Category: legacy

Legacy?

I was recently asked how do I want to be remembered? What an incredibly timely and often thought-about topic.

See, I am all about Legacy. I live my life every day in such a way that should I not wake up the next day, I hope that I will be remembered fondly. I leave each person in my life in such a way that should it be the last time we see each other, that memory would be good and not a regret.

Having said that, I am not living to die. If you knew my medical history, and how truly close I have come (several times) to dying from a chronic illness and related episodes, then it would make more sense. But I, more than most people, really don’t have a lot of time left and I can justify such a mentality. I want to build a legacy, and perhaps most importantly, I want to do it by changing the world, my world, one charitable of kind transaction at a time.

Let’s get this out of the way right away. I don’t want to be remembered in a lofty way. I don’t care for people to be in awe of honors, accolades, and accumulated wealth. I have earned very few honors, I hate accolades, and I am poor and expect to be until that day comes. 

Here’s what I want. I hope that when I die, my son will honor my request to give me a casual service and an open bar. At that bar, I most desire that a glass would be raised to my character. I hope that my friends and acquaintances will remember me as a good guy, a charitable soul and that I made a difference to somebody. Then I want people to share stories of the weirdest/funniest/most awkward/stupid/embarrassing thing that I did or said in front of them.

See, I haven’t had much luck laughing at myself in my life. But I have no problem with others doing it for me. As long as their memories of me make them smile.

Everything must go

I’ve been struggling lately. I am reluctant to say that I have been sad, but I have been isolating more than usual and feel like I’m searching for something. Despite my lack of physical activity this past week, the mental energy expended was triathlon level. I have been evaluating everything, challenging my own viewpoints and beliefs, and wondering why someone with such a fulfilling life can feel such despair.
I sought the advice of a friend, which is hard for me because I don’t tend to share the very personal with people. I tend to laugh off, minimize and generally suppress that which gnaws at me. To my amazement, after hearing about my funk, he asked me if I ever properly processed the difficult events in my life.
I scoffed at him, it’s what I do.
He was ready for that. He knew that was what I do. So I thought about it, and I wasn’t happy with what I came up with. I may have handled the situation(s) but I never dealt with them.

Yes, those who know me may assume that the myriad of health problems that I have experienced would be the most traumatic experiences of my life. They would be wrong. Health is easy to deal with. With illness, it may take a while but you deal with it. You accept it, if you’re smart you will follow directions and maybe change some habits, and leave the rest up to fate. You either live or you don’t, the very “out of ones hands” nature of illness makes it that simple. The only obstacle is pain, but you get used to that as well.
What I never dealt with is the emotional trauma, which goes way back, of everything from the bullying in school to my failed marriage and everything in between. It was a nice revelation but I am clueless to how to act on it.

Enter one of the things that I do like about myself, my persistent tendency to always be on the lookout for a sign. I believe in signs. It is my belief that the universe communicates with those in tune through signs. I actively look for them everywhere and in everything; by studying my surroundings with an open mind and heart, in my choice of shows or movies, even in interactions with others. I have been inspired by the smallest of things and in the most unlikely of places. Today, I found great inspiration and even some answers in a Will Ferrell movie, of all things.

Everthing Must Go is a sleeper movie that slipped under the mainstream but caught the attention of a few respected movie critics. It is the rare Drama done by a comedian considered to be out of his depth that surprises you. Not unlike Reign Over Me with Adam Sandler and Moscow on the Hudson with Robin Williams. Of course, Robin Williams would go on to be a respected dramatic actor but you get the point.
In Everything Must Go, the main character loses his job and marriage on the same day. Both due to his chronic alcoholism. He returns to his house to find all of his belongings in the front yard, door locks changed and his bank accounts frozen. With no funds or other means to do anything, he chooses to live with all of his belongings in his front yard. In the ensuing days he endures a crash course in confronting the issues of his life. As expected, what unfolded was a painful emotional roller coaster. One that I related to almost to the point of tears.
He was forced to deal with his alcoholism, his choices, his accountability for his role in the failure of his marriage and career, and I was held in rapt attention. The familiarity was staggering. The impact of alcohol on his life was particularly poignant. The failure of his marriage was downright painful. All of it was just too close to home. And it proved to me that my friend was SPOT ON correct that I never dealt with my marriage, my choices, my place in life and my deeply repressed emotions on ALL of it.
Watching the movie unfold, I felt the despair, the frustration, the longing, the pain as if it was my own. And like my life, the story did not have a happy ending. Yes, I know my life is not over but I’m not expecting great things in the future.
The only positive takeaway I have is that it was a movie. I still have time, not to recover that which was lost, but to finally deal with the trauma of my past. It’s critical to mention here that my use of the word “trauma” is a rarity. I tend to downplay, even be derisive, of people who use the word. But it’s time that I face up to it, finally.
Being minimized at work and home, being forced to tolerate rampant abuse by employers who knew that I needed the job and could do nothing about it, being a mere roommate to my wife, and then finally having the chewed-up carcass of what was left of my life spit out by chronic illness nearly destroyed me.
That is trauma. The fact that I am still standing notwithstanding, it needs to be dealt with.

I may have to focus on that for a while.

Dad talk

I was recently asked what my Dad was like when I was younger.

I love talking about my Dad. In fact, I visited him yesterday. I talked a lot, in fact, I did all the talking. Primarily, because he can’t hear me through 6 feet of dirt and a Veteran’s Grave marker. He may have died 10 1/2 years ago but not a day goes by that I don’t think of him. 

One of the things I remember most about my Dad was a conversation we had towards the end of his life. As Parkinson’s ravaged his body, transforming him into a shadow of the mighty Oak he once was, he became briefly interested in his legacy. He didn’t have much regard for how people felt about him and he wasn’t a man with many regrets, but he was concerned about how he was as a Dad. I was shocked when he brought it up.

“Do you resent me for being out of the house so much”?

I had never really thought of it. He worked all the time. Side jobs, overtime, helping my Grandfather. “Out” wasn’t out with the boys or time spent on himself. It was work. Other than that he was home being a great Dad. And, it wasn’t as if I had a reference point to compare his time home to others. All of my friends’ Dads worked, most of them a lot. I always thought that’s how it was supposed to be, the parents provide so the kids can thrive.

“Not at all, Dad”, I replied. “I didn’t resent you ever, about anything. I admired your work ethic and I always looked to you with pride for your accomplishments.”

A tear formed in the corner of his eye. He caught my reference. I was reminding him of something he thought about every day of his life, his upbringing. My Dad came from very humble beginnings. He lived in the poorest section of town, one of 4 kids. Of he and his multiple cousins, Dad was the one with the work ethic, the good eyesight and the desire to do better. I mention eyesight because it has been theorized that my Dad was the product of an affair. His entire family wore thick glasses, Dad could spot a feather out of place on a Hawk’s tail at 2000 feet. Dad was also the only one to make something of himself. He joined the military, learned a skill, joined a Union, bought a house. Instead of being happy for him, he was chided by his family as the “Rich one”. To them, Middle Class was rich. Me, I was the “Rich Kid”. I hated them for that. I developed a “fuck’em” attitude early on.

So, knowing all of this, I never had a problem with his hard work. It was all for us.

But the real matter at hand here is what was my Dad like when he WAS home. The answer is simultaneously simple and complex. He tried too hard, because someone in his life didn’t try hard enough. He had very high expectations for me, but he forced a lot of them on me because he never had the opportunities I had. He wanted to be an amazing father and husband, but he put on metaphorical “hats” (Hubby hat, Dad hat, Neighbor hat, etc) and in the process denied himself some of the more genuine moments of family life because he couldn’t just relax and be himself. Those moments were rare but so very special.

I am not a revisionist historian. I don’t paint the past pretty colors in an attempt to make it more palatable. I didn’t always get along with my Dad. He pushed me very hard at a time when I was too mixed up to handle my own problems. He didn’t recognize those times when I needed him to take off the damn hat and just be there for me. I don’t blame him, I just feel that at times he was more worried about outrunning his childhood than being present in mine.

I am glad to say that, later in life we became close. We closed the gap, evened the playing field as it were. He went on to be a loving and doting Grandfather to my children and I think he made peace with most of his demons.

He died young from a terrible disease. He is missed by a lot of people. Most of all by me.

Quality time

I’ve always enjoyed “Down-time”. Somehow, I went from never having any time to myself; I worked a lot through school and carried a maximum course load, I pulled at least 2 all-nighters per week in college and worked full time, and after college, I worked 2 jobs. Once I became a family man, my life only got busier. I always craved a day, or even a few hours to myself life never really allowed it. In the off chance that I did have some free time, time without a wifey-issued “Honey Do” list or a parental commitment, I enjoyed finding a movie or a documentary that interested me and I would enjoy it with a whiskey and maybe a hit or two of some stinky weed. That was all my life allowed.

When illness took me out of the “busy” phase of my life I found myself with the opposite problem, too much time on my hands. It was dreadful for me, the transition of paces. In addition, much of the downtime was, and I’m not sure if I’m phrasing this properly, but much of it was unusable. For starters, I was on dialysis. Dialysis is incredibly time-consuming and none of it is valuable. It consists of waiting, forcing yourself to be still for over 4 hours with a painful needle in your arm, and treatments often resulted in my feeling nauseous or outright sick. When I was home, between sessions, I slept a lot and generally felt ill.

Unusable.

Once I got used to dialysis and managed to find some quality of life, I recognized that I needed to get some joy in my life. It is fair to say, as I look back, that I had limited expectations of my longevity. So I created a bucket list. Instead of accomplishments and destinations, I made a list of things that would make me happy. Having concluded long before that real happiness has eluded me in the past, I was determined that if I can’t die accomplished, then I would at least die at peace.

The first item on my list was therapy. Not in the form of a psychiatrist or Psychologist, but in wind. Wind therapy is expensive but remarkably simple. All you need is a motorcycle. So despite feeling sick all of the time, despite lacking funds and despite the naysayers who warned of the dangers I bought a bike.

I absolulely love riding my motorcycle. While I enjoy the comraderie it provides, motorcycling is very social and many treat it as a Brotherhood, I also enjoy accumulating bugs in my teeth while riding alone. The fresh air and smells of the countryside does wonders for my mood, and hanging corners provides just enough adrenaline to remind me that I am ALIVE.

I really can’t close on a better note. There is a difference between prolonging the inevitability of death and actually feeling alive.

Getting outside, preferably with my Iron Steed, is the simple pleasure in life that keeps me going.

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.

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.

Service

“When a person can’t find a deep sense of meaning, they distract themselves with pleasure.”  Viktor E. Frankl

As a big proponent of both finding your purpose and acting upon it, I have always loved this quote. While some may realize their calling early on in life, others may take until the twilight of their life. Additionally, not everyone will realize or actualize theirs. I’m a believer in man as an accomplished creature. Man is not created to merely exist, but to accomplish, to create, to build, to leave his mark on the world. We are supposed to leave a legacy, even if it is to just leave the world a better place than you found it. That will likely be the extent of my legacy and that’s ok. I also believe that if you change just one life for the better you have lived a fulfilled life.

With regards to the Frankl quote, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that I’ve distracted myself with the pursuit of pleasure. But I have definitely distracted myself. I haven’t been prioritizing the good things that I want to do. Instead, I have spent too much energy and time on pursuing hobbies and my great Achilles heel. Women.

In the excitement of returning to my original stomping grounds, I was energized by the changes awaiting me. To see my family more, to get more active in my Masonic endeavors, catch up with friends, work part time, and maybe meet a nice woman. I have accomplished all of the above, with the exception of the woman. I spent so much time and kissed a lot of frogs and all I have to show for it is a smaller bank account and a bruised sense of self-esteem. Last weekend, I endured my final indignity at the hands of a woman who badly misrepresented herself in both looks and personality who then rejected me because I wasn’t her type. Despite the fact that we had been talking on the phone for 3 weeks, in which I was repeatedly told that I was her type. I took it the way I took every previous indignity for the last 5 months, I felt as if there was something wrong with me. I went home that night and deleted all of my online dating profiles. At first, I scolded myself for being impulsive. One week later I think it was the right move. By freeing myself from the perhaps exaggerated desire to meet someone my head is clear. I need to assess why I want to be with someone as badly as I do, and the only way to do that is to remove myself from the situation. For whatever reason, I don’t think I’m ready to date. I’m still a bit broken. With that knowledge in hand, I have decided that I want to work on myself. There is no way that I can be happy with somebody until I’m happy with myself. And the only time I’m really happy is when I in some sort of service.

I have a call to service. It’s not a brag, it’s just how I am. I enjoy helping other people. It provides me a fulfillment that little else does. Relationships are a lot of work for me, I give all of myself and I rarely get back what I expend. When I work with others in my various charitable endeavors, I give the same but I receive the greatest sense of accomplishment I can describe. I get back more than I expend. I think I’ll do more of it.

It feels good to rid myself of the distractions and focus on what makes me happy. After all, when it is all over I won’t be, nor do I want to, remembered for whoever I was in a relationship with. I will, however, be remembered (or not) for what I may have contributed to the world.

“Talking Politics”

I am growing weary of people saying that they “don’t care”, “don’t talk about”, or “don’t want to know” about Politics. I have two problems with this. First, do they understand that what they are calling “Politics” is actually current events, what is happening in the world, and second, how are they OK with not knowing what is going on around them?

Politics is the word that people lump discussion of the operations of Government, current events, and news of the day. This is too broad of a classification. The actual definition:
pol·i·tics
[ˈpäləˌtiks]

NOUN

  1. the activities associated with the governance of a country or other area, especially the debate or conflict among individuals or parties having or hoping to achieve power:“the president’s relationship with Congress is vital to American politics” · “thereafter he dropped out of active politics”

To dig further down on this, politics is the process that strategists use to manage politicians and campaigns, maneuvering behind the scenes to get bills passed, manipulating storylines, sound bites, and news cycles, and controlling the narrative. It is a game within a system.

Following the news stories, having a rudimentary understanding of the process of government, possessing a working knowledge of our relationship with other countries, and (perhaps this is ambitious on my part to hope for this) the dynamics of foreign policy as well as the ability to critically think and assess what is happening…well that is not “talking politics”. That is knowing what is going on and where you fit into things. To be firmer and emphatic…it is not “talking politics” to know how the events of the day affect YOU.

I understand that I am more interested in what is going on around me than most. I am a News junkie. As a citizen of the world, what happens around me is worth taking notice of. As a citizen of a once great country that I now consider in decline, I have a close eye on everything that I possibly can. I try to look through a trained and cynical eye at the political and cultural landscape. Not as a conspiracy theorist, but as a person open to any possibility, always prepared to learn that while something may appear to be one thing it could be another thing entirely. As podcasters, my Co-host Steve and I look at every story from all angles because we believe that every story has more to it, and often the additional, possible suppressed dynamics of a story contain nefarious and harmful elements designed to deceive and mislead us.

I understand that some people, regardless of whether they lump everything outside of their interests and general circle as “politics”, choose not to be engaged because it is hard for them. The world is a overwhelming, even depressing place. I’m sure that some can’t handle the onslaught of bad news. We are bombarded by the minute with stories of people being bad to each other. The ugly side of human nature is on constant display. If not for the occasional positive Human Interest story, which does not sell near the copies that the trash does, we would think that the world is going entirely to shit.
I get it.
But what is worse? Knowing what is going on and feeling some angst, or choosing the bliss of ignorance by not keeping up with the events of the day? And for that matter, is it possible to be somewhere in between? I fear there is an additional dynamic at play, that Americans are so comfortable, so sure that they are safe, so delusional as to believe that by virtue of wanting to be peaceful, and that the world would somehow fall in line with that.
Nothing could be further from the truth. The World is in fact on fire, and closer to home the United States is under attack from without and within. Our enemies are acting out at unseen levels, and internally we are being invaded by hordes of foreign invaders and being eroded by progressive and unrealistic policies that make all of us unsafe.

Knowing what is going on in the world is not “talking Politics”. Inst