Alone at Christmas

The holiday season is underway.  Halloween and Thanksgiving have passed and now Christmas is speeding towards me, then a whole New Year.

What will it be like?   Waking up Christmas morning with no presents to open, piled under a glowing Christmas tree.  Santa didn't slip in during the night to leave a Target gift card.  A broken family scattered across the country, all beginning new traditions for their holiday season.

I will wake up on Christmas Day in my own bed in my own home, probably alone, probably sleeping in.  I wonder how I will react.  Will I cry?  Will I treat it like any other day of the week?  A quiet day at home watching Christmas movies? Fixing a small Christmas dinner?  I don't know yet.

In all my years, I have never spent Christmas anywhere but "at home" with my parents.   Not my current home, but the one where I grew up.   The one where my Mother would be making chili.  My Father would be preparing for his morning role as Santa.  Waiting on the rest of the family to arrive.   Visitors stopping by with baked goods.  Looking at the chosen Christmas decor for the year.

Christmas is here, but it doesn't feel like the season.  I think I may be numbing myself for that morning.  Keeping my mind occupied with other activities like book two and three, getting rid of dusty stuff sitting around my apartment, changing my whole outlook on life.

I can hardly wait for the New Year.  A new beginning.  2014.   The year 2013 will be behind me.  I can start even more anew.  Focusing on the two most important goals I have ever challenged myself with: first, complete book three and one other, and second, find that someone to spend my life with.

I have deep faith that I will succeed.  If I survived 2008 and now 2013, then I can survive anything.

CSM

Pick Yourself Up, Robin

Here's a quote from Bugs Bunny that I think should be dedicated to the year 2013...  "Don't think it hasn't been a little slice of heaven... Cause it hasn't."  The year 2013 was filled with more loss than gain.  Unfortunately, my sister, Robin, won the prize for the most loss during the year, but fortunately, she may have hit bottom.  With full force.  And ass first.

It began with the news that Dad would be gone in six months.   We loved both our parents, but we had "our parent."   I was a Mama's boy, while Robin was Daddy's little girl.  We knew that last Christmas was literally the last Christmas for my Dad.  He wouldn't see another New Year beyond 2013.  Robin said goodbye to "her parent" on April 15th in the afternoon.   For me, the rest of the year was a bounce up.   But, for Robin, she didn't stop there.  She tumbled further downhill.

By early May, Robin found out, via a co-worker, that her only daughter had gotten arrested for being involved with someone operating a meth lab.  Jessica is what I call "a lost soul of the world."  She wasn't sure where to turn when times got tough. She took what she could and she got dealt a rough hand.  She'll find her way someday.   But for Robin, the only way to see her daughter is with a glass wall between them and a phone on the wall.   An actual court date has yet to occur, so Robin's wait continues.

Robin's next unforgiving task was to help clean out the home of our parents.  Cleaning out years of memories was no small task.  She had to prepare to say goodbye to the physical location, while grasping and recording all possible memories in her mind.   From the age of ten, she had experienced a lot at Rural Route 4 Box 125.   Not to mention, over the telephone line of 778-3717 that ended at that address.   The final parting was difficult.  It would never be the same.

By Fall came the final "icing on the cake."   She lost her home.  On one hand, it sounded like a shady deal; but on the other, it was the work of some unforeseen force.  Robin got the boot from an unseen someone, whether she wanted it or not.  To be forced out of a rut that she had been in for a while.   It was the home where she raised two kids, watched her husband part this world, and received the news of numerous family members deaths.  She faced a lot of work on a haunted house, whose spirits needed to be set free, including Robin's.

Although she's doing well (at least from what we can see), I still offer her these words...

Robin, our parents died, but we didn't.  They gave us life and expect us to live it.  As I've grown older, I've realized how time quickly flies. Mama has been gone now over five years, but worse, I can still remember Grandma Marshall's funeral from over 25 years ago.  Has it really been that long!?

We can't waste time on the trivial.  A place to live is important, but it is exactly that...  A place to live and it can be just about anywhere. It's not for mourning, or worrying, but for living and soaking in life.  Making every moment count as much as possible.  And remember it's not about stuff.  Get over the materialistic.  I have.

Make yourself some goals.   Make yourself do them.  Make yourself enjoy every moment.  Someday, you'll wake up and everyone that you've missed will be there to greet you.  But now is not that time.

CSM

Pity Friending: A Degrading Action

Recently on Facebook, I "updated my status" on the "news feed" about a phrase that I've coined, which I'm sure already exists.  It's call "pity friending." 

You may have heard of "pity f*cking", when a person has sex with you because they feel sorry for you, have no interest in you at all, and need to feel they've done some great honor for you so they feel better.  It's kind of like that.  They "friend" you, with no real interest in you, only because they need some ego boost or just want to name drop.

Can you tell this upsets me?  

I have set rules about Facebook.  I don't care for this new generation of Facebookers who have no idea what the word "friend" means.   All of my "friends" are truly that.  Friends whom I 've know in real life.   We went to school together.  We played together.  We worked together.   We became friends before the age of Facebook.  You know, back "in the day" when you talked to people at parties or church or the park or at school or at the local hamburger joint...

Don't get me wrong.  Facebook is a wonderful place.  I can connect with classmates, coworkers, and distant family.  It's a way to keep up with people that you care about.  I can support local businesses, musicians, writers, and other community stuff.  Those people can use the numbers to get grants, contracts, or event attendance to measure success.

I just can't stand those people who really just need their ego boosted by the number of "friends" they have.  Just because you've got over 1,000 "friends" doesn't impress me.

Grow a set, get out of your shell, and make me a "real" friend that you can care about, can count on, and like in person, then I'll "friend" you on Facebook.  Don't just "pity friend" me.  It's degrading.

CSM

Parental Opposites: Patience and the Lack Of

Mama was the patient, cool-headed kind that would be fair and honest until you really pushed her... in which case, when you reached that point, you better get the hell out of the way because all hell is about to bust loose.  Anyone whoever worked with my Mom I'm sure can tell their own stories.

I never remember my Mom being angry.  Mad, yes, but never angry.  In fact, I don't even remember my Mom ever getting angry.  I've often wondered what it would have been like. She was the silent type.  She held it in.  She never raised her voice.  She did slightly grit her teeth.  But most of all, she remained calm, cool, and collective in general.

My Dad, on the other hand, had a short temper and would fly off the handle.  He had control issues that I'm not sure he ever really managed to... well, control.   His fuse, when lit, wouldn't last long before some dramatic tirade would burst out.  My Dad had so little patience. I am not sure how we put up with him. My parents were married for over 50 years, and how they lasted still amazes me to this day.  

Looking at yourself in the mirror, who do you see?  In my case, I see a mix of my parents.  Apparently, I inherited the calm, cool, and collective spirit for dealing with life in general from my Mom, but then I think I got the rest from my Dad.

Thanks a lot! 

CSM

To Traci -- It's All about Trust -- Regards, Chris

My good friend Traci recently had a situation happen in her life where she basically felt burnt.  She'll correct me if I'm wrong, but I could see there was an issue and she needed reassurance.  Personally, I think it was about a matter of trust.

OK, it's confession time.  It's hard for me to feel like I can trust someone.  The feeling must have occurred somewhere deep in my childhood... Or maybe something more recent that I've never really addressed.  Regardless, trust for me has to be built and cultivated over time.  Some people can easily trust one another.  I'm not that easy, but once I do, I will do anything for you.

To go back to the basics... For starters, I began with a good old-fashioned method of understanding trust, I looked the word up in the dictionary.  Good old Merriam-Websters had something like this to say:  a belief that someone or something is reliable, good, honest, effective, etc.

It sounds so simple, like there should be no problem with this.  On one level, it is.  On another level, it isn't.  It comes down to this... Do you know the person or not? 

So Traci, if you don't know a person, you should start with the bottom line -- you don't have any trust in this person.  Zip. Zero. Zilch.  That person is a stranger.  You know nothing deep about this person at all.  Nothing.  Nil. Nada.  You can only rely on your instincts and gut feelings.  Prayer will also help in the case of flat tire on a deserted road, late at night.  In this case, I would allow "hope for the best."  You have nothing to loose if you are cautious.   At some point, a certain level of trust will be established.

On the flip side, it's worse when you thought you knew someone so well and then they hurt you.  Boom!  Kwack!  The trust is blown out of the water.  First, let me recommend you stop and ask yourself "Am I being oversensitive to someone's foolishness?"  I can be oversensitive-- an aspect of my personality that I'm working on, but has mellowed A LOT with age.  Then, question "How would my life be different without this person?"  You may be the same person you were before you meet them.  Those are two basic questions to think about.

With me, trust has to be built over time.   So, Traci, just remember you trusted someone and now that trust is gone, maybe for good, yet maybe not.   You have to decide.

I trusted you when we worked together and I still trust you now.

CSM

Pimples, Band, and The End of the World: The High School Years

High school!  Wouldn't go back to high school if my life depended on it!  Ah, those awkward years!  Dealing with pimples that you thought would never end.  Trying to memorize the Pythagorean theorem that your math teacher insisted that you must know for the rest of your life.  Hoping not to be taunted by the football jocks.

Going back to high school to me is like having a unclean horse sit on my dinner.  It's not a pleasant thought.  However, it wasn't all bad.

Pimples.  White-headed bumps that just seemed to appear on your face.  Waiting to be popped.  Gross.   What exactly was that white stuff that landed on the bathroom mirror when you popped it?  I try not to think about it.  Today, I am surprised that I don't have a pothole map on my face.  Pimples are now a thing of the past.   Thank goodness that's over.

On a talent note, I was in the high school band.  I actually began my musical career in middle school.   Mrs. Wall, a tall blond, arranged musical instruments in "the band room" and I went in and tried each one out.   I knew I was destined to become the world's great French horn player.  Performances at the Met, platinum albums, adoring fans screaming my name.   (Now, I look back and think... Right, the French horn...)  One day while practicing, I heard my back yard neighbor tooting on his trumpet out.   Much to the dismay I'm sure of the neighbors, dueling brass began between the two houses.  How long and loud could you blow your horn?   I'm not sure who won.  It was probably a draw.

High school was rough for me.  I didn't quite fit in.  I felt like an odd duck.  It wasn't until my junior year that realized my calling.  In hindsight, it was the starting point for my trip down the road of arts and culture.   French class turned out to the boost I needed to say "Hey I can actually learn something I like."  From there, I began to blossom and knew education of some sort would be in my future.  Many thanks to one encouraging French teacher and one very patient math teacher.   Both taught me I could earn a good grade.

Now I look back at those high school years and think "What I would give if my worst worry was a pimple for prom?"   Or "What the hell is the Pythagorean theorem used for and why was it so important?"  (I don't remember it) Or even better, "OK, how many of you jocks are now overweight, beer drinkers, or even better, turned out to be gay?"

CSM

A Single Traveler

Note:   I wrote this several days ago, so I am not sitting at Starbucks. 

Right at this moment I am sitting at a window counter in a Starbucks on Michigan Avenue in Chicago.  Twilight is here.  Out on the sidewalk, people are rushing by. Hailing cabs.  Checking in or out of their hotel.  I see them, but they don't look at me. They just walk by looking at their Androids, iPhones, staring down at the grey pavement.  I wonder what they are thinking about?  Dinner?  Just getting home?  And what are they looking at on their deviecs?   Email? Text messages?  The news?  This blog...  I wish.

It's cool out, not cold, but enough for the felt caps and knitted scarves.  I see they've dug out their heavier jackets from the back of their closets. Winter is coming.  Chicago at this time is starting to look festive for the holidays.  Christmas lights, trees, wreaths are all starting to show up.  Earlier when I walked by, I noted that Macy's Department Store was decked out, ready for the holiday season.

I take in the whole scene.  I'm here near the Miracle Mile, wishing for a miracle.  It's hard sometimes to take in the scenery alone, but I do it.  Watching the people.  The other singles. The cuddling couples. The ragged families.  All scurrying by to their destinations.

It's hard to travel alone, but it's harder to justify not traveling at all.

CSM

Chicago! Part One

Well, I've been wanting to try my hand at travel writing... So here goes.

I just spent 2.5 days in or near Chicago. (The half day being Sunday and wanted to avoid the hurricane that was a'comin'.) 

First I want to say this about Chicago... What a great city!  Lively.  Bustling.  Windy.  Museums.  Shopping.   Starbucks on every corner.  And lots of handsome faces... If you're into that...  Which I am... 

I arrived in the Indiana suburbs and parked at my friend's house.  From there, I walked over to the South Shore, bought a ticket from a faceless machine in no time, and boarded the arriving train.  The timing was perfect.  I had checked the schedule beforehand, so I knew what to expect. The trip to my first stop lasted all of twenty minutes or so.

Getting off at the 55/56/57th street station, I had arrived in the big city.  Racing past enclosed waiting areas, I found the descending stairs, then the streets, and in no time stood in front of the Museum of Science and Industry.  It was heavenly to see those large banners with a giant Mickey Mouse beckoning me in...  Taunting me to the exhibit Treasures from the Walt Disney Archives...  Ahhhhh... I could feel their presence.  Inside those stone walls, somewhere in a guarded gallery, I was about to be made love to.   Seduced by the lure of stage props, original costumes, and delicious memorabilia. 

And sure enough, after paying the entrance fee, grabbing a guide map, waiting until my assigned time, I found myself within inches of Walt Disney's desk.  And awards including two gold shiny Oscars.  Then, be still my heart, the original knob from the bed in Bed knobs and Broomsticks.  I was one degree of separation from Angela Lansbury.  Hey, she touched it.  Watch the movie.

I swayed and swooned over the carpet bag carried by Mary Poppins and the coat and hat she wore.  The blocks that spelled out her name.  Captain Jack Sparrow's outfit.  Mechanical figures from The Magic Kingdom's Haunted Mansion.  The prop Nautilus from 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. I staggered, drunk with awe...

I felt sorry for the security guard who really thought I was drunk.  "Ha!", I said.  "Drunk like hell, I'm having an orgasm."

But most of all, I felt sorry for the poor cleaning woman.  She cleaned loads of my drool and slobber from the Plexiglas cases as I pressed my nose against them to get as close as I could.  Poor thing... I hope they gave her a bonus for the day.

CSM

Ordinary People: The Closing Scene

In the closing scene of the film Ordinary People, Donald Sutherland's character is sitting on the hard cement porch slab next to a very young (and cute) Timothy Hutton who is playing his son.  Sutherland says to Hutton a line that goes something like this (but not exactly quoted):

"I never had to be hard on you, because you were always hard on yourself."

Confession time:  I cry when I hear that line.  I don't sob, just get teary eyed.  It is a movie line that speaks to me.  One sentence that I relate to so much that it brings tears.

My parents never really punished me, not that I recall.  They never had to.  I always punished myself for not being better, for not succeeding, for not exercising the needed patience.  And my personal punishment was always worse when I failed or imagined that I screwed up.

I have yet to learn not to be hard on myself.   Not to punish myself when I don't even know if I did something wrong.  And at times, when it wasn't even my fault.

Stopping and pondering this thought, I have to ask myself.  Where does it come from?  The high expectations or standards that I have built for myself.  It's one of those questions that I can't seem to answer.  It reminds me of dust bunnies that you try to get but the just keep rolling along the floor because some invisible air flow pushes them along...  Damn!  I even get hard on myself over that.  I should be able to get that thing.

Other people's levels don't bother me.  Those are theirs to own regardless of how high or low they are.  My standards are for me.  Is it some fantasy that I've built for myself?  Try to reach as high as possible.  Get that A so I can prove something.

Maybe my expectations for myself will mellow with age?  Pffft!  Great... Maybe when I'm 80!

CSM

Life Goes On: It's More Than Just a Great Beatles Song

I spent the other evening with my dear friend Elaine.  At my apartment, she kindly took some new photographs of me in writer mode, then we headed to dinner on Massachusetts Avenue, followed by dessert.

While enjoying some frozen yogurt with hot fudge, I chatted about how different my life is now, in contrast to a year ago.  I said to her:

"I didn't realize how different my life was, until the other morning...

I got in the shower and I'm standing there under the warm water, when I heard someone humming.  I thought "Who's humming?!"  Did someone get into my apartment?  Is Norman Bates about to strike?  And what an interesting introduction... to come into the bathroom and hum while I'm washing what remains of my hair.  Then I realized  it was me.  I was the hummer.  I'm not even sure what I was humming.  Probably some old tune from the 40s. It was a happy tune.

That was the moment I realized life had gone on.  And there I stood in the shower, still alive, having the chance to continue along the road of life, searching for my nirvana.  My Shangri-La.  I was happy."

Elaine compassionately listened.  She's a wonderful listener, especially when I need someone to listen.

"Being myself by being out and about.   Looking for love in all the wrong places, but at least I'm looking.  Getting rid of the old habits that aren't working.   It's tough, but I'm doing it.  Letting go.  And not caring about when the other shoe drops."

Elaine simply smiled.

Frank Capra and James Stewart were right. It is a wonderful life. No matter how much was/is thrown at me. I still survived. I will survive. (Thank you, Gloria Gaynor.)

CSM

My Fears, Part One

I've decided to try this.  Let's see if it works.  Let's see what happens.  Instead of keeping my fears to myself, I've decided to shout... well, at least, write some of them and throw them out there.  From there, I can work on them, get over them, and move on.

My Fears:

1) The fear of dying before I get everything done that I want to do.  Well, I can't stop it from happening, but I can chose the most important stuff to accomplish.

Steve Jobs said it best...

“Remembering that I'll be dead soon is the most important tool I've ever encountered to help me make the big choices in life.  Almost everything--all external expectations, all pride, all fear of embarrassment or failure--these things just fall away in the face of death, leaving only what is truly important."

2)  The fear of rejection.  (Eyes rolling)  Whatever...  Get over it.  If I get rejected, there are always other fish in the sea.  Just keep going up to guys and say 'Hey, I'm Chris.  What's your name?"   I am conquering my fear of rejection by asking some totally cute guys "Hey. Let's get a drink sometime... It's just a drink. I'm not asking you to marry me... yet... Maybe after a few drinks... just kidding..." 

And besides, Steve Jobs said it best...

"Remembering that you are going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose. You are already naked. There is no reason not to follow your heart."

3)  The fear of change.  Too late. I've changed so much in the past few months. Some of it forced.  I had to face my own mortality. 

And once again, Steve Jobs said it best...

"No one wants to die. Even people who want to go to heaven don't want to die to get there. And yet, death is the destination we all share. No one has ever escaped it, and that is how it should be, because death is very likely the single best invention of life. It's life's change agent. It clears out the old to make way for the new.”

4)  The fear of not finding another quote so perfect!  Steve Jobs provided the best quote ever to help me think about my fears.   They're really not worth fearing.  Thanks, Mr. Jobs.

CSM

 

"What Now?" by Ann Patchett

Many thanks to Ann Patchett and her newer book, "What Now?"  It's a great little book, only 97 pages.  I read it in an hour.   Patchett reflects back on her life about where she had been to get where she is now.  It made me think about my own life, the road that got me to this point, and where do I go from here.

As Patchett told her story beginning with college and then flowing into real life, I began to think about all the people who influenced me, pointed me in one direction then another, supported me, and gave me what I needed but didn't know it at the time.   Some may never have known that they did influence me.  Others I've thanked in person.

Of course, there were my parents and my sister, but there were others as well. 

First, my high school French teacher Madam Koch who gave me my first A.  After that, my life began.  I was good at something -- reading, writing, and speaking French.  While math and science remain my bitter enemies, I found that language, history, the arts, and writing to be my fortes.  Even though I haven't seen her in years and I'm no longer in high school, she will always be Madam Koch.  I think by now we can be on first names basis...  Thanks, Janet.

Second would be Penny.  Although she herself has remained stuck in a historic imprint in her life, she reminds me, without saying one word, that life has to go on.   By watching her inability to move on, I see something that I don't want to do...  Not move on.   Life flies by and I'm worried that I won't have enough time.  Penny also read the very early scribblings of my first book and basically said "Keep working at it."  Thanks, Penny.

Third, without any question, I choose J.D.   His real name is James David, but I've known him as J.D. all my life.  His brother, Oren, influenced the path of my life as well.  I wrote about him in another post.   J.D., without his knowing it or saying much, showed me that life can be a blast, if you take chances and see the world.  We may not agree on where to go, what (or who) to do and see, but it's the point that I'm not sitting here rotting that's important.   Thanks, J.D.

That's a good start on the Thank Yous.  There will be others.

CSM

Dumping "The Tried and True Ways"

For years now, I've believed in systems that aren't leading anywhere but to needless self-destructions.  I have followed them for years.   Trusting in them, believing in them, continuing to follow them.

They are no longer useful because they have gotten me nowhere but endless grief.   It's time for those "tried and true ways" to be gone.  Be damned with them.  Send them to hell.  Let them leave me.  In my mind, I have started erasing them.  Wiping the slate clean of them. 

No more will I be bound to them.   No longer will I accept the "hope for the best, expect the worse" mentality.  It. is. unacceptable.

Picture cards, fortune words, serenity prayers, carved stones -- all be gone. 

I am me.  I have power.  I will succeed.  If not down one avenue then I will choose another. 

I will succeed in my goals.

God -- feel free to shut windows, close doors, but be aware that I will find a way out.  You gave me this soul and body to use for this time.  Please don't be against me.  Guide me.  Out of all the other "tried and true ways", you are the only one I'm keeping.  I know you're a good guy.  Otherwise, I wouldn't keep you either.

Mom and Dad -- I did my best to please you, but I can't do it anymore. However, I need you more than ever.  I can't go this alone.  I'm changing with or without you.  I've unleashed myself.  I've broken away and wondering in the darkness.  There are lights, but I am often blinded by them.  Keep sending me the signs.  I heard the one the other day and I will follow it.  Scared, but will keep moving.

My fears have a strong hold on me.  They have to go to.   I can't be afraid anymore.  I just can't.

Ramblings.   Ramblings of a kind and loving person who needs to be needed.

CSM

To Chris -- Hope for the Best! -- From Martha

Wednesday morning, it rained.  My head hurt. I wasn't feeling good.   I was suffering from the blues.  If it had been Monday, I could've sang that old Carpenters song.

To make a long story short, I was feeling hopeless.   I had finished book two, working on book three, and was pulling up old emotions for a another book that has no relation to my trilogy.  I wondered if other writers went through this same emotional flat line.  It was really a dumb question because the answer was "Yes, they do."

So, there I sat at work, reading the morning newspaper, wishing for a miracle or at least a few words of wisdom, when it happened.

Martha Stewart.  Martha Stewart happened.  The perfectionist had been in town to give a talk.  Oh how much I adore her... and hate her... and love her... yet can't stand the sight of her.  But, I digress.

Martha was quoted as saying "I wrote my first book at 40, my first magazine at 50" and then something weird about her gynecologist telling her she was "a late bloomer."   That was all I needed.   I realized why I like Martha so much.  We were both late bloomers.  I wrote my first book when I was 40...  Hmmm... Maybe I should plan on my first magazine at 50.    What should I write about? Writing?  How to be happy?

Well, whatever it might be, thanks Martha.  You said something that made me happy.  Despite the rain, I can see clearly.

And to quote you, "it's a good thing."

CSM

 

Anxiety! A Live Thing

A friend of mine is playing the waiting-game.  As we sat at lunch, she told me she's just waiting for the phone to ring at any moment and have someone tell her that her Mother had passed away.   Although she may not feel it, but I'm willing to bet she's got more anxiety than she realizes.  I remember those days.  I have a lot of empathy for her right now.

Waiting for that call.  Pacing the floor.  Wondering at what moment will it happen.   I can't decide which is worse.   Getting an unexpected phone call or the one that you've been waiting for.  Neither are good.

It's been one whole year, twelve months, since last October.  I can still see my Father sitting in the doctor's examination room, looking like a tired and weak old man.  His pants baggy, held up by suspenders because he had lost so much weight. His cheeks sunken in and his gums all flappy because he couldn't wear his dentures anymore.   He had lost even more hair.  This old man didn't look like my Father, but it was.

The doctor told us "You're kidneys are almost shut down.  They're working at only about ten percent."   I could tell we were living on borrowed time and from that moment on, we would be playing the waiting game.  Waiting for the time for him to go.  Outside of the examination room, I asked the big question.  "How long?"   The doctor's gut feeling was "six months."   And sure enough -- six months and about two weeks.

The moment that it happens.   You break down.  I'm not so sure it's over the final moment. Nor is it grief.  I think it's from sheer mental and physical exhaustion.  This was the moment that you had waited for.  The moment you fretted about.  The moment that the call came.  The moment had now come and gone.  No more waiting. 

That's when you notice it.   Your body loosens up.  Tension levels go down.  It had built over so much time that it crept up on you.   By then, the stress has taken its toll and you're a physical and mental mess without ever knowing it.  Until it was too late.   Now, you spend the next year repairing all the damage, hoping that it's not too bad.

CSM

A Letter to My Father

Dear Dad,

I always called you "Father."  Until the later years, then I called you Dad more.  I think we became closer by then, even though we were always close.

The past few months have been hard, but not in a pull-out-my-hair kind of hard.  Thanks for making your estate as easy as possible.  The mortgage company got the house.  I'm fine with that.   It took a huge load off my mind.  It was hard to hand it over.  Total strangers selling it.   Who knows who will buy it -- I know that prayed on your mind.

We had so many great times there.  Robin's mentioned she didn't like it at first when they family moved there, but I think she got used to it and it became home.   For me, it was the home I always knew.   I remember my crib being in yours and Mama's bedroom.  It's only a flash of a memory, but it's there.

So, fall is on its way.   I had a much needed vacation. The holidays are coming.  I'm not sure how I'm going to handle it.  Christmas was always your holiday.   You were the master of ceremonies.  Remember that year the you switched names on Jennifer Kay's and my presents?   You really had us fooled that year.  Of course, I know you like to tell the story about a baby Chris pulling off the tags so you had to play the guessing game.  Or knocking off the red balls so the tree was bare around the bottom.

Aunt Carolyn isn't doing too well.  I'm kind of preparing myself for you to come get her.   I know the day will come.  I haven't actually seen her for a while.  I sometimes think I should visit her, but I'd rather remember as she looked when I was going up.   She still sounds the same on the phone.

Anyway, I wanted to talk to you about something.   Even though you made me really mad at times, I want you to know that I really loved you.   You did so many great things for me.  You encouraged me.  Sometimes, you did drive me nuts when you thought I should do one thing and I wanted to do another.  You helped with the first couple of years of college, lent me a car to get there, tried to always get me what I wanted for Christmas.   You were and still are a great Dad.  You're weren't perfect, but I think you did the best you could with what you knew.  Of course, I was the youngest of three, so you had two others to practice on.

As far as I'm concerned, I couldn't have asked for a better Dad.  You and Mama did a great job.

I miss you.

Christopher the Third

A Letter to My Mother

Dear Mother,

It's funny to think that I called you "Mother."  Never "Mom", sometimes "Mama."  I always thought of "Mother" as an endearing title.  I also thought it provided more respect.

Oh, I wanted to say thank you right off the top of the bat.   I just know it was you that said "Why don't you write a book" that early morning.  After all, I was thinking about you and all of your books when I got the idea.  Book one is out there and now I'm onto book two.  It's almost ready for the world.

I can't believe that five years have past.   It doesn't seem possible.  Of course, now Dad's with you and who knows what you two are doing.   I was right.  Somehow I knew when you went he would follow within five years.   To be honest, I never really stopped morning.  It just transferred from you to him a couple of years after you.  Somehow, I just knew he wouldn't be around much longer.  

Can you believe that it's been a year since Uncle Dick died.  And almost a year for Uncle Ron.  It makes me realize how time flies.  I never fully understood that when I heard people talking about it, but when I turned 40, it really hit.

Well, we've got to go through our first Christmas without either of you.   I started my own Thanksgiving tradition and I'm fine with it.   This Christmas will be so hard.   I think I'm more worried about Robin than anyone else.  And maybe John.   Dad's with you. The house is gone, so no Christmas morning rituals.   Jess is in jail.  I'll have to keep tabs on her.   We're planning a family get together the weekend before Christmas as a new tradition.

Anyway.

Gotta go.

Love ya.  Miss ya.

Christopher the Third

Reviewing My Recent Past

The other day, I sat reviewing my recent past, not long past, but back to the late summer.   As you may recall, I posted about what friends mean to me.   Defining a friend vs. an acquaintance.  Getting rid of a person out of my life.  All that jazz from a few posts back.

Well, here I am, a few weeks later.  A vacation has come and gone.  The completion of my second book.  Parting with my childhood home.  The fear of cancer.  You know, just a few minor things...

I still wonder if I did the right thing.  Pushing someone out of my life.  I hated it.  I still hate it.  I've only done it a couple of times before with the same question -- Am I doing the right thing?

Let me say this...  Who the hell knows!  I might have dodged a bullet.  This year has sucked in many ways!  It actually started last September with the death of Uncle Dick, followed by Uncle Ron in December.  In October, a year ago, I sat in the Doctor's office with my Father who looked like a frail old man.   Now that I think back, he didn't even really look like the man I grew up with.  He looked like an old man.  A skinny, bald, no-teeth frail old man who seemed to age over night.
 
Outside the office door, I asked the Doctor. "What's your thoughts?"
He looked past me.  "Six months.  That's my gut feeling."
A year has come and gone since that day. 

And six months it was.  April 15th at 2:30 in the afternoon.

Since then, I've started making new friends and having new experiences.  And personally, I feel great!   Just today, I was at work, minding my own business, when I heard someone humming.  My co-worker turned to me and said "What are you all cheery about?"  It was me.  I was humming.  A simple happy tune.

So, now I sit here wondering "Did I do the right thing by pushing someone out of my life?"

In relation to everything else that has happened, it doesn't matter.  But the real answer is no.  I didn't.  I should never push people away not matter how angry they make me.  In this case, he was there for a reason.   To make me angry.  I haven't been that angry at someone in a long time.  I wasn't just angry over one incident.  I was angry over several incidents over time with the same person.  It had accumulated to the one-last-straw.

I also know that I have moved on to bigger, brighter, and maybe more important adventures.

And so the phoenix life's end and a new one emerges from the ashes.   I feel that way, but every once in a while, I have to review the past to remind myself of where I'm going.

CSM

A Few Words about Destiny

Looking back over my life, I began to realize that early on my destinies were set for me from an early age.  During my whole "growing-up" period...

OK, I have to stop there for a moment.  Do we ever really stop growing up?   I don't remember there being anything about completely growing up.   Growing old isn't an option...  I'm sorry, but "growing up" is an option.  Of course, there's a difference between "being child-like" and "being childish."  It's a fine line that you have to walk.  It's a fact.  Use it as you wish.

Anyway, I digress.

During my younger days (that's sounds better), I had shelves packed with books, neatly and tidily organized.  Especially paperbacks.  I've parted with some. Many of them are still with me.   Some well-read with worn spines and bent corners. Others crisp and clean, not because I didn't like them, but because they had better bindings.

When I revisit them, pulling them from the shelves that hang above my closet doors, gently blowing the dust off, I can see the "signs." Signs of my future life.   Rotting masking tape on the lower spine with a faded hand-written number.  I remember organizing them by putting a number on the outside using that masking tape.  As I open the cover of one of the Disney children's series, inside is a blue number written with a felt-tip marker was the corresponding number.   A young librarian in the making...  And now, many years later, I am surrounded by books and DVDs and Cd's and magazines...  Oh my!  It's truly the book/information lover's orgasm. 

The other sign began with a book on the Loch Ness Monster and an episode of Scooby Doo.  I remember reading a thin paperback on Nessie, then, at the age of eight, deciding to write my own book and start a small publishing company in my Mother's sewing room.  At the time, I was totally unaware of copyright law or plagurism as began to basically rewrite the book by hand on old loose-leaf paper and staple them together.  I also "borrowed" the illustrations.  The other half of this story revolved around an episode of Scooby Doo where they gang meets the Addams Family.   Complete with crayoned illustrations, I wrote myself into the episode.   Both have gone with the wind, but the effect lives on.

Becoming a librarian and a writer seemed to written in my stars.  I just hope that the stars also planned on offers to buy the movie rights to my books.

CSM

 

The End of a 44 Year Old Relationship

The other day, I ended a 44 year old relationship... Not with a person, but a place.  I feel sad, yet free, at the same time.

The day has come to hand over the deed to a unfamiliar stranger. 

I may keep something... The worn key that opened the door to a now quite place that was always there.   A familiar loving place.   A safe and secure place.  The hallowed place where I learned to walk, talk, play, cry, grow, and eventually leave to find my place in the world. 

There was always the option of coming back to feel the familiar security.   Into the safety of the four walls called "home."  Now, no longer, taken from the list.  A vast void that will need to be refilled.

The home were Mom and Dad lived.  Where they welcomed you back home every Christmas.  Every Mother's Day to tend the flower beds.   Every Father's Day for cooking out on the grill.   Every birthday with or without presents.  And even when there was no occasion, just to stop by and visit.

Now, the gas grill is gone.  The once-well tended flower beds are overgrown with weeds.   The Christmas tree laying in parts on the garage floor, soon to be taken away.   The small shed rotting on its foundation no longer serves a purpose.  The clothes lines waiting for new duties of holding up sheets to dry in the warm summer breeze.

And now Mom and Dad have departed.   The once loved-filled home is an empty and silent shell.  The comfy furniture is gone.  The washstand and kitchen cabinet from the family farm now stand in new places in a new home.  The generations of dishes all packed and loaded.  The soft warm beds with woolen blankets and patchwork quilts taken away.   The path-stained carpet has recesses where the round feet of tables one stood.  The rooms sound hollow and lonely when you walk across the bare hard-wood floors.

I can remember the corner of the closet where I would hide.   The attic where I stashed treasures.   The living room floor where I played. 

Although the physical walls are no longer a safety option, my memories live on. I have plenty to keep me warm and comfy when I need them.

Bless this home and all it meant to me.  It was a great 44 years.

CSM

A Year Worth Living

Let's me start by saying this...  I am still full of hope.  Hope for the future, for something better, for that someone to come into my life, and for a better life.  No crazy suicidal thoughts of any kind.

I'll continue by saying this... Recently, I think I've worn myself into a uncomfortable rut.  I don't think it's too deep yet, so I have hope of getting out of it.  But I worry.  That I may not come out of it and I may stay there.  Languishing.   Not meeting my full potential.  And then die.  Yep... Kick the bucket.  Buy the farm.  Kiss it all goodbye.  Such drama!

After my Mother died, and now after my Father died, I realized that I, too, will die.  When?  Who knows.  How?  Who knows.   Where?  Who knows.  Who the hell does know?  Maybe in some great big library in the sky it's written, but I can't get there and look it up.   It's out of my hands, so no need to fret. I can only hope that I'm having wild passionate sex with some totally hottie when my time comes...  So, what are ya gonna do?

I do know this.  I can tell you that doesn't matter, but it does matter about the rut. 

From out of this rut-emerging desire came a lost/forgotten idea.  Something that I used to do on an annual basis. Create "A Year Worth Living" statement.

My definition of "A Year Worth Living" statement is this:  it's a statement that keeps me going, gives me a reason to get out of bed in the morning.  Maybe a quote that really strikes me like "To be or not to be, that is the question."  Or how about "Life's a banquet and most son-of-a-bitches are starving to death."  Maybe a sentence I wrote that summarizes what I want out of life at that time.  Like "I want marry into a rich family."  Or "I'm going to be a great American novelist." 

Whatever it is, it's my phrase that keeps life interesting for the upcoming year.  I used to write them and use it as my guiding light.   I stopped writing them a couple of years ago...  And yes, I noticed a difference.  I felt like I lacked direction.  And so, it's time to resurrect this idea.

And my statement for the rest of 2013 and through 2014 will be...  Ummm... Well...  Let me think about this... I'm going to write my own.  I can tell you that.   I'm going to take sometime and think about it.  In other words, you'll have to check back.   Sorry.

CSM

Sunny Florida!

My Grandma and Grandpa Marshall visited my Aunt Betty for the first time in the, maybe, later 1960's/early 1970s.  I don't really know that part of the story because I've never heard it, but what I do know is that they loved it.   They purchased a typical mobile home and made Land O'Lakes their winter home.  I fondly remember that black and white mobile home with the little shed in the back, built by my Uncle Dick.   The screened-in porch with the AstroTurf.   The fake-wood paneling.  The smell of moth balls.  I miss it.

In order to save on the telephone bill, my Father purchased a tape recorder or someone gave it to us and we taped hour-long conversations that were sent to Florida.   In a few weeks, we would get a tape back in the mail.  While they got to hear me tell the story about a woman I saw in a movie getting boiled in oil or listening to my Sister play a song on Grandma's electric organ, we heard about Otis and Earlene, Lutz, Padgett Lake, fishing, and someplace called Tarpon Springs and another called Disney World.

Being very young, during the diaper period, I remember only one part of our bus trip to Florida, but nothing else.  One of my earliest memories involved a man in a hat and a balloon.  The man was the bus driver who gave me a balloon. I have looked at the photos of me wading in the water.   Looking at animals in a local zoo.  Playing in the sand.   My Father liked to talk about how my diaper would come off, so they finally let me run nude through the water. I don't think I could get away with that now...  At least not on any beach.  I remember very little of that first trip to Florida. 

However, what I feel is different.

Florida was the place where Grandma and Grandpa lived.  I have deep-rooted feelings, an insatiable yearning, to visit there.  A place to go and rekindle the memories.  A great destination to visit the Grandparents I barely knew, whose only presence there now is a headstone with their names, birth and death dates.   Yes, I knew a lot about them, but never really got to know them.  To me, they seem like distant relatives, unlike my Sister who adored them.  It's that generational gap.

When they sold their home here in Indiana and moved to Florida  permanently, I only saw them once or twice a year after that.  I was young, maybe eight.  As a family, we would visit them at least once a year.  I loved our trips to Florida.  From when I was just a toddler, Florida was a far away place.  Not like home.  They had palm trees, sandy beaches, and salty sea air.   Aw, the smell of Florida.   Stopping at the welcome center just south of the state line.   You would get out of the car and Woof!  That Florida Smell.  I can't really describe it.  I haven't had the opportunity to smell it recently to describe it here.

Some people really hate Florida.  Not me.  There's nothing more exciting then hearing the waves wash against the sandy beach.   My favorite beach was at Fred Howard Park in Tarpon Springs.  I never knew who Howard was, but love his park! This oblong patch of island, connected by a concrete causeway, thrusting out to the gulf.  As I recall, never go without sandals until you hit the water.  The pavement will burn your feet.   The sand will burn your feet.  The water feels great.  Running your toes through the wet sand, feeling the warm gulf waters rush around your ankles as you wade.     Watching sand crabs scurry into the little holes.   Getting a few burrs on your feet.  But you know what... Who cared!   It's Fred Howard Park and I loved it.

CSM

Is It Cancer?: A Rite of Passage

I experienced a rite of passage, ushering in a even newer layer thinking about life.

I went to the dentist to inquire about something in my mouth that was not clearing up.  After Magic Mary's Mouthwash didn't touch it, he sent me to an oral surgeon.

After making an appointment and arriving on time, there I sat in the oral surgeon's waiting room.   By now, some depression had sunk in.  What would he say?   How would I react? 

To understand fully this situation, you must know that my Mother had died of oral cancer.   She never drank.   She never smoked.  So, everyone was really surprised when it showed up.   I spent many an hour wondering about how she contracted oral cancer.  Was it something she ate?   Was it the toothpaste?  Sodas?  What was it?

A couple of years ago, I finally found what I believe to be the answer.   Somewhere deep inside my gut I knew exactly what it was, but it took time for it to surface from my subconscious to my conscious.   By now, I am rather educated on oral cancer.   One of the biggest causes is smoking.  The carcinogens in cigarettes are one of the main causes.  But my Mother never smoked...  Smoke...  Smoke...  Smoke... Could it be?

Behold, I found my answer through a simple Google search.   Smoke from wood fires.  My Mother worked around a lot of wood fires.  Breathing in its smoke almost on a daily basis.  Smoke from wood fires contain the same amount, and even more, of carcinogens as cigarettes and, in some cases, a vast number of harmful chemicals.  At last, I had found some piece of mind. 

And now, here I sat in an oral surgeon's office for an initial exam of something in my mouth.   To say I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown is an understatement.   Not only was on the verge, but I was extremely on edge.  Ready to cry... and cry.... and cry...  Your body that you control, and yet have little control over, can be cruel not matter how you treat it.

Within a few moments of my arrival, the assistant came and got me, led me to a typical dentist work area, where I sat in a blue vinyl chair with a typical paper bib.  Waiting.  Waiting.  Waiting.   Finally, I closed my eyes and took myself to my happy place.  I had to.  I needed to.   Floated away from reality into my fantasy world.   I had an epiphany about why people use drugs, alcohol, and other abusive habits -- Escape.  Get away.   Run away.

Ten minutes passed when the oral surgeon arrived.  He was a tall middle-aged man.  Blue scrubs.  Salt and pepper hair.  Glasses.  We talked.  I told him about my Mother, smoking, drinking, and wood fires.   And then it was time to open wide.   I had already done some research and looked at hundreds of photos via Google images to see if I could find some peace of mind.   As you can imagine, I saw a lot, fretted a lot, and got scared a lot. 

It's natural.  It's part of what happens when you feel like you are losing control.

It's not oral cancer...  It's not oral cancer...  You don't smoke.   You rarely drink.  And more importantly, you don't work around smoky fires.   Over and over those words went through my head right up to the moment, he pulled out his wooden Popsicle stick and said...

"I'm pretty sure it's what they call oral lichen planus," he announced.  "It's benign.   We'll do a biopsy to confirm, just in case."  

I already knew all about OLP.   It's going to be more of an annoyance than anything else.

CSM

A rust proof casket? Really?

Going to the funeral home was really stressful. My Father had died and I had to prepare for his final departure.  After my Mother, this was easier.  But, I also found this trip to the funeral home different.

First, I just have to say, like with my Mother, this was not the last time I would see my Father.  I'm not a church-going or Bible/Quran-beating or hellfire and brimstone kind of guy.  In other words, I'm not religious, but I am highly spiritual.   Just because you die, doesn't mean that's it.  You're just off on some new adventure.

Second, the funeral director told me something I just couldn't help but laugh at...  Now really think about this after you read it...   The casket that my brother picked out for my Father is made of steel.  A robin-egg blue steel casket....  Guaranteed not to rust...  Yep.  That's part of the guarantee.  Not. To.  Rust.

Really!?   Really?!   And just how do they guarantee that it won't rust???  Will the company be coming by in a year, dig up my Father, and check it?  Do they add this onto the cost?  Just how do you guarantee that?   If it does rust, do I get money back?   Can I request a refund?

Funerals are for the living.   Most people wouldn't disagree.  It's time to say goodbye to a loved one, bury their remains, go home, and move with the new pattern of life.  My Father wanted a cheap funeral.

"I think I may be cremated.  It's such a waste to buy a casket," he would say. 

"Only if you put it in writing," I responded, thinking of how my sister and his girlfriend would respond.  I knew both would pitch a fit.  If that's what he wanted, and he put it in writing, that's what I would have done.  Personally, I didn't care.

I don't want to be cremated.  I can't stand the heat.   But then, I hear my Father's voice in my head.

"What do you care? You'll be dead."  In which case, maybe I will with instructions to scatter me on the Seven Seas Lagoon at Walt Disney World.

With that, I return to the guarantee of a casket being rust-proof.  If it rusts, so what.   Nobody's going to know.  And besides, you're dead and you'll never know.

Silly casket company!

CSM

Angry, He Wrote!

I've been on this "Murder, She Wrote" kick. (Aka M.S.W.) Currently, I'm half way through season nine.  I can't resist watching Angela Lansbury/Jessica Fletcher running around solving mysteries like it was nothing.  She has a constantly-running video-recorder for a mind. I can't imagine being that mental and remember things like someone taking off an earring to talk on the phone.  Oh please, I can't even remember where I put my phone.

My Mother loved this show.   She watched it from the day it first aired, then hit the re-runs whenever possible.  I watched the earlier seasons, but missed most when I went to college. Now, I am catching up.

But the other day, I began to question why am I currently obsessed with this show.   What is the real reason?   Surely, I don't like Angela that much that I would stick with her for the past four months starting with her initial thrilling adventure.

So, the other day, I was in a "play all episodes" mood.  One right after another.   During a break, I thought to myself how my Mother loved this show and how much my Father...

A light bulb came on.

...Oh how my Father hated that show.   He used to complain about my Mother watching it all the time.  "I never want to be wherever that woman is.  Somebody always gets murdered," he would complain.   Of course, he was right.   Somebody always got stabbed, strangled, or shot wherever she went.

More importantly, a light bulb came on in my head...   Not only had I been catching up on past seasons of M.S.W., but I was getting even with my Father for dying.   And I had chosen to taunt him with something he hated and something my Mother and I loved. 

I was angry.  I am angry.  So damn mad I could spit nails.

Angry because I had to take care of his final departure.  Angry because I have to deal with his estate.   I know that it's only fair.  He took care of me through the early years and then I had to take care of his affairs at the end.  

Angry because he left me alone.

You went off and left me alone! You left me with an emptiness that I'm having a hard time filling.   I've starting thinking about Christmas morning.  It was your time.  You were the master of ceremonies that morning.   You left me afraid of the future.  And now I'm not your little boy anymore...

I'm really mad at you.

And, by the way, I've got three more seasons to watch...  Then there's the M.S.W. movie box set....   Then I might just start reading the books based on the series...  And there's the audio-books...
So there!

CSM

Oren Mccallister

Oren Mccallister.   I've heard this name a thousand times in my life.  My parents, my aunts and uncles, my sister, my grandparents, cousins all talked about Oren Mccallister.   Despite the fact I never knew him, he had an unusual influence on my life.

Oren Mccallister was Aunt Betty's son.  She was Grandpa Marshall's sister. A short red head who, from what I can gather, had a wild and rough life.  I didn't know her that well mainly because she had moved to Florida when I was a baby.  One early memory I have of her and Uncle Ben was seeing them in hospital beds in their one-story blue cinder block house.  They had been in a horrific train wreck near their home in Lutz, Florida.

Anyway, Oren Mccallister was living in Florida.  It seems to me that it was the mid-1960s.  After exiting a bar, he was jumped and stabbed by some fellow he had words with inside.   The knife pierced his heart.  He recovered, but what the doctors didn't know was the blade had gone all the way through a punctured the back side of his heart.  An oversight that would kill him.

Aunt Betty and her other son moved to Florida to seek out the man that killed him.   I hope I have this correct.  If not, I know I will hear about it.  Won't I, JD?

This incident changed my Father's side of the family more than I will ever know since I wasn't around when it happened.  I only know how it influenced my life.  

From then on, I would have to travel to Florida to visit my Grandma and Grandpa Marshall and Aunt Betty.   They had visited her one time and really like it there.   They bought a trailer, called it their winter home, and eventually moved there year-round.   They were followed by Aunt Carolyn, Uncle Ron, and their families.   On one hand, my circle of family here heavily decreased.

However, on the other hand, we traveled to Florida.  It became an annual ritual.   Leaving early one October morning (the best time of year to go), heading south.  Watching for the important markers along the way -- state lines, Rock City, Lookout Mountain, Jasper in Tennessee, Macon in Georgia, and then finally the Welcome Center in Florida.   Ahhh...  That red dirt and salty-sea smell.  The hanging moss.   The highway billboards.  Gulls flying overhead.

After a welcoming of a small paper cup of Florida orange juice, you knew you had another three hours to go until Highway 56/54.    When we exited, our next guidepost would be a radio tower with a flashing red-light on top, then onto Carson Drive.

Grandma and Grandpa Marshall were there to greet us.  A few years later, we would also be greeted by Aunt Carolyn and Uncle Dick, Uncle Ron and Aunt Pam, and the cousins.   I can still hear Jeff say "There's my cousin."   Always glad to see you.

Oren Mccallister and I never meet, but he paved a road for me.  One that led to a love of travel, my appreciation for family in far off places, Florida and its sites and sounds.

I'm amazed at how one incident can pave the road of one person's life.  Thank you, Oren Mccallister.  Wished we'd have meet, but the fates/God/Allah/Buddha/whatever had different ideas.   Hopefully, I'll get to meet you some day and I can thank you in person.

CSM

 

The Street Goes Both Ways: Thoughts on Friends

Friends, Acquaintances, and Facebook... Lend Me Your Ears!

As I sit here writing about friendships, I keep coming back to these three questions: What defines a friend?  What defines an acquaintance?   And, more importantly, how do I tell the difference?

I asked people to define their meaning of a friend and an acquaintance.  They all basically said the same thing.  An acquaintance is someone who you greet, have a brief conversation with, and know some of their facts (where they are from, how old they are, where they live, etc.).

A friend is someone you hang out with, go to dinner, go to the movies, invite over to your home, go to the theatre, and most importantly, it's effortless, meaningful, and the street goes both ways.   In other words, you've got to give and take a little.

I have had many friends in my life.   I think of the ones that have died and it hurts deeply, almost scarring.   The ones that have moved away and I rarely see them.  For those, online social media has become a great way to keep in touch.  The friends I have experienced life with.   Those who stood next to me by both my Mother's and my Father's caskets.  Those who were there when I came out, afraid of what people might say or think.   Those who were there when I needed a helping hand.  I think of the friends with whom I laughed and cried.  And I have done the same -- I've been there when they needed me, because the street goes both ways.

Some have been there since day one.   My Sister, for example.   We've supported each other through some really rough times.   I don't recall ever being mad at her where I actually meant it.   Sometimes I get irritated, but never mad.  

Others have come and gone, but we still shared close friendships in deep meaningful ways.  And I have lots of memories to remind me.  I don't think I'll ever forget marrying Julie Powers... Or the look on Monica Upton's face in middle school when I told her I had a crush on a kid in our class named Robert...  And then there was the time seventy-year old Helen Hunt told me "If you can't remember my name, you can go to Helen Hunt for it."

I hate drawing lines.   I hate telling someone that I consider them "acquaintances."  It hurts on both sides.   But the street goes both ways.  

On the other hand, I also hate making one-sided efforts.  Carving out or offering to carve out time in my schedule, even when I have a lot on my plate.  I've known people with whom I've had to do all the work. I made the time. I made the effort. I created invitations, but nothing ever came of it.

The street goes both ways.    

After while, I learned a hard lesson -- these people weren't really friends.  

And I'm sorry, but in my life, Facebook doesn't replace a great conversation over a tasty dinner and a glass of wine...

CSM

The Come-to-Jesus Meeting -- Part 2

In a previous blog entry called "Staying in Place," I wrote about a "Come-to-Jesus" meeting that went something like this...

"You will stay in place," she said, pointing at me before slapping my face.   Without warning, she turned into the exorcist.  Her voice raised and terrifying  "The Power of Christ compels you to stay here where you belong..."

Rubbing my aching cheek, I struggled to get away, but she pushed me back in my chair.   "OK, I will... I will..."  

She remained stoic in her stares.   Her eyelids unblinking.   Her eyes glaring like she was trying to bore holes in me.  "I CAN'T HEAR YOU..."

"I will...  I promise..."  I started crying.  "I promise...  I swear I will stay..."

Despite my cries of desperation, she pulled me out of the chair and pushed me onto to the floor.   "SAY IT LIKE YOU MEAN IT..."   She hovered over me, howling.  

I pulled myself into the fetal position. "OK...  I WILL..."  I shouted those words over several times, before she backed off in the victory pose.

"Damn straight you will..."

OK, I have to admit I have an overactive imagination.  It wasn't quit like that, but it felt like it.   And wasn't it more exciting to read.

My meeting was necessary.  I needed it.   We covered a lot of ground.   In my previous blog post, I wrote about our conversation about staying here in the Midwest and building a life based on what I already have, but we also talked about other topics.    With possible home ownership in the near future, I feel like I've finally weighed anchor.  Of course, age played a part, too.

One topic we discussed was friends.   Personally, I think I have a diverse group of friends who like me just the way I am.  We talked about each one and what they mean to me in my life, but it also became clear that some people that I mentioned really aren't friends.  They are acquaintances.  It was a poignant conversation about the difference between the two.  Some people that I called friends weren't really friends.

Creating meaningful friendships is important to me.   I like the ones that come naturally, when you've got common interests and the conversation rolls along without the seven-minute pauses, but yet enough diversity to learn and grow from each other.  Currently, I've made some new friends, whom I've got to know one on one, and they seem to be interested in me.

I remember when my Mother died.   The funeral home was packed for the viewing and the services.  The funeral home workers were scrambling to get more chairs in the back.  From the front row, I recall turning to look out at the crowd of sad faces and thinking "My Mother's friends."   She was truly lucky to have had so many of them.   My Father's funeral didn't bring as many, but it was a one-day service and some couldn't come.  But regardless, I realized how important friends are.

I just hope someday, when I laid out, that I have as many friends as my parents did.  And hopefully, that won't be for another forty or fifty years!

CSM

Off to the Museum

There's something fun, yet scary, to know that a museum will take your toys from when you were a kid.

My parent's attic was a treasure trove of someone's ancient history... Mine!   When the time finally came, I began to drag down dusty dirty relics of my youth.  

First, the circa 1972 toy box, made by my Father, painted red, white, and blue for the Bicentennial.  The inside of the lid still had chalk marks from me using it as a chalk board.  The box had disappeared into the darkness at the top of the pull-down ladder many years ago, once again to see light forty years later.  I had stored some of my toys inside it.  A treasure chest to open later.  A red fire engine with a working ladder.   A stuffed blue bear lovingly made by my Grandmother.  A four-foot orange furry snake won as a carnival prize by my cousin.  Lincoln logs scattered in the bottom.  Metal toy John Deere tractors purchased as souvenirs of Indiana State Fairs.

Then came the Star Wars toys, many still in their original boxes, battered and ravaged by a imaginative boy. Early on, I learned to appreciate the outer package, so they remained intact.  All given as Christmas or birthday presents. 

Personally, I like to tell the story about how my Star Wars action figures moved to their new home... 

I had a plain unpainted wood Conestoga wagon with red cloth canopy.   My cousin had given me a 1969 Sears metal doll house complete with plastic furniture, each piece a different color.  I had a case full of action figures.   In our living room stood three bookcases stuffed with books with about two inches on each shelf in front.   Now imagine, a nine-year-old removing books to create rooms, furnishing each with plastic beds, tables, and chairs, then load the Conestoga wagon with action figures and drive them across the living room to their deluxe apartment in the sky...   They were elated.   I could tell by their firm molded faces.   Who wouldn't want a fourth-floor apartment with a panoramic view of our living room?

Relics of my past.  Now onto a museum.   Aren't museums supposed to be for ancient history like mummies and old vases?

CSM

A Horrible Side Effect of the Fallout

One of the horrible side effects of the death of a parent is the creation of fear. Your own fear.

I'm afraid now. Very very afraid. Not of being alone, orphaned, or having no place to go for the holidays.  But of my own mortality.

When will I die? Will it be tomorrow? What about right in the middle of this sentence? What is that on my arm? My leg? On my cheek? Am I having a heart attack? Are my kidneys working? Is that oral cancer?

My Father died of kidney failure at the age of 77. My Mother died at the age of 73 of oral cancer. Now, that I'm 44, I can't help but do the math. 77 - 44 = 33 years. 73 - 44 = 28 years. 28 to 33 years. Will I get that many? Or less? Or more? Can I bargain?

Then you start with the questions... What's important? Does an apartment full of stuff mean anything? What's the meaning of life? Is that red spot on my forehead the start of a cancerous growth?

This is my fallout for the moment. I fear that now I only have another 28 to 33 years, maybe more, yet maybe less, and that I won't enjoy them or I'll just waste them. The clock is ticking faster. I've got so much living to do. A bucket list of dreams and goals.

I watch people run around acting like the most important thing in the world is to have something that's better, bigger, faster... I just can't get excited about the latest. In an earlier post, I said I wasn't a live-for-the-moment kind of guy. You know what -- maybe I should be.

When my Father died, I thought to myself "No more worrying about him. No more waiting for that phone call." I'm learning that's not true. You still wait for phone calls. You still worry. My worry is when does my moment come. I guess it's part of the grieving process. Maybe it's doesn't take a diagnosis to reorganize things. Maybe it's just that moment you realize that your turn will come.

The thought of "your moment" is a killer all in itself. I find myself with hard thoughts. Will I miss out? Will I find someone to "live-for-the-moment" with? Will I die alone in the middle of the night?

I know -- Wasted time, wasted thoughts.  But at least I thought them.  Otherwise, it would just be another day.   These thoughts are the reminders of how short life is.  Live for the moment.

CSM

The Fourth of July and Being Independent

Imagine growing up thinking that the whole country celebrated your birthday...  

Well, I did, until I got older and realized that the whole country really wasn't honoring me.  Bow to me, now!  The usual response I get back is "Bow to yourself.  I've got better things to do!"  Love it!

OK, so I really don't want to be bowed to. The Forth of July and I have one major thing in common:  independence.  The country celebrates the day we broke our ties with jolly old England and King George over... taxation.   I find that funny since prior to July 4th, 1776, the colonists never paid any form of taxes.  That's right, folks.   Read your history book... Oh wait, I like the way we leave that part out.  Anyway...

I've always thought of myself as an independent person.  I was the youngest of three.  Sometimes called "the late addition."   People have thought that I was an only child and, to an extent, I was.   I didn't have siblings to fight with.  According to my parents, I often just shrugged my shoulders, went to my room, and read.   Who could ask for anything more?

But, the single life has its consequences.   Being independent isn't that great all the time.   What's it like to cuddle on the couch and watching a movie?  Going shopping and offer opinions on styles and looks?  How about making dinner together?  Knowing that you are not alone in the night?  

My friend Lois and I have talked about being independent, also known as "being single" and how it affects our lives.   First, you are in full control with no need to compromise.  I pick my destinations.  I pick the final outcomes on numerous activities.  I can walk naked from the bathroom to the kitchen and no one cares, except the neighbors who draw their drapes.

Being single can be nice, but sometimes, it's rough.  I have to take care of everything.   All responsibility is mine.  I look back at my parent's marriage and think to myself "What a well-oiled machine!"  They had their ups and downs.   Their share of heartaches, good times, and frivolities.   It's something that I want to experience.

Which brings me to my birthday epiphany:  They didn't do it alone.  I mean the signers of the Declaration of Independence.   It was a group effort.   So, I have to admit that I would like to give up some independence for more togetherness.

CSM 

Camping, Travel, and a Soft Pillow

Ah Wilderness!   Camping.  The great adventure.  Hiking through the woods.  The fresh air stirred by a gentle breeze.  The smell of the pine tress.  The green grass. The gnats that buzz around your head when you're trying to pitch the tent.  Sweat rolling down your forehead right into your eyes.   The dirt and grit tracked that stays with you long after you are home.   The air mattress deflating in the middle of the night and end up sleeping on a root.  The treks to the bathroom only to be faces with sandpaper-level toilet paper...

Dear god!  Why didn't I just book a room at the lodge?!  I thought it would be fun trying the rugged camping life.  Boy, was I crazy!

From a recent experience, I've decided camping isn't a one-person activity.  You gotta have someone else there to make it fun.  I've also decided that I'm not much of a tent camper.  I'd rather book a room.  Have a nice bed with a comfortable mattress, clean sheets and blankets.  A bathroom within walking distance with a light that I can turn off and on.  A screen door between you and Mother Nature's buzzing friends is also nice.

In my opinion, it doesn't really matter how I camped.   It was about the fact that I did it.

Right after my Mother died, my life began to change, and may I add, for the best. Her death became the crack in the egg-shell that I needed. Break out of old habits.  Realize that life is short.  Don't wait to create that bucket list and then rush around trying to check off one by one. 

My new thinking habit: Do it now!  That way when the end draws near, you can look back and say, in the immortal words of Edith Piaf, "Je ne regrette rien."  Translated "I regret nothing."  Or if you prefer, how about Frank Sinatra's "I did it my way."   Of course, both made enough money that could do just about anything.  But I digress.

One of my bucket list items is simply stated as "Travel."   My camping experience falls under this category.  I tried it, and decided next time, there will be a pre-booked room at the lodge involved.

As I look back over my life, we were a family of travelers, except for my sister who need a stick of dynamite shoved up her behind then blasted out of her house.  (Sorry, Robin, but I know that J.D. would agree.)  Trips to Florida to visit relatives. Road trips around the state.  A trip to St. Louis, Philadelphia, and New York City.  El Paso, Texas and Juarez, Mexico.  Even a world-wind tour of Europe.

I learned one thing about travel: It's important.  No matter where you go or what you see, that fact remains that you did it.  I have an 80-year old cousin in Florida that will grit his teeth when he reads this, but...  One of my bucket list items was to stay in the Contemporary Hotel and the Polynesian Resort at Walt Disney World.  It did both and they were expensive, but I didn't care.  The fact was I wanted to do it, and instead of waiting, I did it.

My travel list is long.  Places to go, people to see, things to do.

Just make sure you travel.   Oh and one more thing, make sure you've got a soft pillow...

CSM

Favorite Sayings From My Father

Besides being the maddest man I knew, my Dad had many other great talents.    One was coming up with great words of advice or quick-witted responses to questions...

Parting guests often heard "Don't go away mad" or "Glad you got to see me."

My Dad grew up in the late Depression Era then through the World War Two era and graduated from high school in 1954.  I am amazed how many of the Class of 1954 got married to each other (and are still married) and stayed in touch.  Dick and Janet are the ones I remember stopping by the most.   Janet was another one with the best quick remarks.   One time as their visit wound down, Dick asked her if she was ready to go.  (Now, Imagine a 65-year-old with auburn hair and an innocent smile.)  Her answer to Dick was -- "Yes I am.  I'm the live entertainment tonight at the bar."  Blank stares turned to laughter.  My parents were always gracious hosts.  Always entertaining (in many ways), never a dull moment when visitors came calling.

If you got mad, he'd say "Well, you'll just have to be mad until you get glad." 

My Dad got mad a lot.  Don't get me wrong, he had lots of "glad" moments as well.   When the doctor told us the diagnosis, my Dad knew the end was near.  That was in August of 2012.   In October, when I asked his doctor, his gut reaction was six months.  It was wasn't just a "sad" moment, but we also had a "glad" moment.   He told me he was proud of all three of us and couldn't have asked for a better life with such great kids.  I got mad at my Dad on numerous occasions... And so did my Mom!  But regardless, we always bounced back, maybe not right then, but we did.   I couldn't have asked for more resilient parents.  So, I can honestly say I was mad until I got glad.

Ask him how his day was going, you got "I was fine, but I got over it." 

One day, I came into work, a coworker asked me how I was doing, and I said I was fine, but I got over it. For the first time ever, I understood what my Father was saying.  My Dad worked hard for thirty-five years at Delco-Remy in Anderson.  He retired the same year I graduated from high school.  I went to Delco-Remy's open house in the 1970s.  I would have been about 9 or so.  My Father showed me his desk and the "crib."   The "crib" was the supply are for the entire plant.  Boxes of tools, equipment, and supplies lined shelves in the huge caged-in area.   My thought at the time was how important a man he must be to be in charge of all this stuff.   However, now these years later, I know why he was ready to retire.  He got tired of being fine and getting over it.

And my personal favorite -- "I've lived 43 years without 'em, I'm sure I'll live another 43."

I've used my own age, because I've made it my own now.  My Father had a great number of friends, many of them lifelong.  However, there were the ones that didn't like him, despite being himself and sometimes going out of his way to be their friend.  If it went nowhere, he'd say this saying and just move on.  I've had a few people who've come into my life that I've said this about, but I've also got a greater number of friends that I hope I never have to use this saying.

It's hard to imagine anyone not liking my Father.   He had a great sense of humor.  He'd do anything for you.  I know at least one thing he did for me...  Left me with these great sayings that make life a little more interesting.

CSM

Fathers Always Know

I now know where I get my "you can run but you can't hide" ability of perception, intuition, logic, and problem-solving skills.  If I find you interesting, I will try my best to figure you out and make friends along the way.   You can run, but you can't hide.

As with my Mother, I received a story from another Facebook friend. This time, it was about my Father.  She told me about how my Father told her mother/my Father's aunt about me and my personal preferences.  I never really wanted to come out to my Father.  I don't know why.  I'm leaving that for a late night discussion with him sometime soon. 

Although I know the biggest part was fear.   Fear of being tossed out, pushed aside, Bible-beaten, and even worse, being disappointing even though I wouldn't have been.   Ah, the struggle of being oneself.   I realize now that I'm just like everyone else...

Don't tell me you've gotten nothing to hide.  That there is no facade.  No skeletons in your closet. HA!  You can run but you can't hide.  Anyway...

Your parents always know, regardless of what you may try to hide.   I don't know why I tried to run away.  I don't why I even cared about hiding it.   We just went on as if it were nothing.  And maybe that's it.   It is nothing.   Just being who I am is just part of being me on a regular daily basis.

My Father knew and it didn't seem to matter.  And if it did, he never said. He loved me just the same. 

As you may recall from other posts, I always thought my Father was the maddest man I knew.  But beyond that he was a good man who lived life the best he could.  Raised three kids.   Worked hard, putting pride into it.  Watched his parents, aunts, uncles, and friends grow old and die.  Struggled with marriage.  The big difference was in our generational upbringing.  He kept his secrets to himself.  I let out.

Fathers and Mothers always know.   My parents knew it was a struggle for me to find the words.   But it's OK.   They struggled with their own demons.

Love ya, Dad.  Hope you and Mama are having fun wherever you are.

CSM

Learning to Garden with Grandpa Marshall

One of the best memories I have of my Grandpa Marshall was him teaching me to plot a vegetable garden. 

I must have been about eight years old.   My Grandparents were visiting from Florida in early Spring.  My Father and I had created a garden bed along the back of the house underneath my parent's bedroom window.  The space measured about five feet out from the house to fifteen feet from the corner to the edge of the porch.  Two bushes took up the space nearest the back porch.  The rest would be mine to tend.   The perfect place for my first vegetable garden.

The sun shone overhead on that early spring day.  We double-checked our list.  Seeds from the local market -- check.   Starter plants -- check.  String and stakes -- check.  Shovel -- check.  Rake -- check.  Garden hoe -- check.  Garden hose connected to the spout -- check.  One elder sage -- present.  One middle-aged sage -- present.  And one eager eight-year-old -- present.

We were ready.  The spring planting begun.

The elder sage, my Grandpa Marshall, was in charge.  I remember looking up at him.  He always had a burr haircut, a sign of my own future hair style.  The first task -- over-turn the dirt in the bed.   As I recall, the middle-aged sage did this.  It was a little much for a eight-year-old to wield the shovel; however, I got the job of then raking the newly turned soil. 

At this point, the elder sage advised on the layout.   From left to right, radishes, green beans, beets, green peppers, and tomatoes -- I think.  Don't quote me, but I think that was the order.  Next came the stakes and string.   One stack at the back against the brick of the house; the other at the front at the edge of the grass.   I was instructed to tie the string so it would stretch tightly from one stake to the other.  This would the guideline to dig the trench.   The seed packets were opened, the seeds planted, and the seeds covered up by fresh dirt.

When my Grandpa Marshall opened the packet of beans, I remember him looking in and saying "These are already to be cooked.  We can take them inside."  It was the little bit of humor that I remember the most.   That single moment out of the entire experience.   One of my few "live for the moment" moments.

The last step was to water the whole area well and then often.  That summer, I watered, weeded, and waited and waited and waited...  Somehow, an episode of The Andy Griffith Show comes to mind.  The one where Aunt Bea puts Opie to work growing spinach.  You can only wait so long for the spinach to grow.   The big difference was I knew that I would eventually be rewarded.  And I was with the harvest.  

And besides, I had a great teacher who took the time to spend with a ten-year-old.   I couldn't have asked for better.

CSM

The Wall of Entertainment

We lived in a typical ranch-style house built in the late 1960s, purchased somewhere about 1967ish.

At the far end of the "family room" sat one of the room's main focal points.  A light-colored wooden-framed box on short spindled legs.  The smooth curved glass screen was gray.  Two dial knobs on the right side -- one for UHF and the other VHF.

I remember the bright sunny day when my Father installed a new television antenna on the back side of the house.  This five-year-old sat wondering what was going on.  Within moments of connection, we had new television channels, bringing us up to maybe six channels.   One channel came all of the way out of Indianapolis.  The first show we watched on this new and exciting channel -- old reruns of The Little Rascals.  The sepia-toned shorts lasted no more that ten to fifteen minutes.

This was my Father's window to the world.

Surrounding that wooden box were two floor-to-ceiling bookcases.  Eventually, they would be expanded around the corner of the room with an even wider bookcase.   All stained and well-constructed. All packed with books, overflowing into stacks on the floor.

Hardbacks, paperbacks, cheap dime-store novels, old, new.  Danielle Steele, Erma Bombeck, Frances Parkington Keyes, Ian Fleming, Helen MacInness, Dorothy Gilman, Mary Stewart.   Gone with the Wind, The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, The Odessa File.  Nancy Drew, Little Women, Black Beauty.  Anyone who liked books from the 50s through the 80s would have loved it.

This was my Mother's library to the imagination.

Sometimes there would be arguments.

Often heard from my Father.  "Why don't you get rid of all those books?"   My Mother's response -- the wave of her right hand in the air as if shooing away a fly.  She also had her way of tormenting him -- repeats of "Murder, She Wrote" and "Matlock."  She knew ever episode by heart.  All for the sake of tormenting...  Maybe teasing would be a better term.

Regardless, the wall of entertainment was where it all began for me.   Coming of age to find the path of to be a writer.  A combination of the visual arts and the literary.  Never to be forgotten.

Of course, now I have my own wall of entertainment.   I think I'll watch an episode of "Murder, She Wrote."  For old times...

CSM