Hate?

I joined the military with high hopes that some discipline would straighten out my life. This was during peacetime, but given my state of mind at the time I probably would have joined even if our country had been at war. I know this is easy for me to say now, but as I sit here reflecting on my 20 year old decision making ability (or lack thereof) I think I would have. I joined simply to get away from my town and my bad habits. I needed a little “Leave the driving to us”.

I guess you could say that jury is still out on military discipline putting me on the straight and narrow. I had a looking-for-trouble state of mind back then and I found plenty of trouble in the military. If you expect it, you will find it. So while I was not a model Navy man, my experience did help me point my life in a much needed new direction. At least I learned something.

But enough about me! What I really want to comment on is simply the why of my joining the military. I wanted to grow up. I don’t necessarily think everyone joins for the same reasons I did, but I wasn’t alone. A portion of my recruiting class had attended a military school or had ROTC training in high school; these guys were looking for a career. Several were from military families and were following in the footsteps of a familiar life. But there were many just like me. I knew who the president was, but that was about the depth of my political knowledge. I had no cause and little care; the only ship I was truly interested in was the USS Ande.

I think of this today after reading an article about removing the carving from the face of Stone Mountain. The images of mounted southern Civil War icons Davis, Lee and Jackson loom large in the saddle as they look straight ahead with their hats placed over their hearts. A salute to the South and a tribute to those who lost their lives in a war that happened over 150 years ago; a war that changed the face of this country forever; a war that made it official that all human beings (at least in the Unites States) are created equal. Even though I was born a raised in the South I feel like a winner.

So what in the world do this carving and my infamous military career have to do with one another? Everything. Wars are fought, won and lost by people just like the confused 20 year old boy that was me in 1982; boys that need a paycheck; boys that need to get away from their hometown; boys that have little idea of what the war is even about; boys that, during the Civil war era, would have been killed by their own had they chosen not to fight. Many of these boys and men from both sides never made it home and right or wrong, their ultimate sacrifice should never be forgotten. The carving is not a tribute to division and hate; it is a memorial to the process of defeating it.

Just Another Day

Just another typical weekday morning; we could do them in our sleep, and often that is really not too far off of how they start. Eat breakfast, walk the dog, brush your teeth and load up in the car; sometimes I think we really don’t even need the clock. We may run a minute or two late, and believe it or not, sometimes even a few minutes early, but we’re always close! We have developed such a routine that we could be mistaken for a family of robots.

As we reached the halfway mark between our home and the school, the traffic begins to get heavier and slow down, and eventually we came to a complete stop. Don’t think for a minute I am trying to compare the traffic of my micro-town to real city traffic, but remember I said we were a family of almost-robots. Even my passenger daughter could tell you approximately what time we should pass certain landmarks along our morning commute. “Oh no” she says, “must be another wreck”. I’ve noticed that the closer she gets to driving age the more attention she pays to even little fender-bender accidents.

The closer we get to the intersection of our road and another main highway, the slower and thicker the traffic becomes. We can see flashing blue lights ahead, but there is no sign of an accident. When we finally reach the intersection there is a police officer detouring traffic away from our preferred route and all lanes are attempting to merge in to one. “How late am I going to be now?” my daughter asks, “I’ll get detention if I’m tardy.” I know that even if there are no more delays she will be at least fifteen minutes late, but I decide not to mention this and attempt to change the subject. “Why don’t you check my Facebook and see if you can find out what the problem is”.

I think we both thought that we were the victims of another all-to-common-lately bomb threat, but were surprised to learn that a pedestrian had been hit and the driver had left the scene. A big crime for a small town. We were a solid thirty minutes late getting to the school, but with the large number of busses and cars I saw arriving late, I assured my daughter that she wouldn’t get detention. I laughed and told her that now her day would be thirty minutes shorter as she climbed out of the truck and headed for the door.

I have to admit that my initial reaction to this morning’s delay was one of irritation; this was messing up my routine. But as I headed for the office I was struck with how easy it was to throw a monkey wrench in to our normal everyday life. Not to say that a fellow human getting struck by a car is a small thing, this will be the worst day of their lives for several people. It is just humbling to think how easy it is for a single event to change so much.

We have all become so accustomed to getting both our information and our entertainment from television that is sometimes hard to tell the difference between the two. With a click of the remote we can go from live footage of a mass shooting at an elementary school, to laughing on a road trip with the cast of Family Guy as they head for space camp. From footage of a flood that will kill and bankrupt many, to smiling as a fictitious handcuffed suspect is lead to jail; the neat, hour long crime drama coming to a close. The act of separating fact from fiction gets tougher and we become desensitized to the real pain felt by the genuine victims. A morning, even like this one, makes me happy to have the other 364 (often boring) days of my life.

Hope

I stepped down out of my vehicle and stood beside it for a few seconds to test the air temperature. Driving with the windows rolled up on a sunny day will often give you a false sense of how warm it actually is, and I’m cold natured anyway. After a few moments of indecision I reach back inside the vehicle and grab my jacket; it’s one of those days that could go either way, but I would rather lug around a kerosene space heater than be cold!

The parking lot is full of vacationers with the same idea; it may be too cool for the beach, but it’s just right for (never thought I’d say this; man card alert) putt-putt. A gust of cool wind hits me and I silently pat myself on the back for bringing my jacket. We head to the kiosk to pay for our game and I notice that most of the 18 holes are bathed in sunshine; maybe this won’t be so bad.

The crowded course is speckled with players in varying levels of dress, and as luck would have it we end up behind a family with two loud teenage girls. Two starlets wearing short-shorts, tank tops and sunglasses that send and receive texts after every shot! If I didn’t think I would be arrested I would walk over to one of them and warm my hands! Not really, but I know they have to be cold.

I will say that as I look around the course it is not necessarily young people that are under-dressed. I see a few guys my age in shorts and tee shirts, but they do seem to be playing the game rather quickly. A couple of them are probably being warmed by the beer furnace that stretches the tee shirt beyond the manufacturer’s limits, and while I am not completely without fault in that zone, my extra poundage doesn’t seem to be warming me at all! Honestly some may have simply forgotten their jackets, but why would anyone choose to be uncomfortable?

I think it just how we have been trained. We plan ahead and anticipate; we look over the shoulder of winter and wink at the pool chemicals. Last minute Halloween shoppers must wade through Christmas decorations and the best selection of coats are available in September. We stand rooted in the middle of one season and pine for the next. We assume that we will be here to enjoy the coming season as we have in the years before.

As I sat down to write this, my initial thoughts were that we spend our lives forcing the seasons. But perhaps this is not the case. Maybe it is just that emotion that keeps us going; the desire to get out of bed each morning and the will to live another day; another season. Its called Hope. 

Joinery

I’ve heard it said that falling in love with an inanimate object is not possible. That love itself is something that must be shared with a creature that can offer love in return. I guess when I really think about this statement I have to agree, but in my fifty years I sure have been in deep-like with some objects and ideas.

I do believe that my fascination with all things made of wood could be described as love. When this obsession struck me I was in my mid-twenties; a young man looking for something to do for a living that would both hold my interest and get me out of the bed each morning. Of course I wanted to make money, but at this time in my life I worried more about enjoying myself. I made things out of wood all day for an hourly wage and I built things in my own shop at night (and weekends) for fun. Sounds like love to me.

But naturally this fascination waned. It took over twenty years, but wane it did…and ultimately we broke up. Maybe we spent too much time with one another; it wasn’t the wood, it was me, I don’t know. But other businesses caught my eye and I went for years without thinking of my first love.

During the break up I continued to read articles and publications about woodworking. I always admired things built by others and I did my best to encourage and compliment. I always found it odd when many of the elitist publications began to call woodworking joinery. To me it was like calling driving automobile operation, or eating was consuming nourishment; just a fancy way to describe a simple task. Would I now refer to myself a joiner?

But with each passing year the logic of this term makes more sense. Everything comes down to joinery. A piece of wood kept indoors will last forever, but once you construct something from it, the connections (if made poorly) will fail. The same can be said for how we live our lives; if our connections with others are made poorly or not maintained, they will also fail. Alone we are simply a piece of wood, but through joinery we can become a beautiful masterpiece!

Forgetting

I could iron clothes in my sleep. This is not something that I necessarily want to brag about, it’s simply a fact of my life. Yes, I am domestically gifted, but there are many tasks that each of us do daily that require little concentration or attention to detail. I'm sure that some are much more important than my household chores, but I use this time to plan my day and beat a few dead horses killed in the days and weeks before.

This morning I used the iron and its hissing steam as white noise while I prioritized my day. I’m no busier than the average person, but most of what I was attempting to pull together today was an exceptionally eclectic and random mix; multiple businesses, volunteer boards and family woes. And then it hit me! A fleeting image of my forgotten homework lying neatly on the dining room table; me, standing in the school lunch line with no money in my pockets, loaded tray in hand; my daughter, standing in front of the school impatiently checking her watch and looking down an empty street. I had forgotten something major…but what?

When it finally hit me I had to smile. What I had allowed to sneak past me was a date that I had actually been trying to forget for quite some time. How long I had been trying to forget is really not as important as the fact that it had finally happened. I had forgotten to be sad on the 10^th anniversary of my brother’s death.

I won’t try to tell you that I hadn’t thought of this date at all in the previous months, but I will add that it had not filled me with the same level of dread that it had before. This was not a date that he and I shared or celebrated, it was an anniversary created when he left. It was almost like adding another birthday, but for all the wrong reasons. We only need one, and I will happily dance on yours again this year as I celebrate your life.

Santa? Is that you?

The silent alarm sounded and I sat upright in my single bed. I was a little scared of what I had to now do, but I was also a little proud of the early warning system I’d developed that had allowed me to be accident free for more years than I could remember. At a full nine years of age I usually slept soundly through the night, but on this night, I had to pee.

Luckily the bathroom was right next to my room and I wouldn’t have to walk by that big scary painting in the living room; the one with the man and wife that stared back at me no matter where I stood in the room. My parents had laughed when I told them how it scared me, but at least they had been kind enough to move it out of the hallway…and to not tell my brothers why they had done so.

When my feet hit the cold December floor it crossed my mind to just jump back in bed and have an ‘accident’. Except for that watermelon incident last summer I really couldn’t remember the last time I’d wet the bed, but I was a big boy and I knew that my parents and Santa were keeping tabs on my progress. Santa! That’s right; it was Christmas Eve; how could I forget! Maybe I could endure the staring strangers long enough to check the living room and see if Santa had come. Maybe I would even catch him in the act!

The first thing I noticed when I entered the hallway was a dim light coming from the end of the house. I knew that Santa was magic, but he probably still needed a little light to do his work. I took a few steps and hesitated; would he be mad if I caught him? I would hate to do anything that might cause a reduction of my anticipated bounty. Before I could take another step I heard a muffled voice coming from the living room. I strained to listen because I knew what Santa’s voice sounded like; he usually called before I went to bed on Christmas Eve. Then I heard another voice. It was different from the first and much more feminine. Was Mrs. Claus with him?

When I heard my mother’s familiar giggle I realized that it was my parent’s voices I was hearing in the living room. Now there was nothing to be scared of I thought as I charged down the hall! Maybe they had even talked to Santa and made a few last minute suggestions. I could get an early start playing with my new toys!

When I entered the room they both fell silent. They wore the same embarrassed expression they had when I had come to their bed one night after a terrible nightmare; something is wrong. And here they were, standing in the living room playing with the toys Santa had brought for me! Sensing my disappointment, my father recovered quickly and scooped me up in his arms. He cleared a place on the sofa, pulled my mother to us and sat all three of us on the couch. Showered with comfort and kisses, they proceeded to explain a true story that changed the way I looked at life (and certainly Christmas) forever.

This is one of my favorite stories, but wish as I may, not an ounce of it is true. The Beaver and all six Brady’s probably learned this way, but I learned the truth about Santa the way most every other kid of my era did. I learned through ridicule, false information and embarrassment. I may have been a little angry at first, but I quickly realized that if I just played along, the gifts would keep coming in. Wink wink.

But the real value of this lesson is one that I have to remind myself of regularly as I age. I know that no medals are awarded for simply being right. I know that nothing positive comes from ‘calling out’ others on the little white lies that allow them to make it through a work week. I know that believing in something different does not necessarily make it wrong and that being mad about something you cannot change will ultimately stop the flow of gifts. I know now that there is a Santa Claus, and if you truly believe, he will come every day.

Groundhog Day

Anybody who has known me for very long knows that I have always had a fascination with animals lying dead by the road. Yes road kill! But before you picture me cooking up a long dead possum or raccoon, let me explain. The fascination revolves around the chance to look at these animals up close and personal without risking my health and safety. I would never dream of killing most of these animals myself, so if they are already dead…why not? It always kind of seemed like meeting a celebrity to me.

I come by this trait honestly. When I was a kid we often stopped and inspected road kill, and if it was something rare like a big rattlesnake or copperhead, we would take it home and save the skin. I still remember the look on the bag boy from A&P’s face when he opened the trunk on our VW Beetle only to stare in to the eyes of a quickly thawing road-killed bobcat! If I remember correctly that was the last time he hit on my mother. Let’s just say that not everyone shared (or understood) our fascination.

Over the years inspecting road kill gave me a great understanding of what lurked in the woods around our home. I could brag that I had identified and touched most of the wild animals native to middle Georgia. Sure they were dead, but I petted foxes, coyotes, skunks, wild hogs, and countless species of snakes, hawks and owls. This up close and personal inspection allowed me to make positive identifications in the field as well as those drive-by inspections done at 60 miles per hour on the way to school. “That was a grey fox” I would counter when one of my brothers said “poor dog” or just simply “awwwe”. Maybe DOT would hire me as an amateur biologist!

But even the truest of pleasures has a way of fading over time. After years of poking these deceased creatures with a stick I was beginning to think I had seen it all, and the number of times we actually stopped decreased. It had to be something we couldn’t identify or something really special. Of course my wife-to-be knew of this fascination, and while I can’t positively say she enjoyed stopping and viewing the carnage, she did a good job of at least playing along. It wasn’t long before she could tell the difference between a red fox and a grey one at almost 80 miles per hour! Looks like I had chosen a good one.

So as I approach my wedding anniversary of twenty four years, I am reminded of one of the most unusual road kill identifications of my illustrious career. We were married on February 4^th, and while I won’t say that the groundhog’s search for his shadow had any influence on our destination, we chose to head to the cold mountains of North Georgia anyway. In spite of the frigid weather we had a wonderful time and I somehow managed to keep my eyes on the road; tougher than it sounds for a guy like me traveling through an exotic location with potentially unidentified species of animals unable to safely cross the road.

We had almost made it to flat and familiar ground when we zoomed by a reddish, immobile lump lying a few feet off of the side of the road. “Was that a grey fox?” my wife asked as I applied the brakes and pulled on to the shoulder of the road. I had been wondering the same thing, but I was delighted that she was the one that brought it up. Nothing kills a honeymoon quite like loading a dead animal into the back of the truck beside a busy road! The joy of adding a new animal to my long list of positively identified road kill quickly faded as I realized the irony this one. His prediction of six more weeks of winter was incorrect…he only managed four days!