TODAY WAS VERY STRANGE

Today Was Very Strange

Those of you that follow this blog and the few that know my secret identity also know I am 52 year old overweight office worker with the chronic health conditions typical for that demographic.  Consequently I see the family doc twice a year to reset, renew and reload the standard batch of meds.  Today was that day.  You know, plan the trip to the doc for about 15 minutes , scales, blood pressure, pee in the cup and draw some blood, be at work by nine.  Not today.

My day ended 13 hours later; but, only after four doctors, one hospital, one clinic, two MRI procedures and four, count them, four blood draws and a separate procedure where they stick non-blood in the blood veins so the MRI -MRA machines can more accurately  perform their tasks.    

In other words, I spent the day in the company of very earnest, very serious professionals intent on performing their tasks in a workmanlike fashion.  Stated differently a group of people utterly devoid of humor  in a situation desperately in need of humor.  I believe I was called of the lord to create humor for these people who have no humor .  I'm pretty sure the guy in the next room was told he has a very short time to live.  He desperately needed humor and he needed it then. So there I was.

I filled out six page history forms at five locations in this very strange very unexpected day.  So, I decided to have fun.  They wanted my weight; but didn't specify a unit of measurement, so, I just said "way to much" .  The form asked for my occupation.  I responded out of work  major league pitcher or in the alternative, grumpy lawyer.  I laughed out loud when each nurse or physician asked "how are you doing"?  Did you ever want to smile like Miss America and say "like shit or I wouldn't be here".  Well, today, I did, four times. 

My crowning achievement was when the unsmiling desk clerk asked for my emergency name and my emergency phone number.  Please note, she did not ask for an emergency contact person; rather, she wanted my emergency name .  I decided on the spot that in the event of an emergency, my emergency name would be "Johhny Danger" and that my emergency phone number would be 911.   Yes, that was entered in my permanent records.  Wouldn't you like to be the 911 operator who gets the call from Baptist Hospital asking for Johnny Danger's mommy,  Mrs. Beulah Danger?  911 calls are recorded, this might actually happen. 

I actually had myself ( or my alter ego, Johhny Danger) paged in two doctors' office and one hospital lobby.  You be amazed at how few people got the joke.

Well, I felt led by the Lord to make others smile today and though I met with only limited success, a few, a very few, smiled.  Perhaps I earned a jewel for my crown.

Johhny Danger signing off.  See you next time, God willing.

It Happened Again

It Happened Again

 

It happened again.  Son 1.0 left for college and Wife 2.0 and I stood in the street waiving madly and fighting back another round of tears.  This is third such departure; but, the first that Son 1.0 made alone. 

The first year involved an overnight trip with a stay in a hotel.  We arose at 5:30 and were the first in line to unload at the dormitory at 7:00.  We were through by 8:00 and Son 1.0 was REALLY ready for us to leave so he could start the college experience.  We managed to hang around till 8:30; but, finally had to leave our baby in a strange city.

The second year involved not a dormitory; but, rather, a fraternity house.   While we were frightened of the dorm, we were absolutely terrified when it came to the [insert fraternity name here] house.   The denizens made no effort to hide the tequila bottles and beer cans.  And, yes, that thing on the table in the common room was in truth and fact, a hookah.   The next several minutes were spent listening to a very earnest young person (NOT Son 1.0) explaining that a hookah really isn't the same thing as a bong.  My momma [Mom 1.0] tells me I was born at night; but, as I explained to the earnest young person, it wasn't last night.  Yes, I remember the 60's and the 70's quite well.  You teach them as best you can and can only hope they will behave better than you did at the same age.

In any event, 2.0 and I spent a few hours rehabilitating the frat room following its previous residents, what we believe to be a herd of goats.  The trip was accomplished in a single day but nevertheless involved tears and desperately anguished parents.

Son 1.0 spent the summer with us while working at an internship.  It's amazing how much growing up takes place between one's 18th and 21st birthdays.  2.0 and I suspect this was the last time Son 1.0 will live in our home for an extended period of time.   Next summer is the time between the junior and senior years, the time when an engineering student gets a serious internship in a distant state and the summer that follows will involve a degree and a more or less permanent job.  If Son 1.0 gets his way, that job will likewise be in a distant land.  So, this was probably our last summer with our baby.

So, yes, I did stand in the street and weep.  Unabashedly.  Unashamedly. 

See you next time.  God willing.

Because They Don’t Want To

I love my wife, I really do.  Those of you who follow my writing know that the current model is wife 2.0.  Because there was a 1.0, I know just how truly blessed I am with 2.0.  But…..

2.0 recently traveled to the very edge of the state for a mission trip and of course, the automobile surrendered.  Several phone calls to dealers, mechanics, Triple A, etc, resulted in the car being towed across state lines to the nearest dealer for a very expensive repair.  That, of course, is when I got involved.  Several calls to the dealer “tomorrow, we promise” and no part.  Internet research and multiple calls to other dealers reveal the part for the 11 year old car is on national back order and 200 are expected in three months.  We are 395 on the list.  For the 200 that “should” be available in three months. 

2.0 is not happy.  It is very hot on the mission trip and the plumbing is suspect.  Son 1.0 is unhappy because it is really his car.  Both want to know what I am going to do about it.  Please note that I didn’t take the car on the trip and I didn’t break it.  But, what am I going to do about it?

It turns out that many years ago (multiple decades) I had a job that required purchasing salvage auto parts.  So, multiple calls later, I’ve located the part at a salvage yard.  But, the yard is short handed and they can’t pull the part until very late in the day.  It is a 4 hour drive to the current location of the car and I must deliver the part because the dealer isn’t allowed to purchase used parts directly.  Well, as noted above, many years ago I spent years in and around salvage yards; so, white shirt, dress pants, tie, and I go to the salvage yard and retrieve the part (a very large hard to get at part).  I load the part in my car and because the site of the mission trip is on the way to the dealership, and because I really, really, hate driving alone, I asked 2.0 if she would ride the last hour with me.  You know, one hour over, one hour back.  Keeping me company for two of the seven hours I would drive to deliver the part fo her car.  In addition to the three hours retrieving the part in the first place.  Because, I really really hate driving alone.  Seven hours.  Alone.

Well it went like this.  “Honey, will you ride with me to the dealer?”  “No.”  I really hate driving alone and I am making this trip for you.”  “No.”  Well, I drove three and one half hours to deliver the part to the dealer in the next state and about 30 minutes into the return trip, 2.0 calls to ask if I will divert on the return trip and bring her home, early, because it is really hot on the mission trip and because she really really wants to come home early.  So, despite the message above, and because she is 2.0, yes, I made the trip.

If you are wondering about the title to this story, it is the answer to the following question:  “Why don’t husbands outlive their wives….”
 

It Feels So Good Feeling Good Again

It Feels So Good Feeling Good Again

 While there are the occasional genetic miracles, for the most part, those of us on the north side of fifty have come to grips with our aches, our pains and most significantly, our mortality and the mortality of others.  I remember as a young person as my father prepared for his 30 year high school reunion.  In what must have been an anomaly, the class of 1946 reached 1976 with 100% of its membership alive and well.  Some years later when the class of 1979 attended its 10 year reunion, we had already lost three members and ten later had lost four more.  It wasn’t in me to attend my own 30^th.  I hoped that if I wasn’t present, death would pass us by.  It didn’t.

Those of us in our early 50’s tend to have parents in their late 70’s to late 80’s.  It is somewhere about this point on the time continuum that a subtle shift begins to occur.  Over a period of years we become our parents’ parents.  Subtle, almost imperceptible; but, with absolute grinding certainty it happens.  For some this is a labor of love.  For others it is just a labor.  Some remember Christmas carols and family game night.  Our existence looked nothing at all like the Norman Rockwell paintings my friends seemed to live.  But it really doesn’t matter.  We become our parents’ parents.  We handle the medical issues, the decisions, the angry recriminations from the parent cum child.  We just do it.

Dad recently passed.  It fell my lot to manage the last few months of his life and those issues that accompany death.  The man of whom I was afraid all of my young life.  The man who spent most of his life, and all of mine, disappointed in me.  The man who insisted I leave his home when I was 16.  That man needed me to manage his medical visits, pay his bills, arrange his living arrangements and at the end, who asked that I intervene with the medical staff on his behalf and let him go quietly.  That man needed me.  There was no comfort, no satisfaction, no victory.  He was a fall down drunk that beat his kids.  Then he got old and died.  But at the end of his life he needed help and it fell my lot to help him.   For those of you yet to live through the slow death of a family member, it is a draining, gut wrenching process.  And, then, its over.  But, you can’t stop.  You find yourself wound up, unable to breathe or step away from the warp speed pace of completely managing the affairs, every minute of every day of another person’s life.  A person that really didn’t care for you in the first place.

 It took an extra two weeks to decompress; but, I think I’m there.  Hence the title for this post borrowed from one of my favorite crying in a dark bar kind of songs.  “It Feels So Good Feeling Good Again.”   

Matthew.  Someday you will manage my final days.  You will handle my affairs and you will handle my funeral.  But, you will do it with fewer burdens.  I hope there has never been any doubt; but, just in case:

I love you.  I always have.

I am proud of you.  I always have been.

I have never been ashamed of you. Never.  Not one second.

You are great human being, a great son.

 

During my last days, smile, laugh, be happy.  For when that time comes, we will have had a good run.  “It Feels So Good Feeling Good Again”.

 See you next time, God willing.

I CHASED AN ICE CREAM TRUCK AND IT FELT GOOD     

I am 50 years old, ill in all the ways half century old men are supposed to be ill.  High blood pressure, type II diabetes,  creaky back and creaky knees.  The American Red Cross pays me not to donate blood and over the years, three friends in need of various spare organs, kidneys, portions of liver, bone marrow, etc all turned me down.  Apparently the old and infirm need not apply.

I worked an extraordinary number of hours last month and will do the same this month.  There is no rest for the wicked or the weary.  There are bills to pay, kids in college and all the drudgery of daily life.

My angst is further compounded by the problems normally associated with work and the article in today’s newspaper reporting rising tuition at the school of higher education attended by son 1.0.  Someday science and technology will resolve these problems.  But, for today, I have no flying car, no video wrist watch and no functional mechanical heart.  Somebody lied to me in 1972 and I am not happy about it.

As those of you who don’t live under rocks already know, times are hard all over; but, today I heard the bells and whistles of an ice cream truck.  I am 50 years old and have not screamed or run after an ice cream truck in well over three and one half decades.  You may recognize the ice cream truck song; but, I bet you don’t know the words:  Do your ears hang low, do they wobble to and fro, can you tie them a knot, can you tie them in a bow…..Do your ears hang low?

Imagine the electronic organ over a very bad loud speaker accompanied by whistle and bells calling to you while dreaming of a very cold very sweet multicolored popsickle shaped like Buck Rogers’ rocket.  Imagine the fields of your youth, the lazy riverside cane pole fishing trips and all of a sudden you are nine years old sprinting down the street, screaming and begging for the truck to stop.  Dress shirt un-tucked, sock footed and wearing the remnants of the day’s dress clothes, I caught the truck on the fly and bought the largest ice cream bar in the place.  For the time required to consume the ice cream, I was no longer old and infirm.  I was nine years old with grass between my toes and squaring up to catch Denny Teeter’s long fly ball to left field.  I even heard one neighbor say to another :  “He moves pretty good for a big boy.”

So, at half a century old, I chased an ice cream truck and it felt good.

See you next time (God willing).

How Paul, Art, and most of all, I, got very old.

How Paul, Art, and most of all, I, got very old.

If you grew up in the 60’s and 70’s, you grew up around music.  Very good music.  The Doors, Jefferson Airplane (before they had the Starship), the Beatles, Styxx, 38 Special, Boston, Foreigner, Dobie Gray and too many others to list.  They were all great. But, I found my inner voice in Simon and Garfunkel, Paul and Art. They spoke to me. 

As only the great grandsons of Adalbert and Ottillie can attest, it was very hard on Miller Street.    We dealt with it in our own ways.  The number one son was mad at all of us and left at 18.  The number two son lived in his own mind.  I had Paul and Art.  I learned the words of Bridge Over Troubled Water, The Boxer, Scarborough Fair, Cecilia.   If you knew all the words, you got a pass from the world for a few minutes.  So, I learned all the words.  Every single one.  The other kids knew the preamble to the constitution, Hamlet’s soliloquy and that sunday’s Bible verse.  I knew “Are you going to Scarborough Fair, parsley sage rosemary and thyme.  Remember me to one who lives there; she once was a good friend of mine.”  Paul and Art were my friends.  They soothed the hurt, physical, mental and emotional.  “Like a bridge over troubled water, I will comfort you. I’m on your side.”

Like some 1970’s Holden Caulfield in a modern Catcher In The Rye, I struggled through adolescence. The great grandsons of Adalbert didn’t need Viet Nam, we had Miller Street.  “And here’s to you Mrs. Robinson, Jesus loves you more than you can know. … Hiding in a hiding place that no one ever goes.”

Paul and Art went with me to junior high, high school and college; but, I lost them my sophomore year. “I’m sitting in a railway station, got a ticket for my destination. On a tour of one night stands, My suitcase and guitar in hand…homeward bound, I wish I was homeward bound….where my loves waits silently for me. 

The problem was there was no home, just Miller Street.  “Like emptiness and harmony, I need someone to comfort me…..”  I had Paul and Art.  Then for some reason, they weren’t cool any more.  I still knew all the words,  I just didn’t sing them anymore.  I just didn’t sing anything anymore.  “Coo coo ca choo”

Brother number one recently sent me a video of Paul and Art.  They were gray and weary and their voices not as powerful as in years past; but, they were Paul and Art and they sang and three decades later I was able to sing with them.  “The moon rose over an open field…. Kathy I’m lost, I said, though I knew she was sleeping….I’m empty and aching and I don’t know why…  We’ve all gone to look for America”   

Paul and Art got old since sophomore year at HSU in 1979.  It turns out that I too have aged 32 years in the last 32 years.  But, tonight, I sang. I sang with Paul and Art.  Sang for the first time since Miller Street.  “I’m on my way, I don’t know where I’m going; but, I’m on my way.”  I don’t ever again need to go to Miller Street.

Thanks Edwin. Thanks Paul.  Thanks Art.  It turns out that I am indeed, “Still crazy after all these years.”

See you next time. 

Chiklin And Dumplins With No Chiklin

Chiklin And Dumplins With No Chiklin

I apologize for the delay since my last missive; but, one of my New Years’ resolutions was to not   say anything unless I really had something to say.  It happened today. 

Son 1.0 is well into his second semester at a university far far away (well, three hours) and Wife 2.0 and I don’t see him nearly often enough.  We were blessed with a visit this weekend and as fate would have it, he was at the right place at the right time.  We had our coldest night of the year and our first power outage at the very same time.  No problem, we have a generator.  However, said generator is very heavy and at the very back of a very full storage building.  So, without a single word of complaint, Son 1.0 got out of a warm bed at 7:00AM after having gone to bed at 3:00AM (well, someone had to shoot the video game villains).  Son 1.0 cleared the way to the back of the storage building and drug the very heavy generator into the back yard.  The generator hadn’t been started in two years and unfortunately had two year old gas.  Further complicating the situation was an early morning in the teens.  Again, with no complaints,  Son 1.0 pulled and tugged on the starter cord and after an epic battle, the generator started and the home was warm, the lights were lit and most importantly, Wife 2.0 was happy.  

 We next worked to repair a leak in the innards of the family truck, a real chore for the manually challenged.   Again in the very cold, and again with no complaints. 

The next calamity was the loss of our cable and internet service.  Our very tech savy Son 1.0 performed various voodoo incantations, restoring the television.  Those as hooked on TV as I am will understand this was a near miracle.  Again, no whining and no moaning from Son 1.0.  Just cheerful service.     

One would think we had completed the weekend’s tale of woe.  One would be wrong.  Wife 2.0’s computer went to heaven.  I think it had a faulty flux capacitor.  Son 1.0 said it was a bad cpu.  What does he know?  Son 1.0 worked on the computer and when it was administered its last rights, accompanied his parents to the computer store, sorted through the techno jargon, selected the just right computer and then demonstrated extreme patience teaching Wife 2.0 (he calls her “mom”) to operate the new machine. Again, no whining, no complaints.  As taught in scouting and our faith, just a “servant heart”.

Did I tell you this was Son 1.0’s first opportunity to relax after a very serious round of tests in a very serious set of courses in a very serious major.  I suspect Son 1.0 is looking forward to returning to college just to get a break.  By the way, what is calculus and why must one take Cal I, II and III?

You may wonder about the title of the story, “Chiklin And Dumplins With No Chiklin”.  Well, when Son 1.0 was four years old, we met the extended family for a meal and Son 1.0 declared he was old enough to place his order with no assistance from mom and dad.  The waitress arrived at the table and after patiently waiting his turn, Son 1.0 told her he wanted “chiklin and dumplins with no chiklin”.  We laughed until it hurt to laugh and I told that story 100’s of times and as a 5^th generation story teller, it was easily my all time favorite story.  Well, it used to be my favorite story.  My new favorite story is the one I just told you of the very bad day and the very good son.  I swear.

See you next time.