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