with such disdain, my guess is you didn't come from money, and your school friends never let you forget it. Which means that you were at that school by the grace of someone else's charity: hence that chip on your shoulder. And since your first thought about me ran to "orphan," that's what I'd say you are.
[he smiles but says nothing]
Vesper Lynd: Oh, you are? I like this poker thing. And that makes perfect sense! Since MI6 looks for maladjusted young men, who give little thought to sacrificing others in order to protect queen and country. You know... former SAS types with easy smiles and expensive watches.
[Glances at his wrist]
Vesper Lynd: Rolex?
James Bond: Omega.
Vesper Lynd: Beautiful. Now, having just met you, I wouldn't go as far as calling you a cold-hearted bastard...
James Bond: No, of course not.
Vesper Lynd: But it wouldn't be a stretch to imagine. You think of women as disposable pleasures, rather than meaningful pursuits. So as charming as you are, Mr. Bond, I will be keeping my eye on our government's money - and off your perfectly-formed arse.
James Bond: You noticed?
Vesper Lynd: Even accountants have imagination. How was your lamb?
James Bond: Skewered! One sympathizes.
Granted, we only watched a movie. We paused it numerous times so I could explain the subtleties of the Bond thing. We had a great time. We Bonded.
I believe if I make it a priority, as a father, to pass on my knowledge and experience, my son will reap the benefits. He will have a sense of place and a personal identity. Tonight we cooked and just hung out. It is debatable as to what he might have gleaned from James Bond. But there are worse roll models out there. Right?
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