Naming the beast

I remember giving my car a cleaning that day that was even more thorough than the almost hourly one I gave it most every other day. It was my seventeenth birthday and I was taking my girlfriend out to eat at a nice restaurant thirty miles up the road in Macon. While it is hard to imagine my fifteen year old daughter navigating the distance and traffic of a town larger than the little one we call home, it was no big deal for me; I had been banging my father’s old Dodge truck through the woods for many years at this point and I was a confident pilot.

The evening began normally as we launched our late afternoon trip to the big city. My girlfriend and I had been dating for at least a year, so the conversation was light and relaxed; we were both looking forward to a big dinner and a romantic evening. I admit that I considered every evening with her special, but I had plans for an extra special one. It was my birthday!

A few miles short of the halfway point I noticed a small car up ahead that seemed to be both in our lane and headed directly toward us. The car was at least a half a mile in front of us, and while I expected them to correct the problem before we collided, I sat up a little straighter and prepared for disaster. Everything happened very quickly at this point, and while I did manage to avoid the disaster, the driver of the small car did not. At the last second I veered into the left lane as it struck a large culvert on my side of the road!

I had come to almost a complete stop at this point, so a quick shift into reverse and I was staring through the passenger window at a crumpled Volkswagen that I felt sure contained a deceased driver; nobody could have survived that impact! I feel sure no more than a few seconds elapsed before the driver climbed out of the shattered window, but it seemed like several hours and multiple indecisions. What should I do?

What happened next has haunted me off and on for most of my life. When the screaming blood-soaked driver flopped on the trunk of my car I just sat there; I froze. Another driver had stopped to help at this point, and when he grabbed the hysterical woman, I pulled my car up a few feet and out of the road. I did manage to roll my window down and tell the Good Samaritan that I would drive to a store down the road and call an ambulance, but what I really wanted was to get away.

If it makes any difference, the driver of the wrecked car was fine. I know this because I drove to the local police station the next day and inquired. A small cut on her forehead had drenched her face and shirt with blood, but she was otherwise unharmed. I was relieved for her, but I admit that this did little to settle the uneasiness I felt for having failed her when she needed me most. I remember my girlfriend being gracious in her attempts at consolation, but this did little for me and it was really the beginning of the end of our relationship...and the confidence of a seventeen year old.

I could have gone the rest of my life without telling this story from so long ago; it is certainly not something I’m proud of and few have heard it. But this morning as my daughter and I walked the dog I decided to begin with her. No one likes to give tragedies a name; if you speak of them you invite them. If you slip you must knock wood.

But I want us both to be prepared. It breaks my heart to tell my baby what I think she should do when (God forbid) the shooting starts, but what if I never mentioned it? Do I believe that any amount of preparation will change the outcome of how one reacts when it really matters? I don’t know and I hope I never have to find out again. But as of today at least it has a name.

Damaged?

I’m sure somewhere out there in this vast country I call home there is a man that actually looks forward to the ending of daylight saving time; maybe one day I will meet him. I probably wouldn't have much in common with this mystery man because I hate it! The days are naturally getting shorter anyway… aren't we going about this backward? I feel like it gets dark right after lunch and I’m ready for bed at 7:30!

Today I decided to try and fool Mother Nature and actually do something outside after work. I had stopped by Lowes earlier in the day to purchase a few bags of cow manure (you can now purchase land one bag at a time) for my winter garden, but I would have to hurry if I wanted to get it spread before dark. I know this is not much of a job, but with so little time and a dog that had been penned up all day vying for my attention, I knew it was going to be close.

I dropped the truck’s tailgate and as I pulled the wagon closer I noticed one of the tires was flat. Now I would have to either lug the bags to my garden or take the time to find my little compressor and inflate the tire! Things were certainly not going as planned and they were compounded by a fifty pound dog-child that wanted to be absolutely sure that her evening walk was not forgotten. I swear this dog will attempt to sniff the hammer in full swing, but that is a story for another day. The easy answer was to simply lug the individual bags to the garden!

After dropping off the first bag I headed back to the truck for the others. It is not uncommon for my energetic dog to streak past me when I work outside (or inside for that matter), but I noticed that it was not me that held her interest. With ears pinned flat against her head, I watched as she rocketed toward the street! It was at this point I noticed that her focus was a young woman; walking stick in hand…ears sealed with head phones…new to the neighborhood…walking past my driveway! I knew my screams would go unheard; the walker was listening to music and everybody knows that a dog’s ears close off when they run at sixty miles an hour;  I screamed anyway.

Naturally neither heard me and in the blink of an eye, Sunshine (my streak of white lightning) had reached the walker. She screamed as the dog cut in front of her and placed both front feet on her chest! Luckily the walker’s first reaction was to remove the ear phones (not swing the stick) and unplugged she could now hear my pleas. I can only imagine how fast her heart was beating as she looked at the retreating dog and struggled to say “that is one friendly dog!” Welcome to the neighborhood.

I have to say that I consider myself lucky; the lady was nice about everything and nobody was injured. Sunshine, on the other hand, received a piece of my mind that I could tell she didn't fully understand. Of course some of the browbeating I gave her was for the walker to hear, but once she was out of earshot I started to feel a little guilty. I know this is unacceptable behavior and someone could have been hurt, but how does one explain this to a dog whose only intention was to spread some love?

This dog spent most of her two years in what really amounts to an orphanage. I don’t want to give the impression that I think the care and attention given her at ARF was anything less than stellar, but it will never be the same as a real home. I have to know that as she watched other dogs come and go hope was hard to hold on to. While she had many friends, she never had a family of her own. But as damaged as she may be, her natural reaction to a stranger was one of love and happiness, not fear and mistrust. Innocent until proven guilty; thank you Sunshine!

We love you too

I remember standing in my grandparent’s driveway in Stone Mountain saying our goodbyes as we prepared to make the two hour trip back home to Milledgeville. They were both in their early seventies and I was a fairly young married man. My grandparents were easy folks to hang around with and luckily my wife enjoyed them as much as I did, but the hundred mile journey made our visits infrequent. After releasing my grandfather from a decent man hug, I held his hand and told him that I loved him. At this point his eyes searched his shoelaces as he managed an almost inaudible mumble of, “well, we love you too”.

They have both been gone now for many years, but I think of this moment often. Of course I have wished that I had spent more time with them, and I do wish that I had told them more often that I loved them. But that is really not what I think of when I recall this moment and I feel content in the notion that they both knew exactly how much I loved them. Miss them? I do…kick myself? I do not. We had some great times and I consider myself lucky to share a gene pool with such great people.

What I think of when I think of this day is my grandfather’s reaction to my declaration of love. He, of course, was from a generation where a man making such a statement to another man was akin to saying he wanted some 3” leopard skin heels for Christmas! Yes you loved those around you, but while it was okay to show it, saying it was an open invitation to take over the household ironing duties. A man’s emotions, so as not to be misunderstood, were something best kept to himself. The fact that he could not face me at this point told me everything I needed to know; he loved me too.

Luckily we have become much more of an open group these days. “I love yous” are slung around freely by men and women alike, and while honestly they may be somewhat devalued by this, it beats the alternative! There is no longer any excuse for those around you not to know exactly how you feel. I know this is true, but I don't understand why the older I get the more familiar I become with the intricate pattern of my shoelaces?

White knuckle weekend

Daredevil is one of those terms, like mean or cheap, that really doesn't mean much when it is used to describe someone. Of course it is a relative term as well; what I consider life threatening may just be another day at the office for some. And for those who think that reckless abandon is a trait they will possess all of their lives, let me clear that up now, advanced age will take a generous portion of that away! Man that hurt, and man I’m going to miss a week of work mean two completely different things!

Growing up as the middle son of three boys certainly had its challenges and I wonder if this is what brought out the risk taker in me. Looking back I realize that I usually felt like I HAD to outperform the younger brother (this just seemed like simple physics) and the older one was there to set a higher bar to reach for. Sounds like an exhausting childhood (though primarily self-imposed) even to me! But I explain this only as an attempt to justify some of the crazy and dangerous things I've done in the past.

Perhaps trying to ride an unbroken horse is one of the stupidest things I’ve attempted, but sometimes I wonder if surviving this with only a concussion and a Baltimore Colts team logo stamped on my chest did more harm than good. Nothing speeds up the learning curve like a permanent limp. And diving in the water from a 100’ cliff? I guess this answers the old question of “would you jump off a bridge just because someone else did?” We know now that the answer is often yes.

I’m not sure why these two episodes from 30 years ago stand out so clearly to me now because, trust me, there were countless others. Running from a cab driver in a city 500 miles from home that would probably have killed me for the $62 flashing on his meter was not very smart, but hiding under a train car for over an hour so that he wouldn't find me is probably even dumber! But there was no permanent damage from this event and I know now that the only reason I did this was for the thrill…and because the guy sitting beside me yelled “Run” when the cab stopped. There’s that bridge again.

But the older I get the less I enjoy the palpitations these actions invoke; actually I think they call it high blood pressure at my current age and it’s probably more dangerous than before! Nothing speeds up the learning curve like dropping dead after a prank! Let’s just say that today I go out of my way to avoid these scenarios. But try as I may, sometimes they sneak up on me and rope me in before I realize what happened. Last weekend was a good example. Me, my wife, daughter and oblivious dog loaded up for a 10 mile trip to my parents’ house. We were almost out of the driveway when my 15 year old daughter asked “Isn’t this one of those times when I should be driving?” Did my dog just yell run? If you've never seen a man clutching a white knuckled dog you don’t know what you’re missing!

My 911

Every anniversary of the September 11 2001 terrorist attack in New York seems more powerful than the previous one. The stories told by survivors, witnesses and responders are often almost too sad to watch. If you send a loved one to combat you always fear that late night phone call or early morning knock on the door, but when the toughest war you face is for the parking spot closest to the door, the thought of your loved ones not returning home rarely crosses your mind. 911 began as just another average day.

I thought of telling my story of that day in 2001, and while it is an ironic one, compared to the losses suffered by others it is a trivial one. I decided to wait a few days so as not to minimize the genuine suffering of others. But I will say that I learned a big lesson that day.

We had a small television in our dining room at the time and we often watched the evening news during our evening meal. This was certainly an exceptional news day, and while this early in the game there was nothing really new about the incident to offer, we watched an endless loop of the two airplanes crashing in to the twin towers. Our attempts to explain what was happening to a four year old were tough ones and honestly just trying not to convey fear and hysteria was our goal as parents.

I though we both had been doing a pretty good job of down-playing the events to my daughter, when out of a blue and cloudless sky, lightning struck the ground a few feet from our home. I couldn’t say exactly what my daughter thought about this explosion, but my wife and I were pretty sure we had just been bombed! What could we think? It was like someone jumping out of closet when you returned home from a horror movie!

I won’t go in to great detail about the damage that lightning strike did to my home or the money it cost to repair this damage; it really does seem trivial after all this time especially when so many others lost so much more. This also has nothing to do with the lesson I learned that day anyway.

That fatal morning I learned that I would spend the rest of my life with my heart outside of my body. I’m not an uncaring person, but as I watched the second airplane crash in to that building, thousands of miles from my home, all I could think of was my heart. After thirty five years of being trapped inside my body, my new heart now had a short ponytail and it was wearing a yellow dress. I had just left it beating unprotected twenty miles away in a classroom with nineteen other innocent and oblivious Pre-K kids. That valuable muscle I had protected for so long now belonged to someone else.

Clinical apathy

It seems like now days you can hardly have a decent conversation with anyone without politics sneaking in and taking over. Personally I don’t remember an election as polarized and charged as this one, but perhaps my brain is just protecting me from a previous bad experience. It’s kind of like how good that old girlfriend begins to look after the restraining order lapses.

But this conversation didn’t really make me mad as much as it scared me. Of course I have my own ideas about the candidates, and while I may not post them on Twitter or Facebook, if you want to discuss them face to face I will be more than happy to engage you. Facebook is the bumper sticker of the new millennium…I didn’t buy in to the real bumper stickers of the old millennium!

What scared me most about this conversation was that it was based on a concept that, try as I may, I just don’t understand. It is the concept of apathy. “I don’t like or trust either candidate so I will vote for neither. I don’t want to give either one of those SOBs my vote. I’m writing in_______ to show the world what I really think”. Sounds like we’re talking about a murder trial!

Like it or not one of these candidates will win. I think you have to learn to treat these elections as if they were a civil trial and not a criminal one. In a criminal trial you decide to convict when you determine guilt “beyond a reasonable doubt” as opposed to civil trial where guilt is determined by “a preponderance of the evidence”. If I don’t like every single trait that my spouse or close family members possess, how can I expect to do so with a political candidate? My decision will have to be a weighted one.

We are all very different people is this great big country and I have to admit that there are probably those that genuinely don’t care which party or candidate takes over in November. But I do think this number is lower than you might believe. I truly believe that if most voters, that vow and declare to be possessed with a case of genuine apathy, were to make a list of likes and dislikes; wants and exclusions; beliefs and disbeliefs; they would discover that they could easily chose one over another. But I guess this is harder than doing nothing!

If you complete the list and it turns out that you have viable, documented case of clinical apathy…stay home, I’ll take your parking spot. But if you decide that your list tips the scales in either direction, deciding not to vote is no different than voting for the one you don’t like!

Day one

Last week was one of those rare times when my wife and I both were able to go with my daughter for her quarterly visit to her diabetes doctor. Usually only one of us goes and it’s often a struggle remembering and relating exactly what the doctor had to say, or better yet what my daughter actually told him! But as luck would have it a phone call kept me sidelined in the waiting room after all; at least we could discuss the visit while it was still fresh on her mind. Annual blood work would accompany this visit as well, so I was just glad to be there anyway.

As I sat in the waiting room I couldn’t help but think about just how far we’ve come since her initial diagnosis of Type 1 diabetes almost five years ago. To say we’ve come instead of she’s come may sound strange to some, but any parent of a child with a lifelong and incurable disease will understand. When she was first diagnosed at 10 years of age I could hardly bear to let her out of my sight. When she went back to school I met her in the nurse’s office every day before lunch to help her test and give her her shot. I did this for almost six months. She didn’t need me as much as I needed to be there. If she had to do this, the least I could do was be there.

Of course my daughter is the one with the real job. She has to constantly test her blood sugar, count (and guess) carbs and take injections of insulin seven days a week, 365 days a year, for the rest of her life. We had to wait a year after her diagnosis before she got an insulin pump; it is important that diabetics know how to take care of themselves the “old fashioned way” before they are allowed this luxury. It’s akin to survival training. But really all the pump does is deliver the insulin without having to take a shot. She still has to draw blood, test her blood sugar and interpret the results. The pump is connected by a slender IV line to a short needle that stays under her skin for 3-4 days before it must be changed. This is a fragile, expensive, battery powered device that she depends on for survival.

But not only has she survived, she has thrived. She is a virtual dictionary of carbohydrate numbers and a master manipulator of the pump itself. She does whatever she wants to whenever she feels like it. She’s been away to camps and vacationed at the beach with friends; she is by all appearances a normal teenager. Do I still worry about her when she is out of my sight? Do I worry as I watch her eat something that I know she probably should not? Do I look her in the eyes and try to guess her blood sugar? Well, of course, and I probably always will. But I keep these things to myself; she is first and foremost a teenager. Knowing how far she has come in these five long years makes me swell with pride as I write this now!

 I decided that I had been sitting in the waiting room for far too long when the door to the patient rooms opened. I placed the magazine back on the table, but before I could stand and hold the door for my wife and daughter, I realized that it was not them after all. Standing in their place was a little girl; pig tails and a dress, every bit of four years old. Around her neck was the strap of a pink camouflage canvas lunch box that I knew all too well. It contained the “starter kit” of test meter, syringes and a bottle of insulin given as a sample by the doctor’s office and drug companies.

The parents quickly caught up with the little girl as they crossed the room and headed for the front door. But before they could exit the building her father gave me a quick glance that erased the comfort I had begun to feel over the last five years. Day one for another family.

Feats of thinking

The longer I live the more I am amazed by the power of the human brain. I could say that I’m amazed with humans in general, but that would be kind of like blaming the bullet for a shooting. The brain is the motor and hard drive (I love the way computer analogies have one-upped sports analogies); without it we are simply a shell. An easily damaged soft case.

I love reading stories about famous brains and feats of thinking. I find it funny that we are supposed to be shocked when we find out that some amazing cognitive discovery is made by a teenager or “just a plain, non-assuming resident of rural Texas”. You would think a midget had just dunked a ten foot basketball goal! Feats of strength are usually visible from the outside, but what we are capable of understanding is as obscure and uncharted as the bottom of the Cayman Trench!

But this powerful motor comes with no manual or operating instructions. Most of what we understand is taken in through our windows to the outside world; eyes, ears, nose, mouth and the nervous system. Our programming begins informally while we are still babies and escalates to regimented levels deemed necessary to “graduate”. Once we reach a recognized level, we are deemed trained, programmed, and ready to stand alone as a fully functioning unit. We are fully cooked, ready for show, on line and responsible for our actions.

Surviving this haze of programming has a different effect, and consequent outcome, on each individual brain. I don’t want to belittle my base of both formal and informal knowledge, for without it I would have set myself on fire or put my eye out long ago. But most of the real knowledge and free thought that I hold dear has come (and is still coming) at a later age. Some of it is rooted in a base of trial and error, both experienced and witnessed, but most of it is comes from a grading system of importance. It is a process of weighing information; what to leave in and what to leave out. This is a tough program that to date has many students and no graduates.

I climbed out of bed this morning fully rested from a great night’s sleep! Just another mid-week, typical work and school day. I sipped my coffee, checked my email, watched the news and walked the dog exactly as I have done for many years; I did say typical, right? But driving home after dropping my daughter off at school a good ten minutes late, I realized she left her water and lunch in the car. It was on top of the I-Pod she was charging to take to school! I guess I’m just lucky we have anything at all since I forgot to lock the house when we left! The brain is an amazing thing!

A terrible day for allergies

I read a series of posts on Facebook this week written by a mother who had just dropped her twin daughters off at Pre-K. The beginning of what now adds up to fourteen years of lower education. As luck would have it one was fine with the separation and the other was not; maybe a better term would be not at all. I have been down this road with a single child, but I can only imagine the stress of doing it with a double!

This really wasn’t a difficult transition for my daughter. She went right in and quickly forgot about me; I actually had to go find her to tell her I was leaving. She had already spent a little time in both a two year and three year old program at a local church, so she was kind of a school veteran by the time she was old enough to attend public Pre-K.

But for daddy it was very different. A full five day-8 to 3 work week! What a schedule for a four year old. Hell I didn’t work that much! I remember sitting in the crowded parking lot after dropping her off that first day and thinking, “maybe I should just wait a few minutes. Surely she will realize I’m gone and want me to take her home”. But the school didn’t call and after my wife assured me for the hundredth time that she would be fine, we headed home. This type of situation is terrible for my allergies, so instead of constantly wiping my eyes while driving and risking her safety…I let my wife pilot us back to the house.

Well of course she did fine. The teacher told us that she was “the class’s best napper” so I knew it had to be wearing her down; but she never complained. She was in bed by 9:00 and back up at 7:00 every day of the week; a bundle of happiness and energy that infected the entire household; a gift.

We’ve had quite a few more first days since this one, but they all have a similar feel. I no longer sit in the parking lot and wait for her to have a change of heart, although I do mention most every day that if she needs me all she has to do is…and I’ll be right…She smiles and waves me off now exactly as she did eleven years ago. Girls are so tough!

But I have to say that I’ve gotten much better at handling this first day. I now let my wife go on to work and I take our daughter alone. I drive her to school most days anyway, so I think the quicker we settle in to our typical routine the better off we will all be. We get back on the horse. It is probably for the best that I do this alone, I don’t want to endanger my wife while I’m driving on such a terrible day for allergies!

History lost?

I remember reading an article a while back that brought up a few negative points about cremation. Nothing bad about the process itself, it was more along the lines of the disappearing history we will face with fewer fields of headstones to visit as we research our family roots. History lost? I have to admit that my initial reaction was one of agreeing with this premise, but the more I thought about it the more it seemed like driving to Walmart to check prices; it’s just not something we physically do much anymore.

I do love walking through an old cemetery though. There is something about seeing 1789 chiseled in stone that quite frankly makes me feel weird. I can visit an antique shop and view tools and furniture items claiming to be from similar times, and while I appreciate the effort from a pre-power tool perspective, it just doesn’t give me that same connected feeling. I know that what lies below the stone in a cemetery is nothing more than a vehicle that the driver has long since abandoned, but reading the beginning and ending dates and some small passage that someone deemed important enough to carve in stone is both touching and powerful.

 Unfortunately no one will have an “ah ha” moment with my headstone; there won’t be one. Unless something changes drastically in the next few years, I don’t think the tour bus industry will lose any revenue by the absence of a grave site for me anyway, but that’s another story.

My brother was cremated and I plan to have the same thing done with my remains.  Honestly that word, remains, is what made this decision easy for me. I just can’t seem to find a good reason for my body to remain. Having a place to visit my memory or my essence (if you so desire) will be as simple as visiting the location where my ashes were scattered, or maybe just some place I loved. If you have no experience with this scenario, let me assure you that it works about as well as any. All you really want is to remember.

This past weekend I visited the location my family chose to scatter the ashes of my little brother; the Jekyll Island Pier. It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon and the pier was crowded with people enjoying the location much the same way three little long-haired boys did many years ago. To leave his remains among excitement, salt water, fishing equipment, vacationers and the mystery of the swift murky ocean water was an easy decision for a grieving family; it was a location that described him perfectly.

We had a good visit that day. We did fish a little, but I think we all three just stood there and thought about him for a while; you could say we visited and paid our respects. I remember worrying that having a small ceremony and placing his ashes here would stigmatize the location for me. I feared that I would not want to visit and that when I did so I would lapse back in to the fresh sadness I felt when he died. I have to say that I was wrong on both counts. I feel like I belong there; I have a right to be there. I feel like an insider that paid for his partial ownership with nothing less than the most valuable item he had.  This magical place now belongs to us.....all!

An elephant and a rhino

I read an interesting article in the waiting room of my wife’s doctor office a while back about a lady that rescued and rehabilitated elephants and rhinos. I do use a smart phone as a personal babysitter now, but sometimes it’s still fun to read a genuine, old fashioned magazine article. I don’t consider myself an overly sentimental person about things like this, but I have been known to pick up the handset of my in-laws wall mounted rotary dial telephone and just listen to the dial tone; it kind of makes me feel like a time traveler.

But back to what I really wanted to talk about; the magazine article. I don’t remember the lady’s name, but the things she has been able to do with wild animals was nothing short of amazing. The focus was mainly on elephants and honestly I think this has more to do with public sentiment than intelligence. Have you heard anyone say “he has a memory like a rhino”? I haven’t, but I have heard some item deemed rhino tough. Two similar animals perceived in two very different ways. For reasons unknown elephants are often thought of as both cuddly and romantic. I can’t imagine Water For Rhinos ever being the literary success that Water for Elephants turned out to be.

So why did the section about rhinos interest me so? Was it due to the gravity of her finding common ground with such an aggressive and unnatural beast? For the most part I think so. I think we all tend to romanticize the notion that certain animals have the ability for human thoughts and emotions and others don’t. These tend to be the animals we love the most because we see them as more like us, but not us like them.  I know that I would rather have a dog for a pet than say, a badger! I would choose the dog simply because we would better understand one another from the beginning. We would be able to reach certain agreements and even learn snippets of one another’s language. Let’s just say that it would be easier for us to be friends and that is the path I would choose.

When you take out the animals and think about this scenario in the larger picture of human relations, the same parallels apply. We often blur the lines between friendship, understanding and tolerance and consider them one in the same. You remember the old test you failed when you were accused of being a racist? The one where, in the middle of defending your record on racism, you were asked “well, have you ever had a (insert minority here until you get a winner) eat dinner at your house”? And your answer was “no I haven’t, and your mother has never eaten with me either. And while I understand she is a bitch, I swear I have nothing against her!” I say this to illustrate one point; no matter how tolerate you consider yourself everyone will not pass your personal friends test. They don’t need to and shouldn’t have to.

So instead of wondering if someone will pass your friends test, you might want to consider whether or not you are passing the tolerance test. We don’t all have to be friends to simply get along and treat one another with respect. We don't have to party together after work, like the same music or eat the same foods; this is friendship, not understanding. But you never know, that person you perceive as a rhino might be an elephant after all.

Happiness

Anybody who knows me at all knows that I’m somewhat of a reading junkie. I read non-fiction stuff for work all the time, but when I have any free time I read fiction. I’m sure to many the idea of reading for work during the day and fun in the evenings is only a notch above a dentist’s visit, but it’s what I enjoy.

I have absolutely nothing against books on a tablet; I just enjoy a real book. I love to turn a page and discover that a previous reader had, at some point, dog-eared. When I find this page I assume that it has some significance, and was not just the stopping point of a reader without a bookmark. I assume this because the only reason I permanently mark a page is because I intend to return to it and re-read a passage.

Honestly I rarely return to this page because I don’t need the passage word for word. If it genuinely means something to me I will remember the gist of it, and while I may bastardize it, I run with it as remembered. Maybe it’s just my state of mind, but today I went back and re-read a passage that I chose to mark because I wanted to hear it again exactly as it was written.

The book is certainly fiction; it is about a group of white women that were traded (for horses) to a band of Western Cheyenne Indians in the 1870’s. It was intended as a gesture of peace, and while the government did not officially sanction the trade, they facilitated it. The story is interesting, but the passage I returned to was in response to the question of whether the Indians (and their Indian brides) were happy. The response was “happiness is a highly overrated human condition invented by white folks”. Basically with all they had to do to survive, the notion of happiness as a yes or no question was a foreign concept.

So this invention of unhappiness is in response to what? Not having enough to do? Not having as much as your neighbor even though you have all you need? This makes happiness a quantifiable item, something that can be measured. “I’m a 6.5 on the happiness scale, things are looking up!” Of course it has no measure; you either choose to be happy or not. But if you don’t think you are unhappy, doesn’t that in itself make you happy? Think about it….wait; don’t think about it!

The work that no one wants

“Is it hot enough for you?” I love this question; it is the kind of rhetorical question that makes living in the South so wonderful. It’s a nicety, a polite statement like good morning or hello. Of course it not really one that requires an answer, this question is simply stating the obvious; It’s hot, we both know it…and there is nothing we can do about it. Have a great day!

Individuals that work outside or in unconditioned spaces have really suffered this summer from the record breaking heat, and it is often difficult to remember the times in my life that I did so all day. But why is it that the memories I have of hard work and excessive heat are fond ones? If the answer you pose is includes the notion that only I did these tasks for a short time until something cooler and clerical came along, you would be mistaken. I did this work for both fun and profit for years, and I enjoyed it. Hard work has an air of honesty like no other.

When I traded my construction work and unconditioned shop of many years for a real estate office with only short runs in the elements, the initial reaction was not one that most would predict. My father asked me how I liked the new job and I remember my answer clearly, “Well it’s not really work, we just stand around and talk about work.” I don’t say this to annoy real estate professionals; notice I didn’t say it wasn’t hard! It’s just different.

I understand that we are all very different individuals, but moving me indoors after a lifetime of working in the elements was akin to penning a country yard dog. Of course I got used to it, and after a while I actually enjoyed it. But every time I walked outside I pictured myself as a horse eying the fence on the other side of the pasture; with a decent head of steam I could easily clear the top wire and just keep running. I would run until I could run no longer; I would bask in the sleep of the physically exhausted and I would run again. As long as I continued to run I would be free.

That last paragraph may be hard for many to understand, and it may even seem corny to others. But the next time you ride by a construction site and feel sorry for the workers, think about it. If you think that most of the workers are waiting for their big break, you may be only partially right. The only break they may want is for it to be about 5 degrees cooler, or for a cloud to shield the midday sun, or simply the promise of another job when this one is complete. When you tell yourself that you are happy these people are doing the work that no one wants, you may be way off base. The only true answer is they are doing the work that you don’t want. There is a difference.

I lied to my parents

Am I the only one that thinks the tone of Facebook has changed over the last few years? I mean many have learned the hard way the obvious lessons about drunken photos and political fights; yes there still things in modern times that one should consider keeping to themselves. But what about all of the causes we need to know more about? Does anybody really think that showing me a photo of a mangled puppy is going to do anything other than piss me off? The action I will take is probably not what you had in mind.

I saw a post the other day of a cute, and obviously very happy, little black boy. Smiling for the camera, he could have easily been from the family album of several of my friends. But he was not. It was a shared post with a caption that stated “If you don’t share this you are a racist”. Not only did I not share it, I no longer have to concern myself with other posts from this person showing up on my page. I don’t get it…and I’m not a racist.

But one that got my goat today was a very popular post with hundreds of thousands of likes and almost twenty thousand shares. I read many of the comments only to discover that on this one I was an island. It concerned one of the most basic functions that we all deal with every day; parenting. It was a photo of a man standing beside his daughter in a public parking lot. The girl was leaning against a car holding up a hand painted sign that read “I lied to my parents”. He must have seen the video of the man shooting his daughter’s computer.

Maybe the man should have been holding up a sign that read “I’m such a terrible parent I need you to help me raise my daughter”? Poor fella, he is obviously out of his league with this child. Maybe his boss should make him stand in front of his job and hold a sign that says “If I lay out of work one more time I’m going to get fired”? Or better yet, pull his pants down in the break room when he’s late! I’m not sure embarrassment is a good deterrent for crime, but I’m damn sure it’s not a good parenting skill!

I’ve been punished by my parents and I’ve punished my own child. I was spanked a time or two and my daughter has been as well. This was not a common occurrence, but when there was no other choice it was done in the privacy of our own home. I believe that it was effective. To do in public, what should be done in private, sends a message that does far greater damage than a few taps on the backside. It sends the message that there is absolutely no one you can trust. You will never learn to do the right things from someone you can’t trust.

Let it Fly!

When was a little boy of about 10 my father overheard me say a word that can best be described as a “choice word”. I had two brothers and was working on my fourth year of public education, so even though my vocabulary was in its infancy, I already knew how to use a pretty good mix of the good and the forbidden. Most of this I’d learned on the mean streets of West End Elementary School because back then if someone on television said “frigging” their sponsors would cancel.

I didn’t know my father was within earshot when I let the word fly, but when he placed his hand on my shoulder and calmly said “I heard what you just said”, I was worried about a lot more than lost advertising revenue. This was going to be big! Of course it would be me that gets caught. Not the baby or the first born; the middle son, the trouble maker. Hide the matches and he still finds a way to get in trouble!

But at school I was none of these, I was just Andy. I knew Mrs. Foster was going to be very disappointed when she found out about my tainted mouth and I could imagine the shock from the rest of the class when she was forced to announce in homeroom that I was banned from school for swearing. “He seemed like such a nice boy. What is the world coming to?”

Well I really couldn’t think of anything to say (remember I was ten), I was caught. As I stood there and looked at the “I’m not mad I’m just disappointed” eyes of my father I could only imagine what would come next. After the mandatory “I hope you understand this is serious parental pause”, he said it again. “I heard what you just said” He began. “I just want you to know that it really doesn’t matter what you say when you are at home, but if you let something like this fly at school or in front of some other adults…well…you’re on your own then. I can’t help you. If you get used to talking like this you’re going to make a mistake…trust me”

Was I just given permission to cuss? I think I was, but I was also given the responsibility to decide when to cuss! Growing up was getting scary and I have to admit that armed with this knowledge and responsibility I cleaned up my act, or at least my mouth, for many years. I was pretty sure at this age that my parents could solve most any problem for me, but to hear my father admit that this one just might me out of his control was enough to reel me back in.

Fast forward thirty years later and I’m having the same conversation with my ten year old. My wife thinks this is pretty stupid, this license to swear, and she makes her opinion very clear. Hell, she even strung a few together to make her point! But it worked on my daughter just liked it worked on me. She may let one fly now and again, but I’ve never heard her even come close to swearing at the wrong time. Maybe my wife’s parents should have had this conversation with her?

Last weekend we were eating dinner with a family that can best be described as one of those that my father warned me about. Great people whose company we have enjoyed for many years, but not the place you want to display your street vocabulary; a place where the F-bomb would change things…permanently. We were discussing the training of our new dog and having a few laughs when out of blue, and out of my wife’s mouth, flew one of George Carlin’s forbidden seven! Pins dropped, I heard them. I had to fight the urge to put my hand on her shoulder, look her in the eye and say “I heard what you just said”. Ha!

It's Like Riding A Bicycle

“It’s like riding a bicycle”. I’ve heard this old saying a million times and have even offered it up as encouragement myself a time or two. It is meant to suggest that the task you are about to attempt is one that you have done before, and although you may not remember how you did it, once you begin the “memories” will kick in and everything will fall in place. You will pick up right where you left off, no need to wish for the dreaded “beginner’s luck”.

I do remember learning to ride a bicycle. I remember crashing in to a pole that we used to tie the Shetland pony we got from Satan’s clearance isle and destroying the battery operated headlight on the bike’s front fender. I have to admit I liked the broken-in/roughrider look the damaged fender gave the bike, and though my parents were not exactly happy about this, I think we all understood that I probably wouldn’t need this headlight for any midnight biking excursions. Had they purchased me a banana style bike instead of one that looked like a prop from Aunt Bea’s Big Adventure, I probably would have not felt the need for such drastic customization anyway!

But I learned to ride; that was the easy part anyway. I think we can all agree that learning to stop is really the hard part. The way one learns to regulate speed is directly linked to the damage done while attempting to stop. This is a lesson best learned on a bicycle, it takes a little of the wonder out of there being 120 mph branded on the speedometer of your first car! Possible and good idea are two entirely different concepts.

I also remember just how sore my backside was at the end of a long day’s ride. Long day being a relative term for a 5 year old and of course I would never notice the discomfort until the heat of the moment had passed. When my mother said “why don’t you boys go outside and ride your bikes” the pain disappeared with a few rotations of the pedals. I don’t recall the day when my butt had finally toughened to the point of no discomfort, but it must have happened; if it hurt forever bicycles would be obsolete. After the break-in period, the only time I remembered I even had a butt was when school started or it rained for a week.

So here are a few things to remember when you are told “it’s like riding a bicycle”.

*There was a little damage when you first learned the task, expect some damage as you re-learn.

*If you didn’t love it before, you most likely won’t love it again for any length of time. At some point you will remember why you discontinued the task. Was it really your style or did you have to bang it up a little for the best fit?

*Just because you remember “how” doesn’t mean that you should go as fast as you can (or used to). You don’t have to stop, but be sure you at least test the brakes before they become a necessity.

*And finally and most importantly-Expect your butt to be sore when you start back up! It toughened before and it will again.

Hell hath No Fury

I’ll be the first to admit that I absolutely love the computer age. Okay, I’m not quite old enough to have had an abacus on my Christmas list, but I am old enough to have lived a major chunk of my life without computers. I lived a rotary, rabbit-eared, black & white, AM, 8-track childhood that I wouldn’t swap with anyone. But when computers (models I could actually afford) came along I had to learn basic things about them that today’s generation seems to soak up from the womb. I didn’t exactly miss computers when I didn’t know what they were, but I cannot imagine life now without them.

But this instant wealth of information also comes with a few drawbacks. X-rated sites, spam and viruses are bad enough, but the real dangers are far greater and can be very costly. What we have to be careful with is the interpretation of  the information itself! Everything has a rating, a like button, a comment section, a share tab or a +1 option. It used to be difficult to make a purchase because you didn’t know enough, but now it’s even harder because you know too much! And can you imagine any item or service that everyone would agree was good? I can’t. We can hardly agree on what to eat for supper in my house and there are only three of us.

But maybe the information age will help with poor customer service, or “customer no service” as one of my favorite radio hosts suggests. I think of this as I read a friend’s story of horrible customer service from a very well-known international company. She posted her dilemma on, not one, but two social media sites and a blog site! Hell hath no fury like a…blogger scorned! No slander involved, just the facts. How can one put a price tag on business lost from one well connected and pissed of consumer? I say you can’t, and insuring the customer's satisfaction is now more important than ever. Look what happened to Netflix; they weren’t slandered, they were ruined by the facts…and the facts traveled faster than two old ladies on a party line!

Well I have to add that before I could finish writing this (I did take a break for a couple of hours) the company my friend was having trouble with had a change of heart!  Instead of coming to her home for the warranty repairs on July 26 as previously scheduled, they are coming in the morning! Oh what a tangled WEB we….Ha! Sorry, I couldn’t help myself.

Vacation Recovery

Most of my adult life I have jumped at the chance to take a few days off work and hit the road for a change of scenery. Luckily my wife agrees with me on the compass direction, so as long as it’s somewhere hot with a beach nearby we get along just fine. Throwing in a teenage daughter that is not quite as enamored with the ocean changed things somewhat, but she too jumps when the car keys are rattled! We are a family of riding dogs.

This summer we went round and round about what to do for a vacation. My daughter held fast to California and Disneyland, but I really think she just wanted a trip with a flight involved. My wife and I just didn’t seem to have a trip like that in us at the time, so we kind of dragged our feet and let the moment pass. You know my motto; when in doubt, do nothing. Really we ended up deciding to just take a vacation later in the year when the crowds die down and it is not quite so hot. Maybe squeeze in a few long weekends here and there, but not take a big trip anywhere.

We could always blame our decision on the new dog or clingy garden, but it seemed like we were forcing ourselves to think of something that would be fun. It has been my experience that when you feel this way, a trip somewhere usually ends up being an expensive way to remember why you like your home so much. My wife needed to take her vacation time anyway, so we ended up taking a week long “staycation”. I have to admit that I have always hated this term and you won't hear me use it again. When I hear it I usually think that what someone is actually telling me (in a nice way) is that they would be embarrassed to eat sardines and vienna sausages on a public beach. Simply, the budget will not allow a real vacation.

Well the vacation week is now over and everybody is back at work. For the first time ever I don’t feel like I was just at work yesterday. I am a little tired, but I don’t have jet lag and my back is not stiff from a long car ride. Okay, I do have a slight sunburn too, but I got it in my own backyard. Maybe this is what it feels like to actually be rested? I won’t have to recover from my vacation!

Maybe one of the reasons a vacation spot seems so appealing has less to do with the location itself and more to do with the fact that you have nothing you HAVE to do! You witness a town going through its daily routine at a time of day you would normally be working; an odd time. It’s kind of like when you were a kid, home alone and watching game shows and soap operas, too “sick” to go to school. A little guilty and a little out of place; the house sounds almost unrecognizable. To step out of your normal life instead of stepping out of town may be just the vacation we all need once in a while! 

Supply and Demand

What exactly did we learn from the “housing crisis”? Well, we really didn’t learn anything new; we were just reminded of principles that have been around for hundreds of years. We were reminded of the importance of the principal of supply and demand. Large supply-low price…low supply-large price. You can say whatever you want to about the mortgage companies giving (because with all the foreclosures and short sales giving is what it turned out to be) the wrong people money, but really all they were doing was increasing the demand. Throw in the fact that many of these borrowers had no skin in the game and you had a recipe for disaster.

So how have we applied this lesson to other facets of our life? What about how these principals apply to secondary education? I recently read an article that expressed (I’m smart enough to know that the article was a writer’s opinion) both presidential candidate’s views on how to approach paying for a college education. Both sides were in favor of extending low interest loans to qualified borrowers, but where the split occurred was on the interpretation of acceptable risk. One side said risk whatever you had to to get the education you are “entitled to” and the other side said “get as much education as you can afford”.  Naturally the opposing side took the word afford to mean that only the rich will get a college education, but unfortunately interpretation rules the airwaves!

But I think of it this way, and before I go any further let me say that I thank God every day that “BS in Cowboy Science” wasn’t a degree choice when I was in college because I would probably still be paying back the student loans for it. These are monumental decisions for a teenager with room for great margins of error.

Buying what you can afford simply means seeking advice from those with no financial interest in your life. If you ask your father if borrowing $100K for a degree is a good idea I feel sure his answer will differ from the one given by the person with the pen hovering over the documents. I’m not saying either is automatically right, I’m just saying that the insight offered by someone who has made financial decisions greater than which song to download may be the advice that prevents you from making a decision that will alter the course of your life for many years. I admit I was mad when, at eighteen years old, my father drove me to the bank to borrow the $1000 I wanted for rims and a paint job for my perfectly good car. But making those payments EVERY month to the bank instead of “when I could” to my father taught me a valuable lesson about decision making and value.

I will be the first to declare that we need educated citizens. If we intend to continue being a world leader we must keep up with other countries. But even the “unsuccessful” will need tires for their cars and cabinets installed in their homes. Everyone’s hair will need cutting and our meat must be sliced into marketable shapes and wrapped in desirable packaging before anyone will purchase it. Fires will always need to be extinguished and living without air conditioning…let’s just say I choose not to at any cost. The ones who provide these and many other honorable services can expect to live a life that holds as much joy as the doctor that delivers their first grandchild. If you choose to place a price tag on happiness, some of these “regular people” will make even more money than the professionals they rely on for legal, medical and financial advice. It takes all kinds.

As the availability of money (and bad decision making) ruined the lives of many citizens who were “entitled to the American dream of home ownership”, so can the ease and availability of money for those entitled to an education. The demand is great and the prices are high. The fact that the loan money is available does not, in itself, make the borrowing of it a good decision. The career path you finance may not be profitable by the time you graduate or, worse yet, you may absolutely hate it; this is the risk you must assume as you make the decision about what you can “afford”.

Mother Nature

I knew there was a slight chance of rain in the forecast, but I really hadn’t given it much thought until I heard a distant rumble of thunder. It didn’t sound like it was very close, but it was close enough to make me get up out of the chair in my air conditioned retreat and walk outside. Recent daytime temperatures had shattered records kept since the invention of the pencil so the possibility of an afternoon thunder shower gave me reason to welcome some natural water, but fear the intensity that comes with the heat.

When I stepped out the garage door the first thing I noticed was the heat. I’ve lived in the South all of my life, and while I’ve seen many days of 100+ temperatures, this was the first year I ever tried to breathe 109 degree air. And for the un-initiated, yes, there is a noticeable difference between 100 and 109.  

But before I could make the dash to the truck I saw a large female deer walk out of the woods and stand in the center of my concrete driveway. She was oblivious to my presence and already soaked to the core. As she began to circle in a very small area, she was joined by a baby so small that it still had it spots. The baby joined in the circular dance as she placed her head on her mother’s back. Even though these deer were less than 50 feet away from me, they never knew I existed. Before I could make my run to the truck, they were joined by a third deer that also rested its head on the largest of the three and joined in the dance.

They finally moved away. After standing huddled together in the ditch at the edge of the road for a few seconds, the group of three slowly made their way across the road and in to some thick pine foliage; out of my sight and breaking the spell that had prevented me from doing what I had intended to in the first place; move my truck out of the storm.

Well the storm finally passed and honestly I couldn't tell you exactly how bad it was (until later) because I chose to ride it out in my basement! I was upstairs long enough to hear a tree crash it to the house, but not long enough to risk being killed by the next one. But as I sat below grade with my oblivious house dog, I couldn’t help but wonder about the fate of the family group of deer. I feel sure that at least the largest of the three had lived long enough to have witnessed similar storms, and all three have lived their entire lives “camping” in every season, but their indecision and fear of what Mother Nature was throwing their way has stayed with me. Of course I can get the latest Doppler radar at home and in my car, and Ben Jones will do his best to explain it to me in terms I can almost understand, but what do we really know about the weather?

The storm did end up being a bad one and I finally get to use the insurance I’ve been buying for years! The fact that we were not physically harmed is the most important part to me…well that and being blessed by the electrical gods. But the insurance adjuster will come and go, and while we may have to throw away some food in the refrigerator, we will just drive to the grocery store and replace it; our life will be back to normal almost instantly. I’m sure we will always remember this storm because it 

happened on our 5^th anniversary of moving in, but other than that it will be just another day.

But those deer I watched will suffer from this storm for quite some time. Yes, the sun is shining again and the buckets of rain will allow many plants to sprout new tips that will, for the time being, make the animals fat and happy. But for them the true damage won’t be realized until summer has passed; when the air begins to cool and the search for food to endure the winter begins; when the plants are planning to rest for the winter. This is when every animal that depends on acorns will pay the price for the storm of  July 3, 2013.

Aging

There are many things that are much more fun than getting older. I could list them here, but I’m not sure this blog will allow that much text. But a few of those that top the list would be the length of time it takes for sore muscles to recover, the fear of planning (or not planning) for retirement and generally the notion that you are just not as smart as you thought you were at 20. I know now that if you knew everything at a young age you wouldn’t try. The “that only applies to other people” syndrome is what makes you try to put a different spin on things that have been around forever. It’s a good thing.

But one of the main things that haunts me as I get older is the fact that as I age, so does everything around me. I know this is basic math, but it’s not something I spent much time thinking about as a young man. In my 50 (almost) years I’ve lost many people that I cared a great deal about, but I’ve also lost cars, dogs and other things that I assumed would last forever. The first time I handed my father the broken plastic gun that he could not fix, the lesson began. Things just wear out and there is nothing you can do about it.

Some of the greatest battles I’ve ever witnessed have come from the battle against aging. Flashy new cars, “hip” wardrobes and spouse replacement top the list, but some of the struggles are way more subtle. I know there is a fine line between keeping up with what is new and trying to recreate something long gone, so when you see an old guy like me trying to program his smart phone, don’t assume I want to be a teenager, I’m just having fun.

Well before I make aging sound like the worst thing imaginable let me just say that if happiness continues to increase at the same rate as it has since I was 20, by the time I’m 60 I will explode! Life certainly gets easier with a little more experience under your belt, and while the peaks are sometimes not as great, the valleys are surely not as deep; I’ll take it!

But this morning the down side of aging caught me off guard. I was sitting at a red light, while headed home from the grocery store, when a bright red car pulled alongside me. The driver was a young blonde lady with a dark tan and flashy sunglasses. On a scale of one to bacon, she was…bacon! But when she stopped at the light she never looked my way. She reached for the radio knob and cranked the music loud enough for every car sitting at the light to hear. I couldn’t say exactly what the song was, but I bet the 8 year old in the front seat beside her could. He was smiling and dancing almost as happily as the little one in the car seat behind him. Maybe I would like to back up just a few years?

Extended Family?

When I was a very little boy, my parents decided to load up the car with all of our worldly possessions and move to a small town 100 miles south of Atlanta. This doesn’t sound like a big deal today; people regularly move around the globe and some even commute this distance to work every day. But when you understand that they had three little boys under 8 years old, hardly any money and it was the late 1960s, well it sounds a lot different to me.

I have to add that I don’t mean to paint a picture of dusty trails and indian attacks, but the deep south (away from Atlanta) was, to shine it up somewhat, a budding society; a diamond in the rough. I think the initial move was made somewhat smoother for us since my father was the minister of a small church, but when you inherit grown “family” members you never really know what you are getting. It’s kind of like adopting a grown dog from the pound and you often have to guess at what baggage they lug around. Oh, and hope they don’t bite you. It can take a lifetime to understand and accept each other’s habits.

But we were a long way from our real family and our contact with them was limited. This distance was compounded by the old Volkswagen bus we drove; a lesson of living in a rural area is that you are only as good as the car you drive. As young as I was, I still recognized the pained look on my grandparent’s faces when they came to visit. The look of “when are you going to stop this madness and come back home where you belong” is impossible to disguise even from a very young child, and as a parent now, I feel sure I could dish out a pretty good dose of it myself! But we dug in even harder after these visits.

Well all of this was put in motion a long time ago, and though we moved around some, we never left this little town; it had become my home and it is now my daughter’s home. We had no real family here other than those living under the same roof, and the three little boys never really knew any other way. I was sometimes envious of those who were related to half of the school; they had automatic bodyguards and confidants, but it wasn’t something I thought much about. We saw extended family at Christmas holiday parties and though I was always glad to see them, I was just as happy to get back home.

I think of this today as I think about the reunion I had with my extended family this past weekend. I think of the way that I thought of my brother when I saw my cousin scratch his head; the way I thought of my father when my uncle told a joke. I saw female versions of that man that smiles at me every morning in the mirror and I saw the things I love most about my daughter in other faces. I saw a connection that can never be broken by time and distance.  I saw myself.

Traveling Music

I've done a few difficult things in my life and I think it’s safe to assume we all have. As a kid going to school, making passing grades and just fitting in seemed monumental. Turns out this was both easy and…practice.

I never fully realized the luxury of trying as hard as I could (or at least giving it a good fake) and then asking an adult for help. Deep down somewhere I knew there was an “out”. We are big on rewarding effort, and often the means realize more credit than the end. The older you get the harder it becomes to pull this off.

Burying my brother was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Saying this out loud suggests that it is something that I have conquered, and while I know I have to a great extent, there is a part of it that refuses to leave. When it leaves it’s over.

Burying is not simply digging a hole and interring remains; it is answering questions; it is dealing with an estate; it’s removing possessions from a home; it’s the absence at holiday gatherings. It lasts a long time and each of these acts creates new memories; good and bad.

The item that hurt the most to remove from my brother’s home was a small tool bag. It was hanging over the back of the door ready to go for a ride. A few screwdrivers, wire cutters, black tape and a "check" meter; it was the bag that held the minimum amount of tools inside to make an electrical repair. I hated to touch it because I knew he would be back for it in a few minutes; he would be mad if it was disturbed or a tool removed. I took this bag home with me before anything else.

This was over nine years ago and I have since moved the bag with me to another home. I have robbed a tool from it at times, but I always put it back. The bag has not been moved from its spot on my basement floor for the five years that I have lived in this house, but I feel a wave of emotion each time I see it. I travel back in time.

This past weekend I built some shelves in the basement to “get some things off the floor”. Flat surface disease runs unchecked at my house as does the responsibility for it. Shelves (another flat surface) are the cure.

I moved boxes and tools, first out of the way of the incoming shelf, then to their new home on the shelf. I kind of saved the tool bag for last; I think I was waiting for the right place. When it was finally his turn to be moved, the radio did an amazing thing. As I placed the bag on the new shelf it played the America song Ventura Highway that we both loved so much.  This was our traveling song and I chose it for his funeral. The bag only traveled a few feet…but I agree; traveling is traveling!