You Can Do Anything With the Right Soundtrack

 It's a Wonderful Run. A 5K race in Seneca Falls, the town where the author wrote the book on which It's A Wonderful Life was based. Oh, it was a cold night. The race started at 4:40pm and standing high above the river atop a bridge we were completely exposed to the wind. Warm light clothes that are perfect for running in this weather are not so hot at standing in the wind. It cut right through whatever I was wearing. There may have been hundreds of people on that bridge, but there was no amount of them to crowd around that could provide the protection that I needed.

The race started on the 'George Baily' bridge, my iPod led off with a song that a Beatles fan can appreciate, She Said, She Said. With the line, "you're making me feel like I've never been born" I thought, well played, iPod. The music is what keeps you going on a night like this. She's on Fire and Soak Up the Sun give warm thoughts and an odd realization that I had an inordinate amount of warm songs to choose from.

Running was tough. With almost 3,000 runners it was scrunchy and crowded. But being my first night run, I enjoyed the sights. People out on the sidewalks and lawns watching & cheering. Some had bonfires in their yards. I couldn't feel the heat, but just the smell of burning wood provided  thoughts of comfort and warmth. Once I got going, though, warmth wasn't an issue. Footing was. After two miles of tromping through the snow I was feeling the wear on my legs and psyche.

The snow was thick and grainy and made it feel as though I was running through sand.  Thighs and knees were burning from plodding over the snow.  Runners crowded around looking for footing in the few maneuverable sections of the road, strong arming me, sometimes physically bumping or by invading my space.  12^o outside, but the cold on my skin wasn’t as much an issue as the frigid air I’d suck into my lungs. Nasal drainage froze to my lip and each breath left my lungs and mouth harder and harder. Environment and physical factors beat me down, saying, “Stop. Walk. Rest.”

But then the song comes on. Uplifting in mood and tone with a pounding of the beat. Horns start in taking the music higher, with a regal and powerful mood. My back straightens a little. My feet hit the road just as hard, but my body was feeling a little lighter. Shoulders back and head up, my eyes scan forward because as my spine and back straighten, my vantage and field of vision increase. This change comes from my mind via the music.  The song has a spirituality to it and I’m lifting higher and lighter, out of body, I am floating up and I can see myself from above. I float higher looking down as I pan away to the sky, seeing me, those next to me, further back puts more and more runners in view as it seems to expand out from me in the center. But then I’m not the center. I am an unidentifiable part of a mass of runners, all moving along the same path like a line of ants.

This is the music from Thor, so I see Thor & the warriors three racing on horses across the rainbow bridge.  Flying between realms, speeding across space on the bifrost, I picture a hammer summoning lightning from the sky then pounding on the ground with enough force to make ripples in the earth like throwing a rock in a pond.  He confronts the enemy and even though it doesn’t always go as planned or easily, Thor fights through pain, adversity, and horrible odds to ultimately triumph. I can do that.

 

I zoom back in on me.  Imagery and music mean everything here. My view of the race. The music becomes part of my drive. Breaths are deeper and strides stronger. There's no stopping. This is heroic. The wind brings the snow in sharply from the north and swirls it around making a cloud moving down on us. The combined breath of the runners creates a haze moving up from the ground. Mixed with the cloud this breathy snow fog  picks up and amplifies the Christmas lights of the houses along the block and the red flashing lights of the police cars lining the route. The nighttime darkness above and a ruddy glow from below are the environment for my struggle. There are 1,000 people in front of me and 1,000 people behind me. The music pounds, sings, and inspires as I start to pass more than pass me.

 

Fighting the urge to walk and fighting to reach and pass the next person on my horizon feels every bit as heroic as anything the Avengers ever did on film. Moving along Cayuga Street past blocks of beautifully maintained Queen Anne and Victorian style houses, I hit a groove. Running down and around the right turn lane on to Main Street gives a boost that feels like I'm using the gravity of some heavenly body to catapult me to points beyond. With that last stretch lined with fans, well-wishers, and a town decked out in Christmas lights, I'm home.

December 8th, 1988

In everybody's past is some magical day. You have that one experience that it is the beginning of a whole new life. And sometimes you had absolutely no idea it was happening.

I had been in Germany for only a week and hadn’t done much. I had wandered the base, hitting all the necessary spots like the post office, the gym, chow hall, theater, and the BX.  And for alternate dining there was always the La Hacienda, a diner who aside from its name offered no actual Latin options, as long as you don't count nachos.

There I was. In Germany. My fascination with all things German - the language, culture, food, history, architecture - moved me to put it down on my Air Force 'wish list'. Incredibly, I actually got orders. I was excited to be there, but also a bit melancholy. After a move to California in 1985, the Air Force and tech school in 1986, Scott Air Force Base in 1987, here I was starting over again, again. That isn't an easy thing to do. The best way to get over those blues is to get the hell out and do something.

It was Thursday and the word was that on Thursday you HAVE to go to ‘the club’.  Everybody goes to the club on Thursday. If these people really knew me, they’d know that wasn’t much of a selling point. Even at 20, I was more of a bar person. I'd be happiest as one of a dozen or so people on barstools nursing drinks. A jukebox playing 60’s & 70’s hits and maybe an old dog in the corner. Clubbin’ wasn’t my thing, because then, as now, I would generally try to avoid places where I had to dress a certain way and yell to speak to the person standing next to me.

But I was 20 and fresh from the States. Back there, not having reached majority age, I could never go out. Everyone would go out and I’d be stuck with the rest of the under 21 crowd, looking for someone to bring beer to the dorm. Pathetic for sure. Fun at times, but it still felt like I was a high school kid being left behind while the grownups had fun. (I feel comfortable putting that out there because my son refuses to read anything I write).  So, rocking to some 10,000 Maniacs, I put on my generic and borderline fashionable 80's goin' out clothes, got some cash and headed to the NCO Club.

To say that the evening started as a disappointment would be an understatement. Let's start with the complete and utter let down that this walk to the club turned out to be. I had spent the last two years in the states watching others celebrate their 21st birthdays with debaucherous blowouts. It was an event. An American male's bar mitzvah celebrating 'adulthood'. You may have already been allowed to file a tax return, join the military, sign a legally binding contract, and drive a car. But at 21 you're really an adult because you can drink. A rite of passage to celebrate.  And here I was a month and a half short of that magic date in a country with no drinking age, and I very unceremoniously and without fanfare, walk alone into the club.

Passing through the doors of the establishment, my outlook didn't get any better. The Zweibrücken NCO Club was put together with all the style and imagination you'd expect from the U.S. military. I couldn't tell you much about the details. My memory of the NCO Club generally involves the color brown. There was a basic bar/dance floor/stage set-up, and the walls were lined with cheap lithographs of various aircraft. Base aircraft, F-4 Phantoms and C-23A Sherpas hung most prominently. There was a brightly lit back room with five or six slot machines. All continuously occupied by the slot zombies. 

 

I lingered for a while. Had chats with a couple people I had met in my short time there. Sitting at the bar, I watched with disgust people who chose Budweiser and other American beers over the local brand. Zweibrücken's own Parkbräu Export was my drink of choice as I settled in to conversation with a band of crew chiefs. One guy, Dave Gunner, was telling me of tours that run out of the bases. He went to Paris and on the last day there, he missed the bus as it left the Louvre. His friends hadn't noticed his absence so he had to catch a cab to the Eiffel Tower in hopes that he could find his group there.

 I was one of the medical people. We worked 8 - 5. A girl comes in dressed her BDU's. Clearly straight from work and clearly, she knows these guys. The badges on her uniform told me that she was some sort of mechanic.  Big smile. Bits of her blonde hair frizzed out from a French braid that was impressively snug for someone who just got off a shift of repairing aircraft. She stood out because she never once sat down. This girl appeared to know everyone in the place and moved across the room from one conversation to the next. As she worked the room this girl exuded an energy that came out in her expressions, her arms, her face, her laugh, and her body. And that enthusiasm didn't wane between conversations.

She was a dancer. Again, the girl never sat down. With each song she'd find someone to take out to the dance floor. Guys would tire and she'd move on to the next. At some point she magically had a drink in her hand and was making the rounds at our table. Yelling over the loud music, she leaned in to speak to someone across from me. I could see the name tag on her uniform said JEWELL. The guy I was talking to spoke with her. Dave called her Jennie, but never introduced us. She leaned in to talk to him and rested her hand on my shoulder.  I remember that. After she moved on, Dave let me know that she was one in the group that left him behind in Paris.

Soon enough, I was getting bored with the whole thing and honestly, I still hadn't quite gotten over my jet lag, so I was ready to go. But a song came on and Jennie was once again looking for a dance partner. "Sure", I said, shrugging my shoulders. Now how is that for a passionate start?

My wife would kill me if I revealed this secret, so I won't. The song that we danced to was, and is not a song that she likes. She hates the song. She hates the band. It is a completely undanceable song and has no place being played anywhere that dancing is practiced. But there it was. The music starts off slow. At first we put our hands together, my right hand around her waist. Leaning in close, I could detect a scent of White Rain shampoo and just a hint of jet fuel. We talk, but it was really yelling and we listen as best we can. The dance floor was not that big and there was no escaping this DJ's 1980's mammoth speakers. "What is your name?" "Where are you from?" She did her Air Force tech school in Illinois. I'm from Illinois. She was from the Syracuse area. I had visited Syracuse because of a cousin who lived in Liverpool. It was a lively, but slightly generic conversation. Eventually, my hand left hers and found its way down so our hands rested on each other's hips. The slow start to the song was over and the pace picked up. Unsure of what to do, the dancers stayed the course, defying the recording's pace and volume and continued with a slow sway.

Then the song ended...and that was it. We parted. "Nice to meet you", with no expectation that we’d ever see one another again. I had another beer then walked back to my dorm. We ran into each other at the theater the next night. Somebody blew someone else off, but there is a bit of debate about who exactly that was. There is enough animosity in that story for another whole post. We did not have occasion to speak again for months. Our mini- When Harry met Sally moment was over and we went on with our lives with no inkling that months later we'd speak again. We'd hang out. We'd be friends. Then best friends. Then eventually living in New York with three children on the couch watching Fred Claus.

But that day, December 8,1988 was the first time I laid eyes on Jennie Jewell. It was the first time I held her hand. The first time I held her close. It was the first time I heard her backstory. And I didn't know it at the time, but it was the beginning of my future.

All About Thom

The Facebook game goes like this. Someone gives you a number and you have to list that many interesting, but generally unknown, facts about yourself. While the interestingness is debatable, my responses were a bit long. How lucky you are to get a glimpse into the mind of Thom!  

1.       I often have dreams that I can fly. Not Superman flying. There are 2 types of dreams. Sometimes I concentrate & levitate up and then take off.  Other times I am while running, my strides get longer and higher until I am flying. It seems so real that when I wake up, I still think I can do it.

2.       We pride ourselves in that we have been to so many places. I believe that I could move to and be happy living in any of them. We have never lived in a downtown urban area & that is something that I’d like to do.

3. The three women who have come closest to the American Presidency are Geraldine Ferraro, Hillary Clinton, & Sarah Palin. I have seen them all in person (met two). All within 20 miles of our home. If you knew where I live, you’d be amazed.

4.       Two baseball/softball injuries plagued me for years. First, a bad hamstring ( hamstrung by a hamstring? ) and couldn’t throw a baseball without shoulder pain for years. But both were seemingly cured after only a few weeks of yoga.  

5.       Despite the aforementioned pains and the fact that I am overweight, I am worried that for the most part, I’ve been pretty healthy my whole life. I’ve never been the one looking up from the hospital bed and I am not looking forward to it.

6.       I’ve been to a lot of places, but tops on my list of places that I have yet to see is St. Basil’s Cathedral in Moscow and the Parthenon in Athens.  Those are lifelong dreams.

7.       If Jennie & I had started having children sooner, we’d probably have 5. When accounting for our kids, I’ll see all three, but still think I’m missing some.

8.       I’m a church going Catholic, but in my view, the message is infinitely more important that the messenger. I really don’t think Jesus minds, but I am sure there are plenty of Christians that would.

9.      I feel passionately about things and the way I think our country should be. But my views are tainted by pragmatism, so I focus on what I think is possible. I feel like I have to sacrifice for progress, but that makes me feel like I’m giving up on what I believe.

10.       I rarely drink. I don’t smoke. I don’t even like coffee. But I need soda. I really do. Diet or regular matters not as long as it is caffeinated and carbonated.  We don’t keep it in the house, so I get little bits at a time. Out to eat or a bottle at work. If I go a couple days without it, on comes the DT’s.  

11.   Smell is a very important thing to me. Not turned off by bad smells as much as enjoying good ones. I always smell my food. I love the scents of the seasons. The smell of perfume or shampoo when a woman passes by or even the smell of cigars & beer that always takes me back to Wrigley Field.
 

 

 

Can We Get a Another Curse Back Here?

As a baseball fan, and a St. Louis Cardinal fan, dealing with the limited viewing choices of the late '70s & early '80s, most of my time was spent watching the Chicago Cubs on WGN. The Cubs were, at best, mediocre, but their leader & best player was Bill Buckner. If they needed  a clutch hit or defensive play, Bucker was The Man. He was the go to guy. So, that is why I have always felt bad for him being considered the goat of the 1986 World Series and for a while, the bearer of The Curse.

For those of you who may not be baseball people, it was believed that the Red Sox sale of Babe Ruth to the Yankees netted the Sox not only cash, but also a curse that would keep them from winning a World Series ever again. Boston had been a dominant team in the early years of baseball. After their owner's fire sale of players, done to finance his Broadway shows, the Red Sox turned into perennial also-rans. When they finally did make it back to championship caliber play, in the big games, Boston came up short. They didn't just lose. They'd lose in some sort of humiliating fashion.

Half an inning away from winning the World Series in 1986, a ball rolled through Bill Buckner's legs, allowing the winning run to cross the plate. The New York Mets scored three times in that inning, sending the Series to game 7 and an eventual Met championship. Of course, the entire Red Sox team was to blame. Every runner left on base, every pitcher's blown save, every missed opportunity in each of their four losses was somebody's fault. In baseball, it is everybody's fault. But Bill Bucker got the blame for the whole thing. He had to take one for the entire team.

Having my Cardinals lose to the once lowly Red Sox in the World Series twice in 10 years makes me kind of miss the curse. Most of my cursing was saved for my own team in the 2013 edition of the baseball Twilight Zone that suddenly had the Red Sox winning. The Cardinals out hit the damn Sox right up until they got men in scoring position.

Four times the Cardinals have played the Red Sox in the World Series. Two wins a piece. Why the hell did I have to be alive for the Cardinal's losses?

What gets me is, I don't hate the Red Sox. I usually don't anyway. They sit somewhere in the upper middle of my baseball team hierarchy. If they were playing someone else like the Dodgers or the Phillies, or certainly against the Yankees, I'd be rooting for Boston. It is hard to wipe away first impressions. Despite their now 3 World Series victories, I still think of the Sox as losers. And who doesn't root for the losers?

Instead, I'm here frustrated and angry, thinking about this disgusting Boston team, known for their long bearded faces like some backwoods creepy red necks. And not the charming Duck Dynasty rednecks. I'm thinking Deliverance. I just want to go through their locker room with a can of Barbasol and some Schick razors. Or maybe a weed eater.  I want to sink their stupid duck boats.

I want a curse!

How glorious would it have been to have David Ortiz bat .700 in a Boston Series loss? Or for the Cardinals, dead in the water, to pop just two or three more hits in the 7th inning of game 6 to turn a sure Boston victory into a stunning loss. AT HOME! Now that would have been a wonderful way to lose!  Baseball gods of fate! Why have you forsaken me?

But for now, a curse is too little, too late. I turn on ESPN or the MLB Network and I get Red Sox talk and clips of their victory parade.  I'm not ready for that. Fine. You won. Congratulations.

For now, I find solace in the internet. And here I thank Yankee fans, now kindred spirits in our mutual disgust for the American League team in Boston. Those wonderful Yankees fans have put lots of images and video of the Sox past failures for people to enjoy. Players in their Boston uniforms with heads hung. Stunned looks of pain on their faces. Fans crying.

And a ball rolling through a first baseman's legs. That makes me feel better. Avenged. And kind of warm and snuggly inside.

Sorry, Billy Buck. You have to take one for the team.

Age Ain't Nothing But a Number

I'm old. Getting old anyway. There is no denying it.

I’m used to getting older and feeling older. The signs are everywhere. Billy Crystal hit it perfectly in the movie City Slickers, saying,

“I'm losing hair where I want hair, and getting one where there shouldn't be hair."

The physical stuff, the extra weight, the waning hair, the lack of ability to stay up to all hours without days of recovery. Those are the obvious. Everybody gets hung up on that stuff.  

It is the subtle weird stuff that makes me think I'm days away from smelling like BenGay and a diet of Jell-O.

Product placement is something that gets me. When my kids ask for things like Pringles, Rolos, or Skittles I say, “I remember when those were new.” All I need is a geezer accent to make the statement complete. "And when I was a kid, candy was a quarter, dadgum it!"

It really was, but I don't say it too often.

An odd one that snuck up on us last year was being the oldest parents in the Santa line. There is nothing like being surrounded by a bunch of 20ish parents that can make one feel particularly aged. Thankfully, the center of attention is a much older, rounder, & bearded guy. That way, I didn’t stand out as much.

More recently, in the World Series the other night, each of the Cardinals’ three pitchers were born in the 1990’s. Fine. Being older than the players is something I came to terms with quite some time ago. But when I found out the Cardinal manager was younger than I by three years, I had had it.

There had to be a change, so something in me has decided that I need to remind myself that I am still young. Identify the young things that I do, so I will either a) feel younger or b) find young things to put on that list.

So, when I finish a long run, I feel young. I still got good knees and a strong back. On volleyball nights when I have my serve working and the ball goes everywhere I want it to go, I feel pretty young.

And last night, something good happened.  Remember that bit on the first Spiderman movie when Peter Parker was described as having reflexes so fast they border on precognition? Totally me. I was putting dishes away. I had not turned the light on in the pantry and I'm in the dark putting a dish back on the shelf. Above me I heard the clink of glass and movement above. And like a ninja I deftly tossed the contents of my right hand into my left and snatched the falling serving bowl from the air before it passed lower than my chest. Bazinga! I’m all Spiderman and the Flash and… some other really fast guy all put together. That made me feel pretty good.

I can even generally figure out technology. Working with iPods & smart phones efficiently enough. In certain groups I can even be the go to troubleshooting guy.
 

And, I still understand that there is price inflation as years pass, so I am not offended and shocked when I pay $1.00 or more for a candy bar.

A sure sign of youth is that I am still full of hope. I haven't become an old curmudgeon who snarls at everything and everyone because the world is what it is and there is nothing you can do about it. I believe that things will get better. I truly believe that people will do the right thing. I believe that voters will start sending the right people to run the country and pay more attention to what is going on. And I am still hopeful that the St. Louis Cardinals will start hitting with runners in scoring position and win these last two World Series games.  Hope is a good thing. And it is an emotion for the young.

A pessimist would love to point out that all these wonderful, youthful traits will all leave me eventually. The long slow process of physical and mental decay will pick them off, one by one. I suppose so.

But for now I remind myself that there is much to feel good about. I have my wits and my body.

I can do things that other people my age can't.

I will do things that other people my age won't.

I've done a lot and still have more to do.

Dental Joy

All I wanted was some Lucky Charms. Simple enough. But as the cold milk spread  over and between my teeth, like an invading force, it found the spot that was once guarded by an ancient filling. Ancient by some standards. Twenty five to thirty five years or so. But, I had no idea until that moment. That very exciting and painful moment when ice shot through my jaw and up to my brain, literally lifting my head, stretching my neck, and snapping the rest of my body to attention.

There is this bundle of nerves, for your cheek, lip, and all the teeth on one side of your jaw, right up to the midline of your incisors.  That bundle feeds the feeling in all that. So, one nice little shot’ll do it. Takes 'em all out. A mandibular block. That sucker numbs everything at once. One little shot. No big deal. So they say. 

They give you a topical anesthetic that is supposed to keep the needle from hurting as it penetrates the inside of your cheek. Yeah, right. Once that 27 gauge cold steel gets in there and starts rooting around under your skin, looking for the inferior alveolar nerve, the topical don’t mean much.

I handle pain alright. You do what you gotta do. Just wait for the numbby, flubby feeling in your lip. But first comes the sudden sharp jolt from the cold air rushing that exposed area that says, the numbing agent didn’t qutie take yet.

Once you’re there, that whine of the high speed drill complimented by a sweet burny toothy smell relaxes you. Your cheek pinched between the suction tip and your teeth lets you know just what part of your face isn't numb. And we move on to the jaw rattling slow speed that turns into a skull rattle when the dentist glances the handle off your upper teeth. “Oops. Sorry.” I didn’t think they were supposed to say, oops?

Grinding, drilling, packing, shaping, and finally, biting.

Magic.

Of course, once the xylocaine wears off the left side of my face feels like I took a punch from Cain Valesquez.

But at least I could eat my Lucky Charms.


 

Lake Ontario - The End of the Line

And we end, right where it all began. Lake Ontario. I never really gave this one much thought. It is always here. A Great Lake like the rest, but like Michigan, there was an air of familiarity that made it an also-ran. But experiencing the other lakes enhanced my image of the lake in my own backyard.

I've had some adventures on this lake. Tossing aside those faded pseudo-memories of a Lake Michigan beach visit, I can say that this was my first. I'm not from New York, but I did visit a cousin who lived near here, in Liverpool, way back in the mid-seventies. I remember distinctly a trip to Fort Ontario, an old British, and later, American fort. Once a battleground in the War of 1812. I remember getting a blue old timey military cap, the firing of cannons, and the biggest lake I had ever seen, just outside.

 In my time here in New York, our little family has been swimming IN Lake Ontario, eaten dinner BESIDE Lake Ontario, and even got stuck out ON Lake Ontario. Yes, out fishing with a friend, the motor on the boat took the rest of the day off. The oars came out and we did our Viking oarsman thing. Heave! Ho! Yeah, we got nowhere.  In the end, what got us to shore was a tow job from the U.S. Coast Guard. It was pretty cool to get screened and searched as if we might have been smugglers. Lots of questions. Checking our ID's and searching the boat. It was like being in an episode of Miami Vice. I'm sure I'm not the first person to compare Oswego, New York to Miami.

 

 The route of our Great Lakes trip took us along side of Lake Ontario on our way back through Canada. Even though we had been to Lake Ontario many times, to make it official, we took the time for an actual visit shortly after our return home. Of course, we went to Rudy's. If you're going to Lake Ontario, you have to go to Rudy's Lakeside Drive-In. Oh, what a wonderful place! Described by my wife as "deep fried yummy on a stick," Rudy's is not a place for health food. Like Sponge Bob says of the Crabby Patty, "It is good for your soul". Walk up to order cheeseburgers, fried shrimp, and wings along with a Byrne Dairy chocolate milk chaser. Sit and watch the waves while the kids swim. Or just chuck rocks out into the water. Watching the sunset and squeezing my woman. That is Lake Ontario to me.
 

So, we stopped by all five Great Lakes. Technically, what is the big deal? You could say they all look the same. Just some big lakes. But they all had unique views and experiences that made them special. What I remember most of Lake Ontario on our trip is seeing the Toronto skyline from the opposite side of the lake. All the way from St. Catherine’s, a good 30 – 40 miles away, there it was on the horizon, just waiting for us. We've done so much, and still, there is so much more to see.

Don't Wait

There is this album released in 1965 by Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass. The cover has a woman who would appear to be wearing nothing but an outfit made entirely of a tasty white dairy topping. Whipped Cream and Other Delights was the title. My sister insists that we had the album at home growing up, but I don’t remember it. And this isn’t an album cover a young boy would forget.

 

I have a friend that I worked with who first told me about the album. Her dad was a fan of Herb Alpert and as a kid and she always thought this cover was funny to look at. That was probably two years ago. We don’t even work in the same building anymore.  

 

I came across Whipped Cream and Other Delights at the thrift store a while back. The cover and the disk were both in pretty good shape. I paid a whopping 99¢ for the album. I thought of my friend and that this little reminder of her childhood might be a nice, albeit small gift. Maybe I’d give it to her for Christmas or her birthday or something. Whenever. I couldn’t decide, so I stuck it on a shelf to worry about at some later date.

 

So, skip forward from that to last week. A different friend who works with me now had a particularly rough day. She was literally betrayed by someone who had been a friend. For no fathomable reason this person acted in a most callous and disgusting way. It really hurt her, and those of us around her, her friends, did what we could to be supportive. Sometimes there isn’t much you can do, but you do what you can to take away or minimize the hurt.

 

That incident made me think about my friend of the Whipped Cream and Other Delights. I got the record off the shelf, wrapped it, and found a way to get it over to the school where she works now. It just might make her day.

 

I could have waited until Christmas, but I got to thinking, if I have a way to make someone I care about smile or make them happy, then why wait?

They might really need that smile right now.

Stars

It happened again this morning and it doesn’t ever get old. Two days in a row, in the same area of the sky, I got to see shooting stars. Today’s was better. Again there was no moon, but this morning there was no clouds at all, rather than the whisps yesterday. The air had a bit of a chill so the stars were a poppin’. The meteorite was a bright one, and came to light under a familiar constellation, like someone underlined the legs of Orion the Hunter, with a truly magic marker. Its tail was thick and had a sparkle that hung on for a moment before it faded into the dark sky.

That is one of best things about getting out in the morning. I love it. Out and hitting some part of town where ground light is scarce and looking up at a part of the sky that is just teeming with stars. So many that there are no discernible constellations. No noticeable pattern.  Just thousands of points of light shining through the biggest Lite Brite paper ever. Every once in a while, like that errant onion ring in an order Burger King french-fries,  I get the unexpected surprise of a shooting star.

While everyone else is home in bed, I am there. I’m seeing this! Nobody else. I’m thinking like Melvin Udall in the movie As Good As it Gets, because he’s there and no one else is, “And the fact that I get it makes me feel good, about me.”  I suppose that feeling isn’t unique to me. I would hope that everyone has something like that. Maybe it is dogs, gardening, or dressing up like a plushie.

I just think that those meteors and I have much in common. Both of us traveling through our space, unknown to anyone but nature’s and space’s silent spectators. Out in the dark, momentum and gravity lead us on a trajectory to somewhere. I’m just glad that I’m not the one that bursts into flame and disintegrates.

When Its Over

One night this week, we came home to police. Not at out house. They were at a home on our block. I don't know where you live, but on our street, that is notable activity. Six in all. Some state troopers, a couple county sherrifs and a couple investigators, and a couple ambulences to boot. Asking around got us an answer. Someone had committed suicide there.

The people who live in that house haven't been around long. The house has been recently rehabbed and they were renting. I know nothing else about the woman who ended her life there. But as I am wont to do, I obsess about death, particularly unnatural death. You know, like too young, too early, or lives lost unnecessarily. Just questions.

Who was she? How old was she? What did she do all day before...?

Did she see me go by her house every morning when I went out jogging? Do I know her? Have I seen her? Did I say "hi" or "good morning" or at least smile at her?

I can only hope that even if it was just in passing that I was a positive presence, because I hate to think that someone who lived so close to me was going through that much agony, and I had no idea.

Did anybody know this was coming? Did they try to help? Was it a surprise? 


How does one just give up?  This is it? In a tiny garage, in a small town, in an obscure part of New York state? That is where it ends?  How could all hope be gone on such a beautiful, sunny autumn day? 

I don't know.

Suicide can be the end result of depression, mental illness, drug use, or just years of mental torment. But, I would think that any route to this action has to be paved with longing for opportunities missed. And lots of regret.

So, am I living the way I should? Am I happy with this life? Do I need to change anything? If so, why haven't I started?  I want to be sure that I am happy with today's choices ten years from now.

This doesn't make sense. It is a done deal and there is nothing anyone can do about it, so we might as well learn from her.

Be kind and acknowledge the people around you.

Be there for your family and friends.

Enjoy yet another beautiful day. 

Take a first step.

Do something that you've always dreamed of doing.

Lake Erie

My 14 year old son drives his mother crazy. He likes to point out the things he'd like to do someday.  What drives her crazy is not that he'd like to jump out of a perfectly good aircraft or that he wants to visit less than stable parts of the world. She hates that he refers to this collection of desires as his bucket list. "A bucket list", she says, "is for old people and I'd rather that the child that I worked so hard for, not plan for his death." Fair enough.

Ohio to the south. Ontario, Canada to the north.

I'm 45. Is that too old for a bucket list? Probably. I have too many things that I still need to start or even to add to that list to even think about the finality of my visit to this realm. Still, I think this Great Lakes trip is a good "goals list" item to check off. Visiting all the Great Lakes was never an actual stated goal, but it is one of those things that has a quirky uniqueness to it that makes the whole trip noteworthy. Even if it wasn't perfect.

I've heard that makers of oriental rugs intentionally stitch an imperfection into their work. Only God is perfect, so who is some rug maker to show up the Creator?  Lake Erie was our imperfection. At each of our stops, we found a beach, kicked off our sandals, and made our way to the water, letting the chilly northern water of the lake wrap itself around our feet & calves, or more sensitive areas further up. The kids would run on the sand while Jen and I had to pick out a few good rocks from beneath the water's surface for my little collection. We found the lake, but the water was out of reach.

It was the last day of our trip. We were going from Streator, Illinois all the way home to New York, by way of Canada. That is one long day, I'll tell you what. A long day after a long trip. After clearing the border at Detroit/Winsor we cruised up Highway 401. Our plan was the same as it was for Lakes Huron and Superior. Get close, find a road that ended at the lake, and look for a beach. Our closest opportunity was about 3/4 of the way across. Passing through West Lorne, Ontario we saw Lake Erie on the horizon.

I've seen this lake dozens of times. All our trips to Illinois and points west have taken us past Erie, time & time again. But I've never been in it. We drove through the town, out of the town, the past a patch of homes situated to take advantage of the beautiful view. Beautiful, indeed, but sitting up as high as we were, I was betting that the winter wind was killer. We were up high.

This is when I realized that I was staring down a Canadian dead end sign. A yellow diamond with a black checkerboard design. The end of the road. The minivan stopped at the guard rail. We weren't going any further. Stepping out of the van, I was greeted by a fence and a drop off. There was a path, on a steep grade going down fifty feet or so to the lakeside, that looked like it was more suited for a group of adventurous middle schoolers or some festive and/or amorous youth, than for two middle aged parents and three kids. Down wouldn't be an issue. Up on the other hand...



Dead end, kids. No soup for you!

The view up the coasts wasn't very promising either. High wooded cliffs up and down the coastline made beach prospects in the vicinity very unlikely. So, that was it. That would be our Lake Erie visit. We could have searched for another spot, but one was unknown. We had an hour or two of Canada left. We had another border crossing to go AND two more hours from Buffalo to home. This would be it.

So, we wouldn't get into the water. The same water that touches exotic locales like Buffalo, Cleveland, and Toledo, would not caress our feet. C'est la vie. Nothing is perfect.

Cliffs and barbed wire fences. It ain't happening.

Forget the makers of oriental rugs. I prefer the attitude of the Navajo. They leave a line of imperfection in their rugs that they call the spirit path, so that when they die, their spirit can escape through that line. With their spirit free, they can continue weaving. So, this imperfection will allow us to contiue our journeys & keep wandering. Perhaps one day we will wander back and finally set foot in Lake Erie.  With any luck, it'll be before I'm old enough to call it a bucket list.

Princess Smack Down

I can empathize with my daughter. I was part of a household where the gender ratio was tilted heavily toward the female side. But, if it bothered me at the time, I can't say. It probably did. There is only so much of Barbies, clothes, make-up, shoes, & periods that a young man can take. Baseball and seclusion in my room must have been my coping behavior. My daughter is much less ambivalent. She does tire of superhero  and video game talk and she isn't afraid to let the boys know that.

The train ride from Florida to Virginia is a long one. That evening as we sat in the lounge car, she put her foot down, and said, enough of the Avengers talk. With that, my job was to find a topic that all the kids could enjoy. The answer, naturally, was ass kicking princesses.


The basic question was: Who is the toughest Disney princess?  We were in the Disney zone. A flurry of Disney movies prior to our trip, a week at the Disney parks, and ALL that talk of ALL things Disney had us primed. Everyone had an opinion. All yelling at once. I had to go all Voltaire on them. If you're going to discuss this, you have to define your terms!

First, who qualifies as a princess? Belle, Snow White, Ariel..they are obvious. Mulan? Pocohontas? Not exactly royalty and their status doesn't seem so clear. The official Disney Princess Website said they were. That is an official source, so with that, those being considered were Snow White, Cinderella, Aurora (Sleeping Beauty), Ariel, Belle, Jasmine, Pocahontas, Mulan, Tiana, Rapunzel, & Merida. That part was easy.

Then, we had to decide, what is tough? There was much arguing, yelling, and movie quotes were flyin'. Taking various examples, we narrowed it down to four categories. Physical toughness, mental toughness, intelligence, & bravery. Most of these seem self-explanatory. Although, just to be clear, by mental toughness, we decided, would include traits like determination, confidence, and defiance.

The bottom of the list was pretty easy for everyone. Sorry, early princesses, it's not that you're weak. You were just drawn that way. 

11. Aurora

10. Snow White

9. Cinderella

8. Ariel

These princesses had great stories. Challenging stories. And those bottom three were workers, boy. They weren't afraid to get in there and get their hands dirty. Literally. Aurora lived in a cabin in the woods with three old ladies. That is a lot of wood chopping, cleaning, and beating your clothes clean with a rock down in the icy water in the creek. And don't tell me she wasn't angry when she realized she'd been wiping with leaves all those years while her three old room mates had magic wands packed away.

Snow White was raised as a princess, but knew how to shape up the dwarf's cabin. Woodland creatures didn't do ALL the work.

Cinderella, too had to work her way through life, until the big day. But when it came to the turmoil of these princesses lives, stuff happened TO them. They were batted around by fate and were subject to the actions of hunters, maniacal dragons, and prince charmings.

 Ariel got a little bump by signing on with the Sea Witch. Gutsy, but even that, though, was throwing herself to the whims of fate. All she did was sign her name. But Ariel got some props for maneuvering the human world, moving her up to #8.

 

 The next two...

7. Pocohontas
6. Jasmine

...are tough because there isn't much to go on.  Both were raised as princesses. Not exactly hard lives. Pocohontas had to be outdoorsy, and fearlessly jumped over a waterfall, so that moved her ahead of some.

And with Jasmine, it is hard to look tough when your outfit is a tube top and parachute pants. But there are bad ass points to be gained when your best friend is a tiger. And pole vaulting between buildings is a hint that she has some athletic skills.

 

 

 5. Rapunzel
 4. Tiana

This is the point where there were differences of opinion, but in reality, is probably a toss up. Rapunzel had been locked in a tower, yes. But still, she didn't have hard times. Athletically, Rapunzel has skills. Using her hair to pull her evil "mother" up the tower had to be build up her core, big time. Hooking up with a wanted criminal, then crashing a bar full of thugs & ruffians with a frying pan as her only weapon, Rapunzel did pretty good.

Tiana had a harder life. She knew the cards were stacked against her and she fought it out anyway. Like Rapunzel, Tiana had a dream and she worked long, long hours to make it happen.  Ignoring peer pressure, defying racial bias, and using her street smarts put Tiana toward the top. And besides that, she kissed a damn frog! That nasty! But it helped ger her to #4.

3. Belle

Sure, Belle looks all girly, but there is plenty of evidence to the contrary. Hanging outside the social norms of her town, willingly taking the place of her father in a prison guarded by a huge scary beast, and fighting off a pack of wolves shows her moxie. Belle even took on an angry mob with her aging father and a chipped, talking tea cup for back-up. She's got guts. And she's my favorite. I can't believe I left her as low as #3.

The top two were the easiest. You can't really fight these two. Literally and figuratively.

2. Merida

Merida is a princess. Her mother would really like her to act like one. But she doesn't want to. It just isn't her. Merida isn't just a tomboy. She beat the best soldiers in the kingdom in the bow & arrow competition. And can hit just about anything with an arrow riding a horse full speed.  She is a skilled horseman and a cracker jack archer. When she was pissed at her mother she got a spell to turn her into a bear, then was devastated that she'd done such a thing. So, Merida had that touch of mental imbalance that makes her someone you don't want to mess with. That girl is craaaaaazy! But she comes in at #2.

 

Finally, #1 is Mulan.

 

This Chinese firecracker has a history that is similar to Merida. From a well off family, Mulan's mother tries to make this girl into the ideal Chinese young lady, but fails miserably. Then despite China's rigid gender roles, when the time comes to step up and stand in for her ailing father, Mulan defies her family, culture, & her place by going to battle for him.

 

 

Technically, Ariel did the same, but Mulan endured, and succeeded, in a medieval Chinese boot camp, went off to war, and could have gotten the ancient Chinese equivalent of a purple heart for her wounds in battle. Once you kick the Hun's buns, you're king of the mountain.

 

 

This list was in no way meant to disparage any princesses. I'm a believer in multiple intelligences. Everybody is good at something.  Snow White is in tune with nature. Pocohontas has got some existential groove going on. And Cinderella can really work a crowd. But if there is going to be a rumble, some little neighborhood smack down, then Mulan is your gal.

 

Please leave a comment. Tell me, who is your choice for toughest princess?

Lake Superior


Finally, here. Lake Superior is the one I had been waiting for. Being the northern most of the Great Lakes, Superior is the end. It is the edge. Standing on its shore one looks north and out there is something else. Literally, of course, that something else is Canada. But I prefer the figurative or emotional sense of something else as, another world. Adventure.

The coastline of this lake always looked to me like someone’s hand posed to make a shadow puppet.

Yes, there are borders that reach further north. Those M states, Maine, Minnesota, & Montana are among those who got that covered.  And, one could make the argument that standing on some spot betwixt North Dakota and Manitoba is about as remote as you can get. Is there a more lost feeling than standing in the outlands of America, staring an imaginary line or fence posts lined up to the horizon, all the way east and all the way west?  Oh, to step across that line, with not another person in sight. Just some moose or wolf and the CIA looking down from a satellite to watch your every move.

I don’t want to be lost. I want adventure. Land has roads. Roads take you somewhere in particular. In a sea, there are no roads. You board a ship on your way through no man’s land, risking the elements, the waves & water. That is adventure. Standing on that beach, I’m thinking I need to crawl into a boat and sail of on some Lord of the Rings kind of quest. That is the mystery and danger of the lake that the Chippewa called Gitchigumi and the one whose most famous victim, the Edmund Fitzgerald was taken down in 100 mile an hour winds.

But our day would not be so risky. Heading out across Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, we were off to Green Bay, Wisconsin. In our Ford Freestar, we had to drive north, the opposite direction of our final destination, to get to the lake. It would be a whole day, interstate free. Nothing but Michigan state highways, passing through the Weedsports and Streators of the Wolverine State.

Our plan was the same as it was for Lake Huron. Drive to the coast and find a beach. Simple enough. Eventually, we came across the appropriately named, Sand Pointe Beach. At Huron and Michigan we took rocks from the water as souvenirs. But I combed that beach. I dug. There wasn’t a rock to be found. Nothing but beautiful soft sand from the parking lot, well out into the water. It was luxurious enough to make any Florida beach green with envy.

Not a rock to be found. My wife scooped up a cupful of sand, which has become my favorite souvenir.

But this sure wasn’t Florida and I don’t say that just because the mid-July ice water around my feet. Each of the lakes that we had visited had such beautiful views and vistas along with those visitor friendly beaches. What the Great Lakes have that Florida doesn’t, is a lack of development. Looking out to sea, there were long forested patches of the coast and a watery horizon that seemed as if they would have looked no different to a traveler in 1950, a sailor in 1850, a prospector in 1750, an explorer in 1650, or an American Indian in 1550.  

 

And that water was cold. Ninety degrees outside but the kids were quite tentative, taking baby steps into the frigidness. That is until mom came screaming by, kicking water and splashing. Ice water on their heretofore unexposed skin made them jump like they were jolted with a defibrillator. AWAKE they were, suddenly, stomping and splashing about themselves.  With a few hours of driving ahead of us, our Superior trip was short, but did not disappoint.

 

When I look at a map of the United States, my eyes are drawn to my place. I grew up in Illinois and when I looked at a map, Lake Superior was always at the top.  The North Coast. Setting foot in this lake was one thing that I have always wanted to do. But there has to be more. I need to take my Lake Superior dream up a notch. But how? Can you make the realization of a life long dream even better? I could go to Duluth.