Category: gratitude

Early memories

I was recently asked what my earliest childhood memory is. I always cringe when asked about a childhood memory. The fact is, I either have a terrible memory or I have suppressed an awful lot of my childhood. Given my penchant for mercilessly beating the crap out of myself for things that happened forever ago, one would think that my memory is tremendous. I will compromise and say that I have a great memory but it doesn’t go back very far in my childhood.

But I do remember one particular toy very well, let me tell you about it.

The “Hoppity Hop”, the 70’s greatest invention. A big rubber ball with handles that you can hop around on. Every kid in America had one and I was no exception. I brought mine everywhere. Including on vacation to Papoose Pond Camping area in the State of Maine.

Pappoose Pond was a favorite destination of ours. Mom and Dad were Square Dancers (go ahead and deride deride) in the 70’s. They had a lot of fun and made many friends. Those friends had kids of course, and that made it fun for me. Every summer, as many as 8 families would take 2 weeks off for the annual Jamboree. Long after Square Dancing was done, the same families would meet. This was great for me, as a young child I always looked forward to my “2 week friends”, and as we got older we managed to get together more often.

I’ll never forget certain details of those excursions. For starters, the Pond was incredibly murky, so much so that we didn’t do a lot of swimming. I also remember that it rained several days every year and the dirt road’s multitude of potholes became a great way to get filthy as we plowed our bicycles through. I fondly remember the adults all getting together for wine coolers, crackers and cheese; a ritual that would ultimately span decades.

But one of my favorite memories was the playground. As far as playgrounds were concerned, this one was the Taj Mahal. At least 2 huge Jungle Gyms, sandboxes, the Rocking Horses on giant springs, and the tallest Swing Set I have ever seen.

If I were to visit there today, and nothing would please me more, those swings are most likely not there anymore. This would be due to the simple fact that they were dangerous.

Today’s generation could never handle them and the pussified parents of today wouldn’t allow their children to swing 20 feet into the air. Additionally, the swings were made of wood. Hard wood with edges that can cause damage. How do I know?

I was hit in the face with one.

My family, cousins and all, spent a great deal of time in that playground. One sunny day in August, I was bouncing around on my Hoppity Hop, having a grand ole time. My cousins, all 6 of them were taking turns on the monstrous swing set. To this day I am still not sure why, but I think I can safely say that natural stupidity was a part of it, I hopped my way directly into the path of the swings. I remember much shouting, my mother’s voice stands out, and then looking up. My older cousin Deb was mid-air, on a downward trajectory yelling at the top of her voice for me to move out of the way. As I type this I recall that I was watching this as if in slow-motion.

Too late. I was struck and I flew through the air. Not an exaggeration, I flew at least 6 feet. I had been struck in the face and there was no shortage of yelling and screaming as family members and strangers ran to assist me. Amazingly, I was fine. I had a deep cut under my left eye and a headache, but I was relatively unscathed.

I was taken to the hospital where the doctor stitched my cut and made the official diagnosis that I have the hardest head in recorded history. He also made the tacit observation that I was the luckiest kid alive. A mere inch higher and I would have lost an eye.

I will never forget the concern on my family’s faces, and the face of my cousin Mike, whose face told me that I would be called a dumbass forever.

Dumbass is not far off, but I have amended it a bit.

That’s “Lucky” dumbass to you, sir.

I did that

I was recently asked what I have made that I am most proud of. It was an intriguing question that, to answer properly, and tell the story that first comes to mind, required that I take the word “made” out of context a bit. Because the first thing that comes to mind when I hear the words “Made”, and “proud”, the very first thing I think of is my children.

Without putting too fine a point on it, biologically speaking I “made” my children. Putting aside the obvious and fun fact that “making” a baby is a very nice thing, I would also like to think that I helped make them who they are.

This may shock some, but I think all of my children are pretty great. I say that because everyone thinks their kids are great. Sure, many are. Then again, Ted Bundy’s mother thought hers was pretty special also. But I digress. 

My children are a source of great pride to me because they are all good human beings. They have values and act on them. They have big hearts and use them. They are smart, hard-working, caring, generous, and there for each other. They love, and most importantly forgive each other. And their mother and I. That’s a big one.

My children grew up in a tumultuous household with a stressed-out, sick father and Borderline personality (diagnosed later in life) mother. We had plenty of moments of fun and frivolity, as well as loving, tender moments. But many bad episodes ranged from tiptoeing around someone’s bad mood, all the way to F-bombs and words exchanged that can never be taken back. Or forgotten. There were some moments, post-calamity in which I sat back and genuinely feared that the damage done to my children, due to their parent’s inability to control themselves, would be crippling and irreversible. Those moments overpowered me.

I can’t expect someone that hasn’t been through something like that to understand, so I’ll point out the crippling part of such a moment. When you fear repercussions, long-term and crushing ones in which you may have potentially ruined your children’s concept of marriage, relationships, how to treat a man/woman properly, etc., it is not only an unbearable weight but it is also something that will take a long, long time to come to fruition, if at all. All you can do is wait and hope for the best.

Somehow, they all grew up relatively unscathed by the absurdity of their parents’ behavior and are all in healthy, wonderful relationships.

Bullet Dodged. 

I am truly a lucky man to be able to walk free of shame or guilt because my children turned out well. It’s always the goal but there’s never a guarantee of the outcome. I am father to 4 great people, ones that, long after I am gone, will continue to make the world a better place. When people tell me what great kids I have, part of me beams because, let’s face it, I had something to do with it. 

I helped in making them.

Chris in the morning

Perhaps I am easy to excite and easier to please, but I so enjoy it when I see a movie or show that I once loved show up on a streaming service. Given the amount and quality of memories something from the past can provide, I look forward each month to seeing what shows up on streaming. Last month I was nothing less than thrilled to see that one of my favorite shows ever, Northern Exposure, arrived on Prime Video.
Set in the tiny and fictional town of Cicely, Alaska (filmed in Virginia) the mostly Drama with a dash of comedy took a common theme, life in a small town, to an entirely new level. The show centers on a New York Doctor who agrees to enter into a contract with the State of Alaska in exchange for payment of his medical school debt.
He got less than he bargained for, the town of Cicely was as underdeveloped as it was underpopulated. Initially, Dr. Joel Fleischman, played by Rob Morrow, acted as you would expect an uptight Northerner would. He initially scoffed at the town and its people, considering the town podunk and its people simpletons. The true charm of the show is how the narrative is flipped on its head. The characters are all fascinating in their own way. Simple, yes. But simple in a non-pretentious and unassuming way.
You have Maggie the pilot, played by the always lovely Janine Turner. I had forgotten most of the show but I never forgot my crush on Maggie. Strong, fiery, and independent Maggie also possessed vulnerability and grace.
Then there is Hollings and Shelly, owners of the only restaurant in town. Hollings is in his 60’s and Shelly wasn’t old enough to drink when they married. But their chemistry and individual characters lent great depth to the show.
Then there’s Ed, one of the many prominent Native American characters, Native American people and their cultures are prominently featured on the show. Ed is a young cinephile and his love of movies appears frequently in story lines.
Maurice Minnefield is a wealthy, legacy-obsessed former Astronaut who is dedicated to making Cicely a real town. He is a very prominent character as he is always interacting, influencing, buying and otherwise trying to impose his will. One of his local possessions is a small radio station, where the host can be seen doing his show through a big storefront window on Main Street.
Enter my favorite character, Chris Stevens (a young John Corbett of My Big fat Greek Wedding fame), host of the only show in town, the Chris in the morning show. Chris is a highly intelligent ex-con who eked out a living in Cicely, giving the impression that Cicely was one more stop on a still undefined journey and he could pack up his trailer at any time and move on. I can’t say enough how much I enjoy his character.
Quirky, enigmatic, brilliant, educated, empathetic, passive and passionate at the same time, contemplative and capable of going off on a rant at any moment, Chris is a breath of fresh air. In the course of his show, he reads local news and discusses local gossip, and reads heavy material from obscure books and classics alike. He plays music, takes calls, and at other times he simply leans back in his chair and offers a personal diatribe on whatever is on his mind. He speaks of the frailties of man, discusses metaphysics, waxes poetic and bares his soul to the small town. And they hang on his every word. Outside of the radio show, he lives a meager (by choice) existence as he indulges in whatever whim appeals to him. Be it Art, reading, romping with his woman dujour (he is quite the lothario), or getting out into the nature of Alaska to get in touch with it. He seems, except when he is in the throes of an occasional existential crisis, to be unencumbered by the anchors that hold the rest of the world back. We learn a new tidbit about him every episode and with every revelation, I realize more and more that if I could be anyone in the world, I would be Chris Stevens.

What I wouldn’t give to be unchained, present, grateful, and at peace with the world around me. How I desire to be free from my own mind and not experience worry and angst. To be able to reconcile my past and not only make peace with it but also recognize and value what the experience taught. I would love to be the person who reacts to a hostile person with a “hey, it’s your journey, man” type attitude. Oh, to be a free spirit that isn’t fazed by anything.

I’ve been binging Northern Exposure and it has been nothing but a positive experience. One unexpected benefit is that I have a fresh desire to think like I;m from a small town. Because I am, and I have lost some of the benefits that come with it. Small-town people believe in honesty, if for no other reason that it’s costly to get caught lying in a small town. People from small towns believe in integrity, because even though doing the right thing doesn’t require an audience everyone is still watching. Small-town people believe in community in general and caring for your neighbor in particular. I love small towns and that’s probably why I love this show.

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.

Half a man

I made a very difficult, but in hindsight good decision recently. I removed myself from the dating scene.

I am only recently back in the game of life. For the last 8 years, I have been alive but I was not living. Illness had taken almost everything from me. I bounced back and set my sights on getting back to a “normal” life. I wanted to be closer to home to see my family and friends, live on my own, be able to work again, get back into Freemasonry and work on my “causes”, and perhaps most of all, meet someone to share my life with. I was so hopeful to recapture “relationship me”.

Very few people know that I am a true romantic. I am a believer in relationships. I have no problem with monogamy. I love the idea of having someone to come home to. Someone to share affectionate and silly moments with. I’ll just say it, I want to love somebody. But as the song goes, I’ve been looking for love in all the wrong places.

Ten days after deleting my dating profile I feel a weight has been lifted. The whole process of Internet dating only served to throw gasoline-soaked logs onto a bonfire concerning my anxiety and self-esteem. Unanswered chats with someone I was interested in, dates that didn’t go anywhere with people who were nothing like they presented on their profiles, all of it weighed on me and ultimately felt like rejection. I don’t do well with rejection. So for the sake of my mental health, I ripped off the BandAid.

Now that my head is clear I have to address a possibility that I had not considered; I may be broken. I have managed to nearly seamlessly rebuild my life and put behind me the events of the last ten years and have made peace with most of it. But I can’t make peace with the many heartbreaks. Every relationship I have been in has left a mark. One in particular left a cannonball-sized hole in me. And despite how badly I want to be with someone, the hurt and reluctance to repeat it are still there. The only positive about heartbreaks is the “rebuilding” phase that always follows a breakup. I have done so much rebuilding in every aspect of my life and I found it to be challenging but manageable. Relationship me is not having as much success. Which leads me to conclude that I am half a man. The good half is strong, resilient and doing well in life. The other one, well…he needs to give himself some time.

I find great comfort in a beautiful song that I was just turned onto. It’s called Half a Man by Dean Lewis

I was wrong to say I loved her, I was wrong to think I’m right
When I told her it was over, oh my darling I had lied
I’ve been running from my demons, afraid to look behind
I’ve been running from myself, afraid of what I’d find

But how am I supposed to love you when I don’t love who I am?
And how could I give you all of me when I’m only half a man?
‘Cause I’m a sinking ship that’s burning, so let go of my hand
Oh how can I give you all of me when I’m only half a man?

I am not clinging to a lost love like in the song. But I think I’m clinging to an unsustainable notion, that I’m complete enough to be in a relationship. Clearly I’m not and that is just going to have to be OK.

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.

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.

On Service

In 1985 I joined ROTC in college. It was an impulsive decision and to this day I can’t list my reasons for doing so in proper order. The world was relatively peaceful in Reagan’s America and we weren’t in a particularly Nationalistic phase. I think I was inspired by a good friend that I had seen positive changes in due to ROTC and wanted them as well. I had seen him acquire a purpose in his step, a determination in his gaze, and a confidence I had never seen in him. I think I wanted that. So in August 1985 I was off to Fort Knox, Kentucky.

I liked it and I didn’t. I enjoyed the physical aspect of it and cruised through that aspect of the training. I didn’t like the prospect of being an Officer. I was uncomfortable with my ability to lead and make decisions that may cost lives of my fellow soldiers. I was also a free thinker and rejected the simplicity of calling every target “Ivan”. 8 weeks later, I stepped off the plane at Logan Airport 25 pounds lighter, with a more purposeful step and 2 weeks to make the decision to continue. I would choose not to and I will always regret it.

I am the son and grandson of Veterans. My grandfather served as a SeaBee in the Navy in WWII and exemplified in every way the Greatest Generation. He returned home, made no conversation or complaints about the war, and began to rebuild a life. My father was called to Vietnam but when I was born he was restationed stateside. I beam with pride when I think of either of them. In addition, I have many friends who served, and some are still on active duty. I met some of them while living in an apartment complex 10 years ago. There was a group of 5 soldiers and their families, and I became close to them, despite being much older. I heard their stories, from the ones that were comfortable talking about it, and I shared more than one moment of tears and frustrations over drinks as they recalled experiences they endured as part of their jobs. I heard some things that I will never forget, nor will I minimize the importance of being trusted to hear them.

When the US entered WWII men and women flocked to the recruiting station to enlist. Young men lied about their age to fight for a righteous cause they believed in. Those at home all pitched in. People bought war bonds and curbed their own lifestyle to preserve resources for the war effort. Rosie the Riveter went to work in the factories. When the soldiers returned home, they were greeted as heroes. This country will never have a generation like that ever again.

In Vietnam, the cause was less righteous and appealing to people, and, while there were still many civic-minded young people, not enough volunteered, and a “draft” was created. The draft deeply divided this country and a generational culture war divided society. In stark contrast to the WWII generation, the unpopularity of the war extended to a terrible and unjust treatment of the soldiers returning home. After fighting with valor and a deep love of country, instead of being called heroes, they were spit upon and called “baby killers”. This in no way eased the return to society for a generation of soldiers who had seen a new, horrific side of warfare. It was a shameful time for this country.

Veterans of recent conflicts in Iraq and Afghanistan are facing the most critical lack of support ever. This is not to say that the good citizens of the USA don’t overtly support them proudly in spirit. The lack of support lies in benefits and resources both medically and in mental health. The Iraq/Afghanistan era veteran engaged in warfare unlike any other generation. There was no clear and defined enemy. Once Saddam’s Revolutionary Guard was defeated the war became borderless and the enemy unclear. In Afghanistan, brutal terrain and tribal loyalties and betrayals further complicated warfare. Traditional warfare, already out the window after Vietnam, was taken to an entirely new level as our soldiers were forced to deal with roadside bombs, mothers sacrificing babies to kill soldiers, vague and restrictive rules of engagement, a lack of equipment and recruits, and extended tours. These brave men and women have been subjected to evils that most reasonable people would have difficulty believing even exist only to return to society and be expected to be able to put everything they have seen aside and just function. Very few of us, perhaps only one who has been in that situation. I only know what I hear.

I hear of a hatred for the people that they were fighting and for those that they were supposed to be protected. A hatred that never subsides and will never go away.
I hear of resentment of officers who put soldiers in danger to advance their careers.
I hear of rules of engagement that are vague, ineffective and subject to constant change.
I hear of seeing comrades mutilated or decimated in a “red mist” right in front of them.
I hear of sleepless nights, drug and alcohol abuse and decimated families due to inability to compartmentalize and handle haunting memories.
I hear of a convoluted, overwhelmed and inefficient VA.

Veterans deal with all of this with as much dignity as they are able to muster every day. They don’t expect us to understand but they would appreciate our appreciation and respect. They still love their country and believe in something that a dwindling number of Americans subscribe to, the concept of Service.

I didn’t have that sense of service when I joined. I want to regret that but there’s nothing I can do about it. I now have a respect, dedication and commitment to service as I serve any way I can. In my Masonic endeavors, by volunteering, by helping strangers, and by always thanking a Veteran. To them, military service is not a career. It is a calling, a duty, a responsibility with a job description. They write a blank check to their country that may include up to their very life and they do it with pride.

Don’t pretend that you understand what they’ve seen and done in the name of service. Just appreciate that they were willing to do it. Remember that regardless of whether you agree with the assignment, the American soldier doesn’t question the orders, they do what they were trained for and do what they can to get themselves and their comrades home.

I cannot begin to say how much I appreciate that.