stuff – Page 36 – The Tao of Bill

A year has passed…

Sunday, September 23, 2018.
I awoke at about 9:30 PM. My chest hurt. I carefully felt the taped area around the plastic port in my chest. It was tender to the touch. I went to the bathroom mirror and pulled down my shirt to look at it. What appeared to be a pimple next to my port caught my eye. I squeezed and popped it. Immediately, I was overcome by the most powerful chills I had ever experienced. I began to shiver to the point of quivering. My teeth were clacking. It was miserable. I went downstairs to my recliner and threw the biggest blanket I could find over myself. The trembling was uncontrollable. Finally, I warmed up enough for the chills to stop. I braved the trip back upstairs and I curled up under the blankets, freezing again. After 10 or 15 minutes I managed to make it stop and remained in that position until morning.

Monday, September 24, 2018.
I spent most of the day under a blanket but I managed to get downstairs and eat something. I felt awful. Mom was concerned but knew that if I needed help I would tell her.

That evening I was worse. I was curled up on the spare bedroom bed in the fetal position under 3 blankets when Mom came in and asked if I felt well enough for her to go out for a few hours.
Take me to the hospital! raced through my brain. Stupidly I instead said,
“Go ahead, I’m fine.”
At some point I made my way upstairs. I was feeling worse. The tremors were nearly uncontrollable. I crawled into bed. I vaguely remember soiling myself but I didn’t get up. The thought of getting out from under the blankets, my only salvation, was unbearable.
Call 911, you’re going to die! my brain screamed at me.
I don’t want to move, I can’t. If I die I die, a voice answered back. It’s over.

Tuesday, September 25, 2018
“Bill, wake up! You’re going to be late for dialysis!” I heard my mothers voice faintly. It took me a moment to realize she was at the base of the stairs. I looked around, I was on the bathroom floor. I forced myself to my feet and then immediately collapsed. At the sound of my crashing to the floor she raced upstairs. Mom assisted me to the bed, all the while asking me if I was ok, if I was able to get up and get ready. I answered her by falling forward and landing again on the floor. The next thing I remember was being hoisted off of the floor of my bedroom by two heavy firefighters. They needed my help to get me onto the stretcher. I had nothing to offer. They picked me up, placed me onto the stretcher. My arms flopped lifelessly from both sides of the stretcher as they struggled to get me down the narrow stairs from my loft.

I was brought to a waiting ambulance. I vaguely remember the chirp of the band radio in the ambulance, being asked a bunch of questions, having my soiled clothes cut off of me, the bumps of the ambulance banging around the bumpy side roads, some commotion as I was treated and begging for a blanket. I was cold. So very, very cold…

To be continued…

The curator of my America

Nabokov called his talents “banal” and a waste of brilliant technique. The highbrow art critics called his work “bourgeois” and “kitsch”. He was unjustly called an illustrator instead of an artist. Norman Rockwell didn’t care. He painted what he wanted to and gave the people what they wanted in his idealistic, sentimentalistic portraits. Over the course of 47 years and 323 original works, his perceptive, nostalgic eye for his America graced the cover of the Saturday Evening Post.

Born in New York, he eventually made his way to New England. He first lived in Vermont and eventually landed in the small Western Mass town of Stockbridge, Massachusetts. He did most of his painting there, eventually immortalizing small town life through his ongoing commitment to illustrating the cover or The Saturday Evening Post, consequently showing the world his views on life through his works.

I was 12 when he died. I remember my Grandmother being deeply upset. It was then that I made the connection between the magazine covers that littered her coffee table and the wonderful artist behind them. An aspiring artist myself, I was fascinated by his technique.

As I got older I began to appreciate his work even more. I moved from admiring the technique of Rockwell’s work to the subject matter behind it. His portrayals resonated with me. The magic of Christmas…

Rockwell always brings me back to a time when Christmas was about family and neighbors. The one time of year when everyone was always nice to each other. When people Caroled, drank Eggnog and a gift was appreciated, be it a hand made pasta sculpture from a small child or a simple card. We weren’t valued by the extravagance of our gift.

Rockwell was most famous for his Christmas works but so many other of his recurring themes impacted me. The fun, and difficulties of being a child (and remember that his was a much simpler time…

He didn’t shy away from controversial subjects either and he took heat about it but remained unfazed…

He was once told that his depictions of racial relations would get him banned. He insisted to the Post that if he was censored he would walk away. He was allowed to continue. He was a man of conviction.

I was raised with his values of post-Depression, post-war frugality and conservatism. Waste not, want not was a daily mantra. My parents and grandparents fixed things when they broke, they didn’t throw them away. They “darned” socks with holes, they didn’t buy new ones. In a time of burgeoning rampant consumerism and pursuit of the next “new” thing, they were firmly planted in the “old times”; a simpler way of life that simply made sense. I truly loved that mentality, to this day I reject the “new is better” mindset.

Rockwell, during those times, stuck faithfully to the old ways, he continued too portray the America that he knew and likely sensed that he was to be a curator of them lest they be forgotten. When a horse drawn wagon rode alongside a new-fangled “car”. When children played in the street without fear of boogeymen. When people knew, respected and loved their neighbors.

I often muse that I was born in the wrong era. I would have loved to have grown up in Rockwell’s ’20’s.
Baseball was played for the love of the game, not massive contracts.
A time when men and women dressed in suits and dresses when going out in public.
A time when families ate dinner together every night.
A time when children played safely outside, in a neighborhood where people knew, cared about and supported each other.
A time when Doctor’s made House calls.
When civility and manners ruled the land.

I long for a return to these days but I know they will never return. That is why I have the Rockwell’s Coffee Table Books at the ready. As far as I’m concerned they have never been more relevant.

Hi…come here often?

If you follow me you may know that I endured a pretty hard kick in the emotional nether-regions on Sunday. The ill-advised “long-distance” relationship that I was involved with crashed and burned like the Hindenburg when I went on FB and saw that she had posted “in a relationship” with some random dude. I was shocked, hurt, confused and quite pissed off. I texted her and asked why I had to learn of this on F’ing FB and her only reply was “Don’t curse at me.” I then asked her if that’s all she had to say to me and I then found myself blocked on the phone, FB and my blog.

I was over it the next day. I don’t dwell. My takeaway is that I was most mad at the way I was treated. Looking back on the relationship I do know that it wasn’t going to end well. The only reason I allowed myself to have feelings for her was that there was a strong possibility of her moving here. Once I allowed myself to feel for her we developed a very powerful connection and in the ensuing months I can honestly say that I fell in love with her. I was actually happy for a while. But circumstances changed and it soon became clear that it wasn’t going to happen. But I continued to correspond and support her as if she was my girl. Hence the feeling of betrayal when I was unceremoniously dropped like a candy wrapper.

Every kick in the nuts should result in a learning experience and I indeed learned something. I need someone in my life. I so enjoyed the feelings I experienced during my fling. I felt desired. I felt wanted. I felt attractive. I felt needed. I want that again and I’m not going to find someone just sitting here on my ass. So I joined Match.com.

It was very intimidating for me. I haven’t been on a date since 1990. I haven’t had sex since Obama’s first term. I worry about being a poor candidate to attract someone. I’m not financially secure, not particularly healthy and don’t have my own place. Creating my profile was going to be a challenge.
Hi, I’m Bill. I’m 54, on dialysis, I’m bald, have one testicle and I live with my mother. I don’t have money but I’ll be happy to take you to McD’s and buy you something off of the dollar menu. By the way, the last time I dated Milli Vanilli was relevant. Can I wear my acid wash jeans? Seeking…well, ANYBODY

That was my first draft. I then decided that the one trait that never fails me is my stark honesty. So I went that avenue and this is what I came up with..
This is the most honest profile you will ever read. 2 years ago health issues cost me my job and marriage, ending with my moving in with my mother 2 years ago. I am rebuilding my health and my life. Yes, I live with my mother. Not in her basement, but in her attic and that’s better, right?I haven’t been on a date since 1990 so this is very new to me.I am a doting father of 4 amazing (grown) children.I enjoy volunteering. I’m charitable and active in several charities through my Masonic lodge. I am an aspiring author and an avid reader. I’m a great cook. I love animals. If the sun is out so am I, probably on my motorcycle. I love a good conversation and I have a great, if not occasionally inappropriate sense of humor. Life is a gift and I am trying to live mine to the fullest.I am looking for a companion to spend time with and have a few laughs and some great conversations. If it leads to something more then that would be great.I’m not financially stable yet but I’m not broke. If you aren’t about money and want to meet an old-fashioned, optimistic, funny, sarcastic, kind, grounded and nice guy then look no further.Life’s a garden. Dig it.

You saw the part about me living with my mother, right?

The first response (match) I got was from a 43 year old woman who lives fairly close to me. I was excited when I got a message from her.
“Hi, not looking for anything romantic, just trying to make friends and I like chill guys. We should hang out.”

Not exactly a swimming start. I replied to her.
How about that ? My first response to my new dating profile is from a woman who just wants to be friends…what guy wouldn’t love that?

She was amused by my response and we chatted a bit. I may meet my new friend who doesn’t find me attractive at all. I can never have enough friends, maybe she has a cute friend.

I’ve received a few likes, nothing too promising but I signed up for 6 expensive months so I’m going to be patient. One thing I know is that dating did, does and will continue to suck. It’s just reality.

There has to be someone out there who values honesty, wisdom and a warped sense of humor in a guy. Kindness, caring and integrity wrapped in a scarred but earthly package should have some appeal. I know I have a lot to offer someone, if they just scroll down.

We’ll see what happens. At least I can say I tried.

I’m fine, move on

Fine. Not the best word to hear, especially from a woman. In fact, I ran for the nearest bomb shelter whenever my ex (that word has a nice ring to it!) said “I’m fine.” See, Fine is actually an acronym for Fucked-up, Insecure, Neurotic and Emotional. But when I say it, I mean it. If only people would believe me. In particular, the damn social workers that keep asking me how I’m doing.

Today I met with the Maine Transplant Center. It is a second outlet for me to be listed in hopes of a donor. Despite having done every goddamn test imaginable with the exception of an Algebra question at the NH center, it is required that I go through the same orientation with Maine. Not the tests, but the financial, pharmaceutical, insurance, coordinator interview and of course social work.

This is the third time I’ve had to do this. I did it in 2011 before my first transplant. Nothing has changed since the first evaluation. I gave the Social Worker there nothing even then. If anything I’m more closed off now. Life has continued to deal me one setback after another, the biggest of course was losing my new kidney after only 5 years and putting me back at ground zero: broke, alone and in my mother’s fucking basement and I don’t want to discuss my damn feelings about it.

So when I met the Social Worker today, his questions were met with a resounding “I’m fine.”

It’s not his fault. He gave it a heluva effort. He did a good job and I liked him. He asked the right questions and I was happy to tell him all about my situation. I just didn’t display a satisfactory amount of emotion apparently. He pressed me on it and I gave him nothing. Finally he asked me to describe my coping mechanisms to him. I said “first I punch myself in the head and then I kick myself in the ass. Then I move on.” He laughed and asked me to try again. I put my arms on the table, leaned in and said,

“Sunday I got rejected and rolled over by a woman that I swore I was in love with. I was floored, flattened. I cried. I brooded all day, talked to no one, wrote a blog post about it and woke up Monday a new man. I processed it, sucked it up and shit it out. Done.”

I would best describe his expression as a hybrid of amused and annoyed. But he left it at that.

People don’t understand, I am an island. I am happy to have a support system, I just don’t use it. I am hyper self-aware. I know what’s wrong and right with me. No one can tell me anything about myself I don’t already know. This is what life has done to me and I’m actually fine with it. I will tell anyone my story if they want to hear it and I will be honest and open. But I don’t do it for validation and I don’t need help. I got this, I know how to handle it and if I don’t I will figure it out.

Why do people not understand me and my self-coping?

I’m not nearly as brilliant as Robin Williams but like him, I am a Sad Clown. I wear a smile to conceal iron teeth. I’m not ok but I’m not bad either. I’m not happy but I can be and until then I can fake it with the best of them. I’m unsure and anxious about my future but good luck getting me to say it aloud.

What can I say? I’m fine and it works for me. If you don’t get it then that is a “you” problem.

Do it now…conclusion

After getting a small but desperately needed amount of sleep at the Fleabag motel that charged me the reasonable rate of $202.00 for one night I rejoined my compadres at their motel. I was just in time for breakfast. When I went to the lobby of the restaurant I found my boys talking to a guy I didn’t know. It was Pete, who had driven up that morning to meet the others, apparently he was a regular part of the group. I liked him immediately although I suspected even then that he would be bunking with us that night and add to the cacophony. But I was too hungry to worry about that then.

After a huge breakfast we walked to the event du jour, the Adirondack Car Show. We weren’t the only ones, the sidewalks were mobbed with people heading the same way.

I was tired, full and probably in need of dialysis but I was as giddy as Michael Jackson watching the Little League World Series. As we went through the gate we were greeted by a wall of vendors selling anything car-related. Beyond that area I could see a ocean of glittering cars. I was in my element, although nostalgic over how I wish my Dad was with me. He loved car shows and he would have loved this one.

The fairground was set up with no particular system. I imagine that the first ones there got the best spots. Classics, Rat Rods, both original and modified muscle, trucks ranging from the 30’s to the 70’s all mingled in perfect harmony. I was immediately struck by how the owners stood by their cars or sat in lawn chairs waiting impatiently for someone to talk about their cars. I am friends with a lot of car guys and I know the labor of love these cars can be in the restoration and preservation process. I was their dream, I talked to everyone. I also got to watch Charlie number 2 reveal his knowledge. The man was a guru of automotive knowledge. I learned a lot by just listening.

After we checked out everything Charlie said let’s go to the top level. I didn’t even know there was a top level. Turns out there were 2. After more walking than I was really capable of we arrived at Carvana. Wow. As it turns out, the top is where the good stuff was. The higher pedigree cars, ones whose lineage could be traced for authenticity and originality and were extremely valuable. Mustangs, GTO’s Malibu’s, Nova’s, Impala’s and a few oddities just called out to me. Eventually Charlie and I reconnected with Charlie 1 and Pete and had a beer in the shade. It was old hat for them, I was blown away. I like cars in case you haven’t noticed. I also like people and there were so many cool ones to talk to. Including this guy…

Image may contain: 2 people, including Bill McIntire, people smiling, car and outdoor

Once we had talked to almost everyone there (or so it seemed) we went to the shore of Lake George which was at the edge of the fairground and had a late lunch. I was tired. Real tired. But the food was great and the view was better. After, we began the long walk back to motel.

I was done at that point and when talk arose about going back to the pier for appetizers and drinks I politely declined and went back to the room. I had 4 hours to myself but sleep eluded me. I was briefly interrupted when Rick came in and packed his stuff. He got a call from the wife and needed to leave. We said our goodbyes and as he roared off it occurred to me that I may have one bed to myself in his absence. I would later find out that Pete would fill that vacancy. When the guys came back, shitfaced, they all inquired if I got any sleep. They were surprised. 8 hours later when they all arose from another fart/snore fest they were again surprised to find that I had been up all night. Again. I myself was not surprised.

We set out after breakfast for the 200 mile ride home. We lost Pete and Charlie 2 halfway down and at the end it was just Charlie 1 and I. Soon it was just me.

I had time to reflect on the way home. I had done something normal. Nobody talked about dialysis even though they all knew. I had made friends. I had experienced life. I had taken risks and reaped rewards. I had created memories.

All because I said YES.

What may have been an annual event for them was a very big deal for me. While no one has any guarantees for a tomorrow, I have less odds than many. I needed to say yes, not “maybe tomorrow”, or “maybe later”. Life is happening all around me. When an opportunity arises…DO IT NOW.

It’s worse at night

It’s worse at night. But lately the days aren’t any easier.

The endless streams of FB posts of friends and family thriving in life. I watch them celebrate milestones, drinks and dinners with giant smiles on their faces. I am happy for them, I really am but it inevitable comes back to me as a reflection of my own situation.

I’ve been to two weddings recently where my only takeaway was “I wish I had that.”

2 years ago I thought I had lost everything. By all accounts I did. The only thing to survive the toppling of my entire former existence was my optimism. I had a resilient and omnipresent ability to look at my situation as a phase that would inevitably get better. After all, it has to doesn’t it?

It hasn’t. With the exception of a fleeting romance, it has all been going downhill emotionally and physically. That romance was a blessing. She was exciting, vibrant, sexually charged and above all it gave me hope. There was hope that we would bridge the distance and be together. I saw it as a new beginning, a chance at happiness. A beam of sunlight piercing the clouds of my every day existence.

For months I found excitement in the constant texts and phone calls. I found solace in our similarities and embraced our differences. I felt excited, giddy, loved, wanted, desired. I felt like I had a purpose again. I came to believe that we would be together one day.

Then it started to fade. She got sick. Plans changed. She was no longer willing to pick up everything and make a change. With me. Still. I remained emotionally invested. I loved her. She was my happily ever after. A shiny and sharp sword to fight my battles with. She gave me hope.

This morning I saw on my FB feed a picture of a guy on her page. The post was titled “This is love.”

A heads up would have been nice.

I suppose it wasn’t enough that I feel sick all the time. That I am lacking purpose. That I am uncontrollably envious at the happy people all around my island of solitude. That I am out of work, broke and dealing with the social stigma of living in my mother’s basement. I’ve now hit for the cycle and I get to add heartbroken to the mix.

It’s an act after all. To portray oneself as a Phoenix rising from the ashes when in reality you feel like just another burning ember that will eventually die out and end in obscurity.

I really need something positive to happen in my life right now. I’m not sure how many more hits I can take before I finally decide it’s not worth fighting anymore. I’m not sure how many more nights I can lie awake writing my own obituary in my head, wondering if the people in my life would understand if one day I just wasn’t around anymore.

Is this really as good as it gets?

Do it now…Day 2

On day 2, as the farters and snorers began to stir at about 7 AM, I found myself with a decision to make. Do I haul my sleepless ass out of bed and risk major personal injury or illness and go on the ride and get out of the trip what I had hoped or puss out and stay at the motel?

You can catch up here and here.

I chose to go with the guys and make some memories.

After breakfast we put on our gear, warmed up the bikes and headed up Rte 9N, a beautiful scenic road that would take us through our little corner of NY and into the farmlands of VT. The first stretch of road was a long climb followed by a hair-raising downhill full of treacherous curves. My riding buddies were going too fast around the corners for my taste so I took my time. When I came to the bottom I found them at a rest stop taking off their helmets. We socialized with each other, I was still getting to know them and we mingled with other travelers as they pulled in as well. The stop was on Lake George and were all getting pictures when an enormous Military Transport Jet appeared over the lake and gave us a show at not even 1000 feet over the hard deck. It was quite a sight. We buzzed about that for a while and then started traveling again.

The next stop was Fort Ticonderoga, a major landmark which I had never seen before. Then, an hour later we came to Lake Champlain and took a ferry across the lake into VT. I was wiped and found myself sitting on the hard concrete floor of the ferry next to my bike, enjoying the scenery. 30 minutes later we were in VT.

We spent the next 3 hours driving through the most beautiful countryside I have ever seen. Under the canopy of a cloudless sky we weaved through farm country as far as the eye could see. There were barely any cars, quite a few bikes and no people. We stopped for lunch at a cute and very busy roadside burger joint and I slurped down 2 cokes to stay awake. We discussed our route and the boys decided that it would be best for me in my present condition to shave a little off of the trip to give me a break . I was grateful. We soon grabbed the ferry at a different spot and re-crossed Lake Champlain.

The remainder of the ride was challenging. Charlie number 2 and Rick took off when we got to the highway and Charlie and I didn’t want to drive 100 miles per hour so we lost them (or vice versa). We rode 80 miles of highway so remote that the only traffic was trucks hauling grain, feed and oil. We then found Rte 9N again and made our way back. We never did reconnect with Speed Racers 1 and 2 so we took our time. We got back to the hotel just as it turned dark. We went to the bar and sure enough, there they were. We chatted for a while about our 320 total miles and the highlights that we saw but I was fading fast. I decided that I was going to find a motel room in the 5 mile strip of completely booked rooms and get some sleep. At that point I felt as if my life depended on it.

I went to Trivago and found one. It was right down the street and only 92 bucks! I immediately booked the room, told the fellas not to be offended but I needed sleep, and set out. The boardwalk of madness ensured that my 1 mile commute would take 30 minutes but I made it. I went in to find that I had booked for the following week. I asked the cute little Asian attendant if there was anything available. There was, a double at twice the cost. I handed over my credit card and said I’ll take it. Fuck it.

I couldn’t sleep at first. But somehow I scraped out 6 hours and before I knew it I was checking out and meeting the boys for breakfast. Today was to be a bit of a break. We were parking the bikes and walking to the car show.

I welcomed the respite.

To be continued...

Do it now…cont’d

I pulled into a gas station in Meredith, NH at exactly 12:30. You can catch part 1 here btw. Charlie wasn’t there yet so I went inside and bought some essentials to offset my sleepless night. 2 cokes and a Snickers. A sugar high was what the doctor ordered. When I came out, Charlie was waiting for me. We briefly discussed the route, 220 miles to Lake George with a stop to meet the other 2 guys who were coming from MA. We then took off.

The ride was beautiful. The sun was out and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. We whipped and weaved through the winding roads of Western NH into VT. Through our frequent stops, a virtual comedy played out as our compadres continued to fail to meet us at arranged stops. They were lost, despite having done this ride 10 years in a row. We finally met up in Killington, at a gas station where I first met Charlie (another Charlie) and Rick. I liked them immediately. We took off for the last 80 miles of our journey.

We stopped for dinner at a diner in the Adirondacks. As soon as we got there it became clear that they knew everyone there. A complimentary round of beers came to the table. I gave mine away and asked for a coffee. I was dead dog tired and fading fast.

The last leg of the trip was cold and a bit white-knuckle. My crew was more experienced than I and were going too fast for me on the dark roads. I barely kept up with them. My nerves were frazzled after almost 6 hours on the road.

When we finally got to the Village of Lake George it was evident that we had arrived at the party. The streets were full of classic cars, muscle and vintage, Street Rods, Rat rods, you name it. The streets were lined with people in lawn chairs cheering on the cars as they drove the strip in a loop. Apparently, the village issues a temporary permit for Thursday through Sunday for all the cars, street legal or not, to cruise the one strip and drive like maniacs if they want. The police just stand there and watch. I had never seen anything like it as we negotiated the bikes through the crowd blocking the motel entrance. I was overwhelmed.

We checked in and I was less than thrilled to find out that the four of us were sharing two beds. I am a terrible sleeper and was not looking forward to sleeping with another guy. I shook it off, hoping that a couple of drinks would knock me out enough to override what I suspected was going to be a massive snore/fart fest. We went to the bar.

It was like Cheers the TV show for these guys. They knew everyone and everyone knew them. Several rounds of drinks showed up at our table and I imbibed a little. We went back to the room and everyone passed out in their clothes. It was exactly the snore/fart fest that I thought it would be. I was up all night. I knew I was in trouble.

After breakfast I asked what the plan was. The plan was to do about 300 miles of beautiful riding through NY and VT. I had a decision to make. Do I take a chance and do the ride on no sleep in 2 days and risk getting real sick or do I puss out and stay at the hotel? They knew my situation and said they would understand if I couldn’t make it.

I thought about it for a while and decided that I would definitely regret not going. I had made it this far, I was going to experience all of it regardless of the cost. I showered and packed for what was going to be a really long day.

to be continued…

Do it now

Tuesday the text came through from Charlie. Charlie is the guy I bought my motorcycle from and we became friends and riding buddies.

We had a cancellation for Lake George this weekend, you in? We leave Thursday.

The Lake George Trip! He had mentioned this to me. 4 days of riding motorcycles and a huge car show. I was excited. Then I thought about it. I came up with about 50 reasons why I should say no. Some were legitimate, like missing 2 dialysis sessions was a big one. I texted him back and told him I couldn’t make it.

Then I thought about it. I didn’t even try to see if I could make it work. Had I even tried to change my schedule at dialysis or try to schedule an appt in NY? Apparently a year of Dr’s Appointments and a rigorous dialysis schedule had almost stolen my spirit. Almost. I texted Charlie back and told him that I needed until the next afternoon to decide.

The next morning I went to my clinic and sat down with the nurse manager Karen and told her that I had an opportunity to do a real bucket list thing and asked for her help. Within minutes it was agreed that I would come in the next morning at 6 am (as opposed to noon), skip my Saturday treatment and do Monday and Tuesday when I get back. Bada Bing Bada Boom. I was all set. I called Charlie and told him that I’m in. He was happy.

That afternoon I packed everything I would need for the trip. Rain gear, clothes, tools and snacks were loaded onto the bike. I had already polished her and topped off the oil. She was ready to go.

As luck would have it I didn’t sleep for a minute that night. I went to dialysis at 5:45 hoping I would catch a nap there. No such luck. When I left at 10:15 I was dead tired. I briefly entertained the notion of Chumping out but I didn’t. I got home, parked the truck, fired up the sled and drove an hour to meet Charlie. I had committed myself to accomplish this trip.

to be continued…

the reminders are everywhere

Last night I came home exhausted. Sometimes dialysis leaves me a crampy, washed out mess. Yesterday was one of those days. My sofa was calling my name. But it was not to be. Mom needed help.

We have contractors coming Saturday morning to rip the roof off of our garage and they needed us to get all of the junk in the upstairs of the garage moved to the back. It’s a project I’ve been planning but I was putting it off until the fall because in August the attic of the garage is blistering hot. I wasn’t about to make mom do it alone so I sucked it up and headed up.

It was hot. Africa hot. After a few minutes I was dripping. Ten sweaty, swamp-ass minutes later I was down to two unmarked cardboard boxes. I went over to them, dragged them from the overhang and opened them. They contained Dad’s miniature truck collection.

Dad drove a truck for 35 years. Retail home oil delivery. Over the road Gasoline hauling. He could legally drive anything with wheels. He loved trucks. By extension I did also. By the time I was 12 I could name any truck by name, model and approximate year by the headlights alone (still can). It wasn’t enough that he spent 60-65 hours a week driving, he also had to have his den covered with replicas of 18 wheelers with Wal-Mart, Harley Davidson, etc. markings. Dump trucks, concrete mixers, you name it he had it. Until he passed and my mom put them in storage. I had forgotten about them.

Many years ago Dad gave me some model trucks as presents. I brought them to work with me but they never had a proper place so they sat in the corner of my office in their boxes. When he passed in 2013 I broke down and bought a large bookcase for my office. I dedicated 2 large shelves to mementos of him. The trucks, a collectible baseball that he bought for me, a portrait of him and a license plate from 1929 that I found in my Grandfather’s garage. It was on his first car.

When people came in my office they were naturally drawn to my homemade shrine. It afforded me the opportunity to talk about my dad. Of course, its primary purpose was to inspire me when I was down. He taught me to work hard. To act with integrity. To always do what I say and do it well. To be a man that takes pride in what he does.

They look like just trucks. But they represent so much more to me. Hard work, dedication and pride. He may have been only a truck driver but he was the only one in his family to pull himself out of abject poverty and make something out of himself. And he did it by learning a skill, dedicating his life to it and raising his family through his efforts.

I will spend the day Sunday finding a place to display them again. I miss him more than words can ever express, but there is never a moment when I see a truck, real or model, that I don’t think of him.