Category: memories

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.

Old Movies

One of the many things I enjoy about my new Lady friend, and there are many, is her knowledge and passion for older movies. As a movie lover, it is a genre I’ve always wanted to explore but for some reason, I viewed it as a challenge, a project that needed to be approached systematically. I find that odd, as I do many things I do because I don’t approach any other entertainment genre in the same way. Nevertheless, I largely avoided the genre, as if I was waiting for someone to come along and show it to me. Someone to give me the “must-sees”, the highlight reel, the time-saver. Well, I met her and we have begun my journey. I have to say that I have really enjoyed it and am looking for more. Casablanca, Citizen Kane, Gilda and The Quiet Man are in the books. Next on the list remains a mystery, but I have given my list of actors I want to see; Spencer Tracy, Jimmy Stewart, Jimmy Cagney for starters. Definitely more Rita Hayworth and Ingrid Bergman, and looking forward to Liz Taylor, Marlene Dietrich and as Elton said, dearest Marilyn. I am not only looking forward to seeing these movies, I can’t wait to watch them with her.

I don’t know why I waited so long to embark on this journey. Not only am I fan of all cinema, but I am a lover of all things past. It is not a reach to state that I was born in the wrong decade. I have fantasized as well as written about growing up in a different time. I love the notion of the roaring 20’s, dressed to the nines and dancing with rebellious and fine women. I fancy being a young man in the 40’s, when post-war optimism and a sense of triumph ruled the air and men wore suits to Baseball games. I can imagine myself cruising the strip in 50’s America in a Rat Rod, listening to Doo Wop (one of my favorite genres) on the radio, hair slicked and a pack of Lucky’s rolled into my sleeve like John Milner in American Graffiti. I wonder aloud if I would have been a protestor or a staunch member of the status quo in the tumultuous 60’s as cultural change and paradigm shifts dominated the landscape. That’s what movies do for me, they make me think of the “what if’s” in life. It takes understanding who you are and what you stand for to an entirely new level; you ask yourself the hard questions of yourself; Am I a product of the times? Would I have been a different or better/worse person than I am in this universe? Which raises so many other questions.
If I had lived in a time of war, would I have been a hero or a cautionary tale?
If faced with the notion of great sacrifice, would I have done it with dignity and decorum?
Would I have been a face in a crowd or a person that stands out?
Would I have followed the norms of the time or would I be a voice of change?

Of course, all of this is pure fantasy. With my health conditions and the technology of the times in question being what they are/were, I wouldn’t have lived very long. But if we were to suspend reality for a brief moment in time, I have so many fantasies about growing up in different decades. It would be good to ask myself why I suppose. Do I believe that the past were better times or just different times? I ask because looking back at the examples I have given above, I mentioned the good aspects of those eras but they all had a tremendous downside. The 20’s, despite the “roaring”, would end in the Depression, an era that was nothing less than brutal for all Americans. The 40’s would entail a World War in which I may have died. The 50’s were not entirely peaceful as well, we were at war again. The 60’s were dominated by incredibly divisive politics, cultural upheaval, racial violence, and polarization and destruction of the American family, not to mention that I may have gone to Vietnam.

Yet, when we watch old movies the times become glamorous. American History is written by the victor and Hollywood was the storyteller. They took liberties and painted a wonderful picture of a country that is not always that wonderful. And that’s ok, because we don’t go to movies to see how bad things are, that can be seen all around us. Movies are an escape from reality, a dalliance with fantasy, a reminder of bygone eras. In old movies I get to observe so many things that are non-existent today.
Masculine men who projected strength and virility, men who dressed well for all occasions, men that were chivalrous and treated women as ladies. To that point, I love seeing the portrayal of women who were proud to be feminine, women that enjoyed the differences between the genders and embraced the power that comes with it.
On that note, it is also fascinating to see how bad behavior, men striking women or making unwanted advances, or acting badly in general, has gone the way of the Dodo.
Then we have the observations of technological advances; isn’t it interesting to see the old cars, hand-cranked telephones, telegraph machines and typewriters? Who doesn’t come out of It’s a Wonderful Life without marveling at what Banks used to look like?

I am really enjoying this process and look forward to where it takes me. Of course, it is an added advantage that I have someone great to snuggle on the couch and watch with. After all, what are the odds that “Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine”

A new challenge

I can see myself laying back on a therapist’s sofa, I can feel the beady Freudian eyes studying me, I can hear the words coming out of my mouth as if I was there, “Dr., help me. I’m dating a liberal.”
“Veeelll”(my best Austrian accent on paper), “how does dat make you feel?”
“I don’t know yet, it’s never happened before. But I think I like it.”
“You do”?, he inquires. “I thought zat you were a conservative, with a, how do you say eh…Podcast”.
“I am”, I paused. “This is uncharted territory for me.:
“Vell then you should embrace it zen”, he instructed.
“I will, as soon as I figure out how.”

Of course, I am not really on a therapist’s couch but I am in the grips of a crisis in my dating life, I am dating a strong and intelligent woman whose politics are very different from my own.
I can tell you that initially, it gave me fits, but now I am perfectly OK with it.

It’s been my history that I have, for unknown reasons, dated women who share my conservative leanings. It has never been a preference that I sought out, it merely worked out that way. In the dating process of getting to know someone, political leanings, or interest level at least, usually come up. I’ve dated some very political women and others who couldn’t care less. I gravitate towards somewhat political women because I believe that it reflects awareness and intelligence to want to know what is happening in the world, and I have little regard or interest in people who don’t care. So it tends to work itself out early on in the process. This one, it took a while before the liberal revealed itself. Not for any particular reason other than one really great one; it didn’t come up because we had so many other things, great things, to talk about as were getting to know each other that it never came up.

When it did come up, it did so in a somewhat comical manner. If memory serves, she may have said, “ok, let’s get this out there” or something similar. She then proceeded to say something that is very contradictory to my beliefs. I laughed it off, we talked about it and we agreed to disagree. I was relieved to realize that I was able to hear opposing viewpoints and make the critical distinction that it isn’t personal, I wasn’t being attacked, and it was up to me how I chose to process it. Except for one comment she made, which showed me that she was a little left of an Independent, a comment that made me question her sanity for a moment, I was surprisingly ok with it. We had a spirited conversation and it ended on a good note.
But after we talked, I had serious reservations about whether I could be with someone with such different ideas. See, I view my convictions as more than just opinions, I believe that it is an extension of our belief system, our character, dare I say our values. My fear was that my new interest was so different in her actual makeup that we wouldn’t get along. I spent the night and most of the next day thinking about it.
I think she did as well. Here’s why. She believes that Conservatives are unfeeling and compassionate, I feel that liberals are misguided and unrealistic. And my fear was that she was the worst type of liberal, the “all about party” person that rejects all opinions that don’t fit their narrative. This could have gone either way. As it would work out, we talked about it the next day. The results were surprising; we agreed to disagree.

I was relieved. It then occurred to me that there was one thing I was overlooking. She was different. Unlike many people, she had educated and informed opinions backed by genuine compassion. I cannot emphasize how much value I place on that. I would like to believe that I espouse my beliefs and convictions similarly. I’m not angry and closed off, instead I truly care. That is the great equalizer. Also, it occurred to me a larger matter; I really liked her and the notion of losing an opportunity to get to know this interesting, intelligent and accomplished woman over politics is unacceptable.

It hasn’t crossed my mind since I came to that realization. I would go so far to say that she is good for me. She is making me put my money where my mouth is. I wanted to be more open-minded, here’s my opportunity. If I lose her, it won’t be over my like or dislike of a candidate or party. I have so many ways at my disposal to ruin this opportunity, I don’t need politics. There is a bigger picture here. One that hopefully includes her.
Relationships should include challenging each other. I welcome it. I hope she does as well.

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.

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.

Where are the shovels?

Helicopter parenting has reached a new level.

The other day I read a fascinating, yet disturbing study. According to a survey conducted by Intelligent, an online magazine focused on student life, 19% of Gen Z job seekers have brought their parents to job interviews.
While I can certainly understand that jobseekers may feel nervous or anxious during interviews, bringing parents to job interviews is generally perceived as unprofessional and, dare I say, immature. It may reflect poorly on the jobseeker’s preparedness and independence.
Isn’t it important for job seekers to demonstrate their ability to work independently and make decisions on their own? A job is a rite of passage, and every job you take, and the hopefully increased responsibilities earned through accumulated experience makes you a stronger and more capable employer. While I can only speak for myself, I know that starting a new job can be overwhelming and even terrifying, but employers know that and it is all a test of your resolve and dedication to growing professionally. Everything is a test. Bringing Mommy to the interview is not going to help you pass it.

Not shockingly, 39% of employers admitted going above and beyond to not hire recent college graduates for roles they are qualified for in favor of older workers, a new survey found.
The survey uncovered many reasons why older applicants are preferred — in addition to Gen Z jobseekers bringing mom and dad to interviews.
One in five employers say that recent college graduates are “unprepared” for interviews — and are often unprofessional.
Fifty-three percent of employers surveyed said that recent college graduates struggle with eye contact.
50% said they ask for unreasonable compensation.
47% said they don’t dress appropriately for interviews.
21% said they refuse to turn their cameras on for virtual interviews.
Additionally, 61% said they are frequently late to work.
59% claimed they often miss deadlines.
53% noted that they are frequently late to meetings.

Diane M. Gayeski, a professor of strategic communications at Ithaca College, suggested that these behaviors aren’t entirely their fault — a lot of it is circumstantial. Personally, I do give some leeway to the COVID epidemic and the impact it had on Education and socialization in general. But it started much farther back. I need to look no further than my own childhood compared to how I raised my own kids.
I am Gen X. We were named that because they didn’t know what to call us. We defied all definition. We were tough, resourceful and resilient. We were latchkey kids. Some of us raised ourselves. We were always outside.We knew how to fight, and how to deal with it when we lost. We learned to stand up for ourselves because nobody else would. We were taught that lessons came from Black eyes, skinned knees and hurt feelings. We learned how to work. That having a job sucked but if you wanted money you had better have one. Our parents prepared us for life. They told us that life is tough, cruel, merciless, and unfair but to go and make the most of it. And we did. Our parents were there for us, but they were not our friends.
Fast forward to today. Years of “Participation trophies”, and countless campaigns designed to not make anyone feel bad, combined with Parents who somehow are afraid to discipline their children and instead want to be their friends. Parents schedule and plan “Play-dates” instead of letting their kids learn how to make friends.
If I could pick one thing that has derailed today’s youth to the point of no return; parents refuse to let their kids fail at anything. Nothing teaches you more than failure does. The lessons and accompanying wisdom gained can only come from disappointment, embarrassment, and heartbreak. It can’t be presumed, imitated, intimated, or faked. In order to rise strong from the ashes, you must first crash to the ground. I understand that it is happening out of love, but no matter how you slice it, sheltering children from the world will only make them reluctant and unprepared to enter it.

The study further found the following, all of which demonstrate the damage done by not teaching our kids old-fashioned concepts such as promptness, dressing well, making eye contact and having a firm handshake, and of possessing strong communication skills. Think they’re outdated, old-fashioned and irrelevant? Not to employers. Here are the employer observations on Gen Z attitudes.

Fifty-eight percent said Gen Z jobseekers get offended too easily and are unprepared for the workforce in general.
63% said they are entitled.
57% believed they lack professionalism.
55% said they don’t respond well to constructive feedback.
52% claimed they have poor communication skills.
Of those surveyed, 47% admitted that they had fired a recent college graduate.
46% even said they are willing to hire an older employee who is overqualified for the job just to avoid working with someone younger.
The list of reasons these hiring professionals gave for avoiding Gen Z hires is a long one.

Here is one great example of the difference between Gen X and today. If you live in an area that sees snow in the Winter, ask yourself how many kids do you see with shovels during a snowstorm hustling to make money off of their neighbors? If not, substitute pushing a lawnmower?
Almost none.
The ability to recognize opportunity, financial or otherwise is critical. Being willing to work for it is increasingly rare. It isn’t about money, it’s about being resourceful and the independence that earning your own money gives you. I don’t believe our youth understands the difference between expecting and taking vs earning. It is part of becoming an adult, in an age of perpetual childhood.

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.