Category: family

A childhood playing in the dirt

I was recently asked what games or toys I enjoyed as a child.

I was never a big “game” person. I think my reluctance to play group games as a kid, looking back now, was the first manifestation of my now very well-known anxiety and sense of inadequacy. I haven’t changed much since then with regards to my aversion to games. When faced with playing any game, card games or board games, my first reaction is to be afraid that I won’t understand the rules. I would also be afraid of not being good at it, which is irrational to the Nth degree because you can’t be good at something without doing it a few times. Mostly, I was afraid of embarrassing myself, a fear that manifests itself in almost all aspects of my daily life. I’ve learned to play a few games, Texas Hold ‘Em comes to mind, with some skill and lack of anxiety but I struggle with more complex games and will tend to opt out when it gets complicated. Board games terrify me, with the possible exception of Monopoly and Trivial Pursuit.

When it comes to games, with the exception of sports, I have issues.

Toys, on the other hand, were a big part of my childhood. As a boy, I loved my action figures and Matchbox cars. The 6 Million dollar man, Stretch Armstrong and GI Joe were never far from me. In any weather other than rain or snow, I could be found outside playing under the big Pine tree in my yard. I had tracks and tunnels and paths as well as construction sites going for my various Tonka trucks. I wasn’t a solitary child;I had some neighborhood friends but I wasn’t overly popular, and I found out at a young age that I was very capable of amusing myself. It would reveal itself to be a valuable trait during my mostly friendless, mixed up phase of Middle and High School. 

I loved my matchbox cars. I would play in the dirt for hours with them, my blue plastic storage case open beside me. I would only have out what I needed for the game of the day, the other cars stayed nestled in their individual spot until I needed them. THe muscle cars only came out on dry days. The pick-ups came out on rainy days, and the heavy equipment made their debut when it was muddy. I created elaborate scenarios up to and including massive accidents. After all, my toy First Responder vehicles needed to be used also. I could play for hours outside, when called inside I would set up on my bedroom floor and if the mood was right, I would set up long sections of the famous Orange track and it then became Race Day.

They say that if you are lucky you will get a job doing something that you love as a child. My love of cars and trucks and heavy equipment may not have led me directly to my dream job, but I got there eventually. When I ended up in the auction business, my natural enthusiasm for all wheeled things great and small served me very well.

While I was once a lone child playing in the dirt with fake cars, I evolved into a face in a crowd of hundreds, surrounded by row after row of real cars; of which I knew an absurd about, from model years to chronic mechanical issues. If I was lucky, I would be called to attend a Classic Car Auction, at which I was surrounded by real-life versions of the very Matchbox cars I used to push around in the dirt.

I still love cars and I suspect that I always will.

Pride

I was recently asked what I was most proud of.
I struggle with the word “Proud”. While there are multiple usages of the word, the one that comes to mind always implies a boastful, self-congratulating attitude and I vowed long ago not to act as such. Generally, I reserve the word “proud” for major moments and accomplishments. With all else, I allow myself to take satisfaction in things, and many things in my life give me great satisfaction. That being said, there are several accomplishments in my life that I can point to as crowning achievements; my relationship with my children, my overcoming of a long health battle, and the work that I have been a part of as a Mason, to name a few.

My relationship with my children is of paramount importance to me. I could fill a dozen posts with regrets and one of my biggest regrets is the atmosphere in my home when my children were younger. I take full responsibility for not doing better as a provider, as a good example, as a husband.

I made poor financial/vocational decisions that affected us. I meant well of course and I didn’t intentionally make poor choices but there were setbacks nonetheless. They resulted in financial problems which affected my marriage and caused my ex and I to argue. In front of the kids, which consequently affected them. I wish I had the self-control not to have had those moments in front of the kids. They were always amazing, happy, and bright, but they occasionally acted out and I am sure that it was a result of being unable to process what they saw and heard their parents do to each other.

After a particularly ugly moment with my oldest daughter, brought on by the ugliness around her, I had a rare nightmare, one that startled me so badly that I woke up in tears. I had dreamed that I was watching my oldest daughter play with toys, alone in a room enclosed in glass. She was much younger in the dream, a toddler. She was wearing a familiar outfit, one of my favorites from when she was little. I saw myself pounding on the glass trying to get her attention. She didn’t notice me, instead focusing on her toy. A generic orderly appeared before me and informed me that my daughter was in jail, and I was not allowed to see her. Ever.

I will never forget the moment that I woke. I shot out of bed in the middle of the night, in tears, and raced upstairs to her room. Confirming that it was just a dream, I tearfully made a pact with myself to do better. I promised my sleeping child that I would always be the adult, and that I would try as hard as I could to mind how I (and my wife) behaved in her presence. I was at a crossroads. The wrong path would cause me to lose my relationship with her forever, and that notion terrified me. I visualized the day when 18-year-old her would walk out the front door and I would become the Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter visit. Everything was on the line.

I wasn’t perfect after that with her or her siblings, but things were much better. I became a much better parent. My relationship with the three others wasn’t as strained as with my oldest, but I did better by them also. Today, I have an amazing relationship with all of my children, they are amazing young adults despite, not because of their upbringing. Despite all of the changes in my life, for all that I have lost or have been deprived of, my biggest hope was that my children would get through their childhood unscathed. And they did.

For them, Proud isn’t enough of a word.

I suppose that I am proud of overcoming my health battles. I have been on death’s door more times than any man should. It cost me almost everything. But there was a point when I was on dialysis, sitting pretty low on the transplant list, unable to imagine that life would ever get any better, that I thought of giving up. I was close to giving up, but I found some resolve and developed a better attitude. The Universe then rewarded me by giving me a kidney. Had I let myself go physically and emotionally, I would have been denied the kidney. And here I am now. I’ll allow myself to be proud of that.

I have been a dedicated Freemason for 10 years now. I have been fortunate to have been surrounded by great men of integrity and honor and being part of the benevolent work that we do is indeed a source of pride. It has made me a much better man in every respect. I am proud to be a member and of the work we do.

In the course of writing this post, I have realized that Proud isn’t the worst word. It works if you add some humility to it.

Happy Freaking BDay

I was recently at a Birthday party for an elderly friend of mine. While standing around sipping a drink and watching the festivities, the subject of memorable birthdays came up. It occurred to me that I didn’t have one. Until it hit me that there was one from my childhood that certainly stood out.

I’ve never cared much for Birthdays. So what? It’s the yearly anniversary of the day you were born. It’s not an accomplishment until you reach old age. 50 is a big birthday I suppose, it is a significant milestone to have survived until Middle Age. But even the benchmark of 50 is not middle age, we humans have a benchmark of 100 years for a lifespan but that is actually exceedingly rare. The average life span for a man in this country is 76.4 years over both sexes. Perhaps that is why many call 40 Middle Aged. Either way, I truly don’t see the point once you’re an adult.

I’ve always been this way. I suppose that it is statistically rare for a person riddled with neuroses and anxiety, prone to overthinking and making mountains out of proverbial molehills to be dismissive of something as culturally significant as birthday celebrations. Still, the fact is I’m historically and notoriously dismissive of “look at me” moments and other silly shit. Additionally, my anxiety makes it painful for me to sit in front of a stupid cake covered in stupid candles as people sing to me. It’s embarrassing on every goddamn level. It’s a free meal at Applebee’s at best. My children can confirm, that when my birthday rolls around and the congratulations start rolling around my response is to politely say thank you and then move on. 

Having said that, there is one Birthday that stands out to me. The details are fuzzy as to how I found myself in this situation, but I remember being at a Birthday party for my then-friend John. It was a typical elementary school party; several classmates and family gathered around. Games, a clown, cake, and ice cream. Typical, right? Here’s the catch, John and I shared a Birthday. I suppose my mother could clear it up, on the off-chance that she would even remember, why it was that I was sent to another kid’s B-day party when it was also my own. But that aside, I kept my mouth shut. As I said already, I don’t particularly care for “look at me” moments. At this age, it’s because I just don’t give a shit. Back then, it was pure anxiety talking. 

Somehow, it got out that it was my Birthday as well. I don’t think I told anyone but I may have. The end result was an entire room full of people feeling bad for me and “wishing they knew”, and “would have brought something”. I hated the tension of it, I tried to be dismissive ( as well as a middle-schooler can) and wished for the whole thing to be over. It was one big goddamn pity party and I couldn’t wait to get out of there. Finally, unable to deal with the pall that had been cast over the party, I called mom to come pick me up. She didn’t answer so I walked home. I’m sure some people thought that my departure was because I was sad, but it was actually to escape the attention on me. 

It’s significant that I recall this, I find it interesting that I exhibited such dismissive, self-deflecting behavior even then. It is something that has been prevalent in my adult life as well. I do not like attention on me yet I continue to be involved in high-profile events and a member of groups that do good work. In fact, I can venture to say that Awards and very public honors and congratulations are a big part of the organizations I belong to and I still run the other way when the praise comes my way. 

I suppose that I could drill down on that side of my personality but I’m comfortable with it. It’s one of the few things that I like about myself. I don’t seek praise, I share kudos with all involved in a successful outcome, and I always deflect praise to live up to my dedication to live a humble life. Not to mention that despite having a healthy ego and somewhat positive self-image, I genuinely hate being in the spotlight to the extent that I will run from it.

My favorite furball

One of my earliest memories was of the day we went to adopt who would become my best friend in the world. Not to put too fine a point on it, but there were times when he was my only friend. He was very hairy, didn’t say much, and smelled awful when he was wet. But he was a great listener. I suppose that’s par for the course for a Brittany Springer Spaniel.

I don’t remember everything about the day but the important details come to mind. I think I was 4 years old. I remember it was a very long drive. I also remember a long dirt driveway and the dust our big Ford truck kicked up. I remember there were many dogs running off-leash inside a fenced-in area, which is my true idea of what heaven must look like. I remember my Mother calling it the “Daisy Hill Puppy Farm”, an homage to The Peanuts, and the origin story of my favorite cartoon character Snoopy. Incidentally, Snoopy was introduced to the world 3 months before I was born.

I was playing with the dogs. Even to this day, if I’m in a room withI’m not even sure I knew why we were there, it was a regular occurrence to get in the car and just go somewhere. My Dad knew so many people, I stopped asking questions and got in the car when he said “Let’s go for a ride”. So up until the moment when they came over to me with a beautiful brown and white Spaniel with kind eyes, I wasn’t aware that we were leaving with a dog. It was all a big surprise.

We gave him the name Friskie. I think there was a dog food of that name. It was a fine name for him. He immediately became my friend, my ear and shoulder, and my companion. Wherever I went on foot, he would be right next to me. When I wasn’t home, he would be perched in his favorite spot, on top of the concrete stairs at the front door. Most days, when I came home from school, I would find him there, tail thumping excitedly on the concrete, his full attention on me. It makes me sad to think of the times, and they were often, that I would walk by him without acknowledging him as I dealt with whatever childhood and then teen angst that was bothering me. He always forgave me and got some good head scratches in return. If only I had known back then that while my life had many aspects to it, Friskie only had one. My family.

Not long after we adopted him, I learned why (as well as a 5-year-old can know about purebreds) a valuable Hunting Dog with a documented pedigree (papers) was at a shelter and not by the side of a hunter. As a pup, for some reason, he became afraid of loud noises. He was gun-shy. This rendered him useless as a Bird Dog (Brittany Springer Spaniels are class A bird dogs) and he was placed for adoption.  I do not know if my parents knew this when they adopted him, I would like to believe the shelter told them, but even if they did there could have been no way to be prepared for the first Thunderstorm or Fireworks. It was heartbreaking, no other word can come close, to see the terrified look in his eyes. The friendly sparkle in his eyes was replaced by abject terror and he was inconsolable. Many a 4th of July and weather event was spent holding him down with blankets and consoling him. One of the biggest arguments my dad ever had with a neighbor was over his use of a miniature Cannon on the 4th. My father asked him nicely to stop and the neighbor said “The hell with you, it’s just a dog” and thus ensued a feud that would span years.

Except for his crippling fear of loud noises, he was as good a family pet as anyone could ever hope for. He was loyal, playful, loving, and a part of the family in every possible way. He was also smart. Very smart. He picked up on verbal cues, knew an impressive amount of commands, as well as intuitive when it was required of him to be a support system. If you were down, he was lying next to you. If you pushed him away, he would sit before you and put his head on your lap. As a messed-up kid, and then teenager, our routine was that he would lie on his side and I would lay my head on him. I spent many hours with my Friskie pillow and I will always love him for that.

That, and one other small incident.

I lived on a busy street that led to the Middle and High School. Cars and School buses raced up and down it all day. Mostly on the way down. There was no fence on the edge of my yard. Friskie never went far and knew what cars were. As for me, I also knew what a fast-moving Chevy would do to me. 

And then one day I didn’t. 

The neighbor kid across the street called for me to come over. Friskie was across the street, sitting and watching me. The neighbor kid’s dog was trying to get Friskie to play with him but his eyes were on me. For some reason, I stepped off the curb to walk across the street. Unaware of the School Bus coming down the hill and bearing down on me. As I stepped off the curb Friskie bolted towards me. He barely escaped being hit by a car but he never flinched. Three-quarters of the way across the road he launched himself mid-air and tackled me, knocking me back into my yard. The bus missed us by no more than 2 feet. I was too shaken up to move, but several cars stopped to make sure I was ok. And every one of them patted my amazing best friend on his head and told him what an amazing boy he was. 

He was just that. He was an amazing boy. I was fortunate enough to have him with us until I was a Junior in High School. Even as he slowed down, a stroke had taken a lot from his mobility, he had that twinkle in his eye and he remained a wonderful pillow when I was sad. 

I will never forget the Summer day when I drove to the family camp in NH to meet up with the family. When I pulled into the campsite, Mom and Dad were sitting on the edge of the deck waiting for me. I got out of my car, greeted them, and immediately asked where the good boy who normally sat next to them waiting for me was. Their faces said it all. I sat down in silence and cried, one of the few times that I have done that. I was happy that he wasn’t suffering, he had had another stroke, I was just sad for me. I didn’t get to say goodbye to the best friend I ever had. 40 years later, I still cannot think about that day without a tear forming. 

He is buried in a plot of land owned by the Animal Hospital that put him down. I drive by it once in a while. Sometimes my destination demands it. Other times I drive by it on purpose. Every time, the memories of my Good Boy come to me. I suppose that as long as I live, I will continue to do so.

My first job

When I was in High School everyone I knew had a job. With rare exceptions, parents of Gen-X kids like myself tended to respond to requests for money with the well-worn phrase, “Get a job.” Now, I can only speak for my little corner of the world, a small Middle-to lower-middle-class town in Eastern Massachusetts. Still, my understanding was that when it came to giving money to your kids it wasn’t about whether it was affordable to the parent. It was about teaching valuable lessons, primarily the value of money and the sense of accomplishment that comes with a paycheck in exchange for honest work.

I, like many of my friends, received an allowance from my parents. It was a mere pittance, enough for a young man to be able to afford to go to the local store and get a candy bar and a soda a few times a week. Looking back, it was laughable how little it was, even when adjusted for today’s value. But it was something. Looking back, I can immediately recognize that one thing a meager allowance taught me was how to budget. As much as I may have learned about budgeting. I can’t say I practiced it very well. I could never live on my allowance.

Fortunately, what I lacked in money management skills, I compensated with a work ethic. I had an amazing role model in my father in many aspects; honesty, accountability, eye contact and a firm handshake, and to always be kind and respectful. But there was one area where Dad simply excelled, to the point in which I was in awe of him, and that was his unfaltering work ethic. One of my earliest memories is of waking up at 4 AM to relieve myself, only to find Dad shaving for work. He left the house at 4:30 every day and in the winter months (he delivered home heating oil) he wouldn’t be home until 6 or 7 most nights. He would come in, exhausted and cold, to a hot dinner waiting for him, the biggest piece of steak or chicken reserved for him. He would shove it down and then begin working on the house, which was under construction from my earliest memory. He would go to bed after me. On the weekends, whatever chores needed to be done he would tackle as soon as he got up. The man didn’t know how to procrastinate.

I did. But I learned how to overcome that because I could not, once I was old enough to be of use, sit and watch the man I admired most in the world, work his ass off to provide for me and not help. So I learned how to cut grass. I worked out by chopping firewood. I shoveled the driveway. I even held the flashlight as he toiled under the hood of his always broken-down truck. Beyond the pleasure of just being around him, holding the flashlight proved to enhance my vocabulary because the expletives FLEW when I didn’t point it in the right area or dropped a wrench.

One day, when I was 11, we were in Sears Roebuck. We were in the tool section and I was waiting for Dad to select another tool that he already had several of. It was his process. A shiny new socket set made him happy and who was I to stand in his way? As we were leaving the store we walked by a beautiful 10-speed bike on display. At the time, the 10-speed bike was all the rage and I wanted one. I showed my Dad the price tag. 94 Dollars. He smiled and motioned for me to go. In the car, he finally spoke.

“I could buy that bike for you, but I don’t want to.” I asked him why.

“Because you’ll like and appreciate it more if you buy it.”

“With what?”, I asked him.

“Your earnings. Go out and knock on some doors. Half of our neighborhood is elderly, I guarantee that they would pay you to mow their lawns and shovel their driveways and whatnot. Buy it with money earned and you will appreciate that bike and take care of it and you’ll have it forever. Not leave it out in the rain like your friends do. It’s different when you earn it, Bill.”

I will never, ever forget that moment.

He offered our lawnmower for me to use, and I would pay the gas. I jumped at the opportunity.

In the 70’s the sight of young people dragging snow shovels down streets in the wake of big storms was a common sight. Kids were industrious, even competitive and fought to earn and keep customers. Some customers were loyal regulars, others would give the work to whoever rang the bell first. I was one of the only kids in my neighborhood that was willing to work. Don’t think I didn’t take advantage of that. I had a slew of loyal neighbors that were waiting to give me money. It wasn’t much money by today’s standards but it was consistent and, as my father had suggested, it felt like a treasure because I had earned it.

Approximately 4 months later my Dad asked me how much money I had. Now, I hadn’t saved everything I had earned. It was a new experience to me to have money so I bought a few things, went out for subs with my friends, etc. But I had saved $80.00. I showed it to him.

“Get your shoes on, and fold that money into a neat roll. We’re going out.”

“Where are we going?”, I asked as I climbed into his truck.

“You’ll see”, he said.

As it turned out, we were going to Sears and Roebuck. I followed him to the Sporting Goods section. He asked the clerk for the assembled bike on display, amazingly it was the same one, and told him that we would be purchasing it. He turned to me with open hand and motioned for me to hand over the money I had in my pocket. The clerk gave him the total and my Dad reached into his pocket and plucked the differential out of a roll of bills. Not wanting to spoil the moment, I didn’t say anything. We walked the bike out of the store, he carefully placed it in the back, and we drove out of the parking lot. Finally, I said,”Thanks Dad, you didn’t have to do that.”

“Sure I did”, he said. I pointed you in the right direction but you did the work. I could have waited until you had all of it but it was never about the money. It’s about appreciating what you have and every time you ride that bike you’ll think about the sweat and back-breaking work you did to buy it.”

I had that bike for 10 years. I sold it in near-perfect condition at a yard sale.

I would go on to earn enough to buy 10 bikes as I became the neighborhood odd jobs kid. Even when other kids caught on to what I was doing, many of my regulars turned them away. They got what I didn’t want. This would continue until I got my first “real job” bagging groceries at a local supermarket.

Interestingly, I now run a small side business that consists mostly of locals who loyally retain my services and feel compelled to recommend me to whoever they meet.

It’s on all of us

We can ride the wave of “renewal”, “rebirth”, and “fresh starts” that the New Year brings for as long as it feels good, but 2024 looks to be more of the same. I know I’m a buzzkill but someone needs to say it and doing so on January 2nd is fair. The hangovers are gone, the celebrations have subsided, many resolutions have already fallen by the roadside and, with the possible exception of writing the wrong year on a few checks, nothing has changed by opening a fresh new calendar. 

Change does not just happen, it is only possible through analysis, facing hard truths, and creating an action plan. It requires sacrifice and work, from all of us.

Here is my master list of resolutions that I wish for all Americans in the coming year. If we do these things, we can make 2024 the year that we turn things around in this country. If we do not, the chaos, uncertainty and needless descent into third world status is virtually inevitable.

Question everything. Ask questions. Take the time to learn for yourself. We all have in our pocket, most likely our hand, access to all of the information ever recorded. That cell phone does more than surf social media, text and take selfies. Anyone can educate themselves, and if nothing else never espouse an opinion or sound bite unless you have asked yourself the critical question, “Is it true?”

Understand that our elected officials are not our leaders. They are our chosen representatives. They may act as if they were coronated and can impose their will over you, but they aren’t. Ask yourself if that person represents you and what you stand for. If they do not, vote them out. Don’t just accept the treachery and betrayal that Washington has routinely subjected you to for decades.

Understand that we are unnecessarily divided. When people come together, the will of the people will prevail. A government that does not have your best interest at heart wants us divided. Recognize that we are being subjected to Propaganda, the role of which is to make one group of people seem less than human. Decency and empathy should tell us that we need to look at what we have in common, not what makes us different. Fire ants and black ants can be in the same jar and coexist. Until someone shakes the jar, then they fight. We’re the ants, ask yourself who is shaking the jar.

Stop thinking that it is someone else’s responsibility to get involved and fix things. It is on all of us to make a change. Think about elections. If you have determined that your candidate cannot win and you decide to not go out and vote, think about how many others (millions?) feel the same way. If all of you turned out to vote, your guy may win. It is up to all of us to cause change. Not just in politics, you can also say hi to a random stranger. You might make their day, or even restore their faith in humanity on the worst day of their lives. A pebble causes a ripple effect, kindness does as well.

Take back our children. We need to stop allowing Social media and television to raise our kids. This also applies to schools. It is not the job of the teacher to raise our children, it is their job to teach them. Insist that schools create and follow age-appropriate curriculums, void of political agendas, and focus on how to think critically, not just how to take a standardized test.

Our society is at a critical point and we have all of the power to save ourselves. I hope that we find that power within us and exercise it with enthusiasm. The United States is a unique experiment that has faith in the people to govern themselves and determine our own future. As citizens of this great experiment, we have lost sight of this. There is no guarantee that it will last forever, it needs to be maintained, even fought for. It is on all of us to do so.

Let’s start acting like everything is on the line. Because it is.

What does it matter,I still learned it

Before I got married I was at a cocktail party rubbing elbows with my fiance’s family. I was talking to a distinguished and clearly educated gent and the subject of the Korean Conflict somehow came up. Now, I did have a fair amount of knowledge on that because, like I said, I later educated myself. But there I stood, a pizza cook on the threshold of a potential conversational Armageddon. But I held in. Fortuitously, he came to an impasse in the discussion and was stuck on the parallel that the US military failed to cross, the one that would have been an act of war. I chimed in,
“That would be the 38th Parallel.” I was then complimented as being a smart young man. What he didn’t know is that I got that from the Rodney Dangerfield comedy Back to School.
I was reminded of that today as I was reading an excerpt from one of my favorite books, A Prayer for Owen Meaney. There is no shortage of reasons why I love the book, I have always been a sucker for a coming-of-age story and it’s a great one. The excerpt that caught my eye was dedicated to the birth of the all-time opiate of the masses, the Television (my apologies to Karl Marx), in which the narrator observes the progression of the power that the television eventually held in his home. He told of how his Grandmother, who was always staunchly opposed to TV finally caved, and how the grandson reluctantly fell under its spell as well. Our hero Owen Meaney, ever the virtuous one, chastised the Grandson for watching TV. At which time the Grandson defended it by offering how many ways that it was educational. Owen promptly dismissed this, his unsolicited opinion was that TV was a slovenly way to educate oneself.

I was amused and a little embarrassed when confronted with this. While I consider myself adequately educated, I have attained a fair amount of passable knowledge, some decent Trivial Pursuit-ish information as well as some solid nuggets of pop culture as well as high society through TV and movies.
Now, of course, TV was not educational in 1958, the time period in discussion. You watched what was available and a lot of it was garbage. It’s not a fair comparison to today’s Cable and streaming options that offer many educational options. Which I take advantage of. Despite even that… some of my greatest stories that deal with gaining “knowledge” through unlikely and slovenly sources occurred many years ago.

Most of my knowledge of Opera, Classical Music, American society during the Great Depression, Prohibition, wartime, etc., comes exclusively from Bugs Bunny cartoons. That’s right. “Kill the Wabbit” taught me about Opera.
In addition, most of my understanding of politics I can directly attribute to Berkeley Breathed and Gary Trudeau, of Bloom County and Doonesbury fame, respectively. As a skirt-chasing teenager (and young adult and well, forever) dedicated to doing the bare minimum, it was Bloom County and Doonesbury that piqued my interest in the news of the day as they lampooned politics and known as well as not-so-well-known cultural figures. It was through Bloom County and Doonesbury that I learned of the colorful figures and their stories that dominated the era such as Anita Bryant and her Anti-gay activism, the anti-feminist Phyllis Schlafly, the disappearance of known American atheist Madalyn Murray-O’Hair, the Televangelist scandals, the Contras and Sandanistas, the Star Wars antics of the Reagan era, I could go on but I won’t. Suffice it to say that otherwise boring (to me) subject matter and events were portrayed comically way or ironically and consequently raised my interest. An interest in being current and informed on the matters of the world, and in being able to take a humorous, even absurdist interpretation. In the case of Bloom County, the political landscape was portrayed often through Children and anthropomorphized naive but politically charged meadow animals. Think of a Hedgehog, a rabbit, and a Penguin having a caucus to nominate a dead cat for President.
That shit was funny!
And it had the right effect on me, it got me interested. Which fortunately led to a lot of self-education of the shit that I should have learned in High School.

Snob appeal, slob appeal. Whatever. Learning can come from many sources, highbrow and otherwise. What matters is that I learned something, and I received the added bonus of getting a good laugh in the process.

“Slovenly” Perhaps. Effective? Absolutely.

Negative? Not me

Every once in a while someone will say something about you that you will ponder, and once adequately pondered, say out loud “That is so NOT me!”

I’ve been collaborating on a podcast with my good friend and roommate Steve. It is in the early stages of development; in order to have a successful podcast you need to be known, and the only way to get known is to create buzz for yourself by advertising, promoting, and telling anyone and everyone that you are doing a podcast and would you listen? This works to a degree, but in order to get the more sophisticated podcast listener you must have a body of work. For the sake of this conversation, let’s say that 50 episodes is a good body of work. Still, there are many success stories out there that made thousands before they made it.

The idea for our podcast came from the many spirited conversations that Steve and I used to have in which we either agreed or were on opposite sides of an issue or an idea. We embraced our differences and it wasn’t long before the idea of a podcast was offered up. So we started it. And, due modesty aside, I think we have an interesting, stimulating, accessible and intelligent podcast. Upon reaching 50 episodes, we agreed that we were onto something good and were ready to promote it. We had a good format, good ideas, and limited but positive feedback. We interviewed Steve’s childhood friend and published author Mark Michalisin with the agreement that we would promote that particular episode as our coming out and we would all share it to all of our social media. As hoped, it generated interest, and while it wasn’t enough to get us established, our friends and family gave us solid reviews and favorable input. Not everyone loved it, but respected it. We are frequently very candid on controversial subjects, we lean politically to the right but are very fair and balanced and always open to an opposing voice and we had a few. Of the 2 of us, I got the only negative review. One of Steve’s friends said that I was very negative and didn’t seem like a nice person. In particular, I indulged in some name-calling. I thought they were clever mockeries of truly despicable people, but her assessment of the name-calling was fair and I rolled with it.

To speak in a public forum one must be prepared to receive criticism, differing viewpoints, and in some cases harsh rebukes. We will never please everybody, nor do we want to. So I didn’t mind the feedback. I knew that she didn’t watch the entire episode, only a clip that we generated. Had she watched the whole thing, she probably would not have felt that way. But again, I took it in stride.

The experience was good for me. I believe deep down that we all have a perception of ourselves with respect to how we present to other people. I am hyper-aware that many, (most?) people think they project differently than they actually do. Me? I know exactly how I present. And to my critic’s point, I can come off very contrary to my true self. I get carried away and I am passionate. My emotions are strong and I feel things intensely. I can be harsh. I can be relentless. I often take a stand. I can even be a bit self-righteous if I truly believe in something. My fatal flaw is that I will go to great lengths to make a joke. But I am not negative. Nothing could be farther from the truth. I am known among a very large circle of family, friends, and acquaintances to be an eternal optimist.

I was sick for a very long time. I struggled with Kidney disease for most of my adult life. Although the disease didn’t significantly affect my ability to function normally until my late 40’s, at which time I became unable to hide, and this is important to understand, the severity of my illness from friends and family anymore. I didn’t want to bother anyone or make them worry. I just rolled along. I have never understood why people found that so inspirational but they did. I am of the belief that we really only have 2 choices, as Andy Dufresne famously stated in Shawshank, “you either get busy living or get busy dying”. Before I saw that movie, I felt that way. What am I supposed to do? Curl up in a ball and die? By the sheer virtue of not dying I survived. Not to inspire anyone, not to look like a hero, but to do what we all do…get through each day and the new challenges they bring. I suppose I did it in such a way that people deemed me an optimist, but what else is there to do? We all have a lot in life and we need to make the most of it.

Beyond my optimism, I would point to my sense of Gratitude that serves me the best. I recognize that I have been given blessings, more than I deserve that I need to be grateful for. I can honestly say that a Higher Power may be the reason I am here to tell this story because I have been too close to death too many times to be a coincidence. It causes me to look at life in a different light than most people, an attitude of gratitude creates a domino effect of kindness, generosity and genuine appreciation. THAT is inspirational because people need that nowadays.

And it is in no way NEGATIVE.

Settling in

I’m all moved into the new digs. I’m not quite prepared to say that I have started a new life but it’s certainly a nice change of pace. I recognize a twinge of uncertainty within but I know myself, that’s normal. I second-guess everything so I’m not going to let my anxiety get the best of me. This could be a good move for me and it will take time to know if it’s the right move. Change is hard, especially for me. It’s also a known fact that there’s give and take, pluses and minuses in everything. At the end of the day, I will either be able to reconcile them or not.

I’m giving up a few things. For starters, I lived with my mother in her lovely home. Quiet, surrounded by woods, clean air to breathe, and access to a lake. The people in town are friendly and I am well known and respected in the community.
I now live in a loft of a large apartment in a busy area. While I have full use of the entire place, it doesn’t feel like mine so it will take time, if ever, to feel comfortable.
I will miss my mother and it troubles me that she is having difficulty understanding, now that I am healthy again, I don’t want to be a guy who lives with his mother. I’ll visit her often, but it’s not enough for her.
While the people in my previous town were friendly, I was very far (2 hours) from my family and friends. Now I am within 30 minutes of everyone in my life. Not to mention that I am an active Mason at heart and it has pained me for the last 5 years that I was forced to miss a great deal of it because of my distance.

I think overall it will be a good move. I really like my roommate and any growing pains will resolve themselves I’m sure. The dating scene is very active here and I am already meeting people. I tentatively have a job detailing cars, which is what I did up North. The only, if any, drawback to that is that I hope I am not forced to give up my very solid book of business in my previous town. Not only do I make a good living from them, my clients are very nice and I consider many of them friends. And oddly, despite detailing not being an essential service, my clients value my services and need me.

I didn’t cover everything but I’m sure I will be exploring this more as I continue to acclimate. For now I just want to get acclimated and let things just happen.

Growing pains

It’s been a busy few weeks as I have been winding down my detail business up North and making my move to my new digs in Southern NH. It has been difficult on both fronts. My customers continue to offer me business despite my stated completion date for the season of 10/31. I’m torn between shutting it down and taking the opportunity to make money. I kike money and I think anyone in my position would do the same. As for how my living situation fits into this, I have yet to spend more than a couple of weekends at my new place because I need to drive back up for jobs during the week. It’s not a big deal other than not being able to settle into my new residence. I’m just anxious to start a new chapter.

I suppose that my work commitments aren’t the only obstacle to my moving. I am becoming bittersweet about moving away from Mom. She has been making comments lately, despite initially being supportive of my move, that suggest that she is unhappy about my leaving. This is problematic, I based my decision heavily on her opinion. I will miss her as well, I have told her this repeatedly. I love her with all my heart and she is my best friend. But I have been living with her for 6 years. Ever since I fell ill in 2017. Now that I am well again, I want to rejoin the ranks of the adult, which includes having your own place. Or in my case, sharing an apartment with a roommate. Anything but living with your mother. I was hoping for a smoother, happier transition.

As for the rest of the transition, I like my new space. It is sparsely but tastefully decorated to my taste. My roommate, who is one of my dearest friends, gives me plenty of space. We hang out quite a bit but also have plenty of our own space. Another very important aspect of the move is that I am so much closer to family and friends. I have already taken advantage of the close proximity to both and I feel really good about it. This morning I went to a function with friends at the lodge and then had lunch with my daughter and I only did an hour of driving, not 4!

Growing pains are necessary and tend to wear off sooner than later.