Mini Machiavelli

What a beautiful morning. I finished my run and came home to a pretty quiet house. Everyone in bed, they have all taken advantage of our free Sunday morning.  After cleaning up, I crawled back into bed, lying there in my shorts with the fan blowing on my face and the rest of my body enjoying the breeze from the window.

As I laid down, Jennie took that as her cue to get moving. She left the room and soon after Maddie entered. Dressed in her black One Direction pj's and her bedtime Swiss Miss braids looking rough after a night's sleep, the girl crawled into mom's vacated spot on the bed. I looked over to watch her cuddle in under the comforter and bury her head into the pillow. She looked over and said, "I love you, Daddy."

I reached my arm over across the king size bed. Maddie put her hand out and our palms come together. Holding hands, eventually both of us curled our fingers, hooking them like inverted 'J's'.

I rubbed my thumb across her hand and fingers. Maddie does the same for a moment, but her caress seemed to evolve into a tapping. Tapping from one side to the other, back and forth. I did the same. Time with my little girl, kicking back listening to birds outside and watching the curtains puff in from the breeze. A soft relaxing Sunday morning, I drift closer to sleep.

Then she strikes. Her thumb stomps mine. One, two, three four. She declared a thumb war.

I lost. Then to Maddie, with her evil laugh, go the spoils.

Steps to a More Manly Thom

One of my favorite stories about myself comes from my time working at a law firm in Syracuse. Two female attorneys got on the elevator with me. One literally hiked up her skirt and began adjusting her panty hose. The other whacked her arm and gestured to me. Ms. Upskirt blew it off. “It’s just Thom.”  She finished her business, ironed out her skirt with her hands just as the doors opened on the first floor, and walked off.

So maybe I should have seen this coming. But I didn't.

I tend to think a lot of myself because, well…I’m me. So, when a single woman I know expressed her disappointment that I had no brothers and said, “I’d love to marry someone like you” I was quite flattered.  Self esteem points to spare!

But just a short breath later she says, “I’d like to have a nice gay man around to do my laundry and cuddle when I need it.”

Self esteem points gone.

Now, I don’t want to disparage anyone’s God given sexual orientation.  I’m not insulted that she’d say that. But I am just as aghast as some gay man might be if a female friend compared him to a 46 year old, overweight, heterosexual.  I don’t fit any of the gay criteria made famous in a Seinfeld episode 20 years ago. I’m not neat, thin, or single. So, what kind of vibe am I giving off?

Sure, I forgo a lot of going out because I spend time with my family. I do laundry. I love my yoga. The women at work do sometimes feel comfortable enough around me to refer to me as "one of the girls." That can't help. It appears that maybe I don't do enough manly things.

But that isn't true, I tell you! I do manly stuff. Why just the other day at Wegman's some fine looking ladies on this magazine cover caught my eye and I went over to take a look. Have you seen the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue this year? Well it was there, right next to this magazine with Erin Burnett and Sen. Kirsten Gillibrand on the cover. A little more brains and a little more clothes than the SI cover, but I was checking out women, anyway.

Maybe she's right. I guess I should do more to project myself as a 21st Century heterosexual male. A little brainstorming and I've come up with a some changes that can move me in that direction.

1. More insensitivity  and obliviousness to women's feelings.

2. Flee the room at any mention of menstruation, feminine hygiene, or even the word 'period', even if it is a discussion of punctuation. You can't be too safe.

3. Play golf.....NOT PUTT-PUTT!

4. Understand and talk at length on the intricacies of a football offense.

5. Spend more time outdoors with no shirt, oblivious to the fact that no one wants to see my nipples.

6. Continue with my current clothing choices.

7. Have a deep fascination with any conversation involving cars, grilling, or lawn mowers.

8. Get a barbed wire tattoo around my massive biceps.

9. Call time spent with my own children 'babysitting'.

     Last but not least....

10. Less showers, more cologne!

Yeesh. None of those choices really appeal to me. I guess I'll be happy with the way I am. I'll hang out with women. They smell better than men anyway. And a minivan is way better than a red sports car as a symbol of my manhood.

 I really don't have time for this. I have laundry to do.


 

 

 

The Kids are Alright

Music is one of my ‘things’. I listen to music as often as possible. Without question there will be music going when I drive, work, or run. Just about all the time. The music that I prefer, naturally is MY music. It is predominately the music I grew up with. My idea of new music is hearing a song on the classic rock station that had been long lost and I'm inspired to dig an old cd out of the attic. The familiarity, the style, and the sounds of that music speak to me. They sooth me and they fire my passion. This is the soundtrack of my life, the sounds of my youth, and the sounds that put me at ease as I age and move on to unfamiliar worlds.  

One morning I found myself driving I-90 West with tired eyes and Hotel California came on the radio. That long mystical guitar intro to The Eagles’ Hotel California was the perfect ambiance as I’m watching the sunrise in my rear view mirror. On the way home later that night, tired eyes on the other side, The Eagles came to me again with Take it to the Limit. These melodies & arrangements framed these moments perfectly while echoing so many other moments. They were there when I was an 8 year old sitting on the vinyl back seats in my parents old LTD with the window down and hot summer air blowing in my face. They were a part of my high school transition to California and followed me to Texas, Germany, South Carolina, and New York, back to California, and to New York again. It is these sounds, and others that do the mental stirring of my memories whipping up all the big moments, the mundane moments, every single road trip, every run, and every feeling in which songs and others like them played a part. My life.

I can be open. I pick up some new sounds here and there. They tend to come from my kids, students, or various sources unknown to me.  Some Train, Katy Perry, & even a taste of One Direction have penetrated the sanctity of my playlist. That is how I found myself listening to International by Pitbull and Chris Brown. I allowed Zachary to choose the radio station and all I could think is, "This is what my kids are growing up with? Total crap." But hope is not lost.

If Zachary's iPod music queue was a salad, 'my' music would certainly be the lettuce. Definitely the base and making a solid presence. Madeline heard Tainted Love on the radio recently and blew a gasket. "Who is this? Can we get it on iTunes?" The girl could not believe it was an 'old' song. She has also developed a love for the song Breakfast at Tiffany's.  

Honestly, that has a lot to do with her adoration of Audrey Hepburn and her trademark black dress & pearls from the movie of the same name. But a good choice, nonetheless. 

Thomas also scores major points in his love for The Beatles. My favorite is his favorite, but his interest does seem to be genuine. He's become skilled at identifying lead vocalists by their voice. Then the other day, over lunch at Panera, Thomas initiated a game of Beatle trivia and 'what is your favorite..'  I asked him what would be his favorite album cover. He took a spoonful of his mac and cheese, his eyes rolled up and to the right as he pondered the question. "Revolver. Definitely Revolver." Good answer, grasshopper! And I didn't even know that he knew that. (His favorite albums are Help! and Rubber Soul, so I was certain he'd go with one of those). 

So, I think musically, they'll be alright. Each of those kids has brought new music to me. Jen & I have made sure that they appreciate the old stuff the same way my parents' Leon Redbone, Leon Russell, and Crosby, Stills, & Nash have solidified their presence in my mental (and physical) playlist. 

Chasing Lightning Bugs on Old Orchard Lane

There was this girl.

That’s the first line of so many good stories. There she was. Here she is, secure in memories of my childhood, somewhere between the ages of 10 and 12. She wasn’t the first crush I ever had. Those were numerous. I figured out early that girls were infinitely more interesting and appealing than boys. Not that I was ever a playah. I compare better to Karl Fredericksen in the movie UP! More of a silent but loyal follower.

My parents had these friends who lived on the other side of town and for a couple years they spent a great deal of time there playing cards and talking until all hours. These friends didn’t have children our age, so if us kids wanted to do anything fun, we had to create it ourselves. The finished basement was our kingdom. It had a bar which was pretty cool for serving up drinks. Alcohol wasn’t on our radar yet, but we had unfettered access to soda. There was also a bumper pool table and a cabinet under the stairs with the biggest stockpile of Playboys I had ever seen.

But in the daylight hours we would make our way outside. It was a neighborhood, so there was always some impromptu gang of kids ready for more to join in on whatever adventure was brewing. Whiffle ball, hide and seek, or just plain exploration were the standard activities. In my mind there were a dozen or so kids around.

But the only one I remember was Angie Rinkenberger.

So many people have gone in and out of my life over the years. I've forgotten most of them. There are people who I have interacted with on a daily basis for years, whose faces and names are fuzzy, faded memories to me. This girl, who I saw a handful of times in the late 70’s or early 80’s, remains fresh in my mind. I couldn't really tell you any specific things we did. I can’t remember any of our conversations. I just remember looking for her. I remember wanting to be around her.

First off, part of what made this girl memorable was her name. The sound of it intrigued me even then. And now, as an adult, it sounds even more like a girl from one’s past. I can say that I thought she was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. Angie seemed a bit more serious than the most of the kids. Maybe a bit more ‘mature’ than the rest of us 10 year olds, so she always came off as a leader. And where ever she wanted to go, I’d follow.  I liked her eyes. And she smelled good.

What the scent was escapes me now.

Was it her shampoo? Was it soap?

Maybe it was bubble gum.

I can’t say, but it made me want to be close to her. I knew that I wanted to ask her to be my girlfriend, but two things stopped me. Fear of rejection. What if she said no? Then what?

Then there was fear of success. What if she said yes? Then what? I’d have no idea what to do next.

No matter. I would instead, admire her in secret and we’d have fun just being kids chasing lightning bugs from one yard to the next.

Now, as I tend to do, I find myself skimming the obituaries of the local papers and in that of my old hometown. I saw Angie’s name and a picture of the grown up woman that she had become and my heart sank. We went to different schools in Streator and I would later move to California, so my memories of Angie were confined to our pre-teen years. I have no inkling of her life or her journey or what would bring it to a premature end. The obituary offered no clues, either.

I find myself so sad for her and sad for her family, losing her at such a young age.

Selfishly, I am a little sad for myself, feeling the reality of life and age setting in.

Instinctively, I was tempted to copy the picture from her obituary and save it to a digital photo album. Stack it there with so many other memories and events from my life.  

There's no need for that, though, because I’m pretty happy with the picture in my mind that has stayed with me for so many years. That of a humid Illinois evening and a young girl on a grassy front lawn with wavy brown hair and dark eyes. She is dressed in pink shorts and a white tank top, and she's saying “Follow me.”

Happy Birthday, Me!

This is an old birthday post of mine from Facebook. I really like this one and find it an enjoyable read for today, my 46th birthday.

The simple life is good. I just turned 44 and instead of a mid-life crisis purchase like a motorcycle or sports car, I find myself with a new fridge. It's my 1st that dispenses crushed ice. Even if it is some sort of cosmic metaphor, the ice as the years of my life and my youth getting mangled, crushed, ground, spit out and left to melt away into the eternity of my glass. Still, every drink is like a sno-cone. Which is nice. Life is good.

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.