Good Grief Charlie Brown

Due to a lack of better judgment on my part, I have spent the last 48 hours unable to move off of my couch.  The wife and I spent a very long day tackling a 33 kilometer hike in and out of the Dordogne River valley.  Not having properly prepared for such a feat . . . er . . . feet, I find the very thought of placing shoes upon my aching feet absolute fools game.  The relatively guilt free hiatus from my usual domestic musings has left me some extra time to collect my thoughts and finish a handful of posts that have been in varying stages of incubation for the better part of a week now.  Yet, today, none of these seem more important to me than saying the following words:  Good Bye.   News came in early this morning that my grandmother passed away at 9:45 central standard time yesterday evening.  And so I ask myself, how is one supposed to feel when a loved one has passed and you live so far from home?  Should I feel sorrow, remorse, anger or regret?  Should I spend the day grieving and shedding heartfelt tears of sadness and woe?  If I did so, would this be an apt tribute to the woman who gave my father life?  Would it do her justice for me to suddenly feel sorry for myself because I am now unable to make up for lost time?  I believe the answer to be a resounding NO.  You see, my grandmother and I have not been terribly close throughout my adult life and for this perhaps we are both to blame.  It was, after all, her indirect influence on my life that has given me this hard fought lack of mournful sentimentality.  And though this may sound odd, I believe it is the best gift she has ever given me.  Through my father she taught me not to feel sorry for myself and to be stubbornly independent regardless of the hardship faced.  To this end, I have committed myself not to feel bad for my loss because to do so would be self-serving and not what she has taught.  Instead I choose to celebrate her life and that part of it I shared with her, brief though it may have been.  This in my mind is the better part of grief . . . “Good grief” if you will.

My Grandmother

For as long as I can remember

my grandmother was a real bad ass

She drank beer from a straw on Sundays

sometimes in a Flash Gordon glass.

She preferred that I smoke cigarettes

than chew bubble gum in her midst

Interrupt her Austin City Limits

and surely she’d be pissed

Whenever we would visit

I knew just where she’d be found

Perched atop an old porch swing

sipping brew without a sound

If ever the swing was empty

you need only follow your nose

In a kitchen seasoned with bacon fat

is where she watched her shows

Beneath her tough exterior

beat a warm and gentle heart

Before I went outside to play

Chapstick would play its part

She never missed my birthday

Her gift was well prepared

5 Dollars in a greeting card

And a note to say she cared

I never called her by a pet name

and she simply called me Ry

Be my hair too long or short

it never missed her eye

And now I bid farewell

to this lady that I love

Know I’m trying to do you proud

as you watch us from above

           Ry

Fish and CHiPs

Ponch and John can kiss my ass.  I had been dreading this day for months and it finally arrived.  On occasion I pick up the morning school run since the wife’s schedule demands some flexibility in this regard.  Returning from such an outing, I found myself preoccupied with the laundry list of tasks that I would have to be completed in shorter order than normal due to this extra hour removed from my day.  So preoccupied was I that I had paid little attention to the posted speed limit when entering a small village just a stone’s throw from our home.  This did not go unnoticed by Officer Poncherello.  I was pinched and had nowhere to run.  Thoughts of flight passed through my head for a split second as the manner with which a traffic stop is executed here is much different than in the US.  They set up a speed trap and rather than pursue you in their vehicle after obtaining an elevated radar blip, they simply step out from their relatively hidden perch and motion you to pull over.  I seriously doubt that they would have pursued me if I had simply disobeyed, but this is a land of social order and I did what I was obliged to do.  Terror raced through my soul as I was waved to the side of the road to take what was coming to me.  As I pulled over, thoughts of foreign prison canings raced through my head and I was certain I would soon have the right if not the ability to remain silent.  The wife would certainly be less than impressed with the prospect of relinquishing her hard earned capital to bail my ass out of jail and I wasn’t even sure I knew how to ask for my one phone call in French.

I came to a stop and rolled down the window.  The cop simply stuck his radar gun in my face to indicate my infraction.  Strike One!  He then asked for my registration which I fumbled around for in the disorganized chaos that is my glove box.  I finally located the document and also provided him with my paper receipt for the drivers license that I have yet to receive.  For good measure I also threw in my Kansas Drivers License in the event my receipt wasn’t enough.  He seemed satisfied with the paperwork until he strolled to the front of my vehicle to take a look at my license plate.  I was immediately asked to remove myself from the vehicle.  Strike Two!  He kindly informed me that my plate number was incorrect and that I needed to have a new plate made.  This was a fact that I was unaware of as I was lead to believe that the plate that was on the vehicle when I purchased it would transfer with the vehicle.  Apparently that is incorrect.  Who knew?  The concept of the plate transferring with the vehicle seemed weird to me at the time, but who am I to second guess their procedures?

Upon further inspection of my paperwork, good ole Ponch noted that the address on my French Driver’s License didn’t match that on my vehicle registration . . . Strike Three mother fucker . . . YOU’RE OUT!  He held up his hand indicating three infractions and stated something I didn’t quite catch in a rather unpleasant tone.  He then asked me to return to my vehicle to remove my personal items and follow him around the corner.  I assumed it would be there that we would find the Black Maria waiting to cart me off to Chateau D’If, where I would join Edmond Dantes to endure a lifetime of suffering for my poor judgment.  As we rounded the corner, there stood Officer Baker writing up some other poor slob who had been caught in the same snare that had removed me from the road just moments ago.  Still uncertain of my fate, but less certain that I would go to jail, I waited politely as Ponch punched my details into the tiny computer console aboard his Beemer.  As an interesting side note and nod to the fact that my brain is full of absolutely useless facts, do you all happen to know the difference between a Beemer and a Bimmer?  BMW enthusiasts will get this in a flash.  For those that don’t know, BMW actually got it’s start on two wheels.  The natural proving ground for both motorcycle AND automotive tech has always been the racetrack.  At the time, the motorcycle racing circuit was dominated by two brands . . . BMW and BSA.  A form of slang naturally grew from within the pits, and BMWs became known as Beemers while the BSA’s would be called Beesers.  Once BMWs automotive division was up and running, true enthusiasts were not about to refer to the 4 wheeled second cousin by the same affectionate moniker and thus, the term Bimmer was born.  So, now you know . . . every Yuppie you have ever encountered that referred to his car as a "Beemer" was exactly the kind of douche bag you took him for to start with.

At any rate, Ponch finished logging in my information with a question or two about where I was from. My quaint attempt at French and likeable demeanor soon had us joking like old friends and I was released with just a speeding ticket and a warning about the other infractions.  I promised to take care of the other details immediately and bid the boys from the CHP a very pleasant day.  As they say, all is well that ends well and I am proud to say that despite the fact that I now drive through these little towns like I am driving Miss Daisy, the boys still cheer when they here I have the morning commute.  Riding with Dad is much more fun apparently, or so they tell me.  I personally think they just want to be there in person when I finally get arrested.  For now I will take it as a compliment, and enjoy the extra hour I get to have the boys’ captive attention.  That is all I have for today.  Take care and drive safe.  Zatarra.

Sprung: Lord Won’t You Buy Me a MERCEDES-BENZ

Alas, it would seem that Spring has finally. . . well . . . sprung.  Old man Winter has loosened his grip and the warmth of the Sun is breathing life back into the vines.  Those, including myself, who have laid so blissfully dormant throughout these cold weather months are beginning to greet the world with a sleepy yawn.  We have thrown back the sash and the windows now glow with a pleasant yellow hue.  Squinting my eyes to adjust my glad gaze, I am reminded how much I enjoy the turning of the season.  The icy solace is shattered by a cacophony of noise.  Birds return to their nests and sing in the new season while the bipedal feel compelled to spend the majority of their day outside their homes listening to their song.  Laundry returns to the line while firewood is restacked for next year’s hibernation.  It is a time of re-birth, resurgence and celebration.  Those that have put off winter’s projects quickly spring to action in an effort to complete them before the siren song of the ocean lures them away.

Spring will soon give way to the beautifully long days of Summer when the fresh morning air is replaced by Sun’s sweet sting upon the skin.  Lengthening days will soon become endless and I look forward to this more this year than ever before.  Perhaps this is a sign of age as I truly appreciate why some of the blue haired crowd migrate toward the Florida coast each year.  I’m not talking about the blue haired punk scene in Miami’s thumpin night clubs, but rather those advanced in years who board their land yachts in search of a warmer Golden Corral.  This unfortunately, isn’t our only similarity.  I have noted other signs that senior citizenship is closer to my heart than my roaring twenties used to be.  If one presumes that I make it to my 74^th year, this would mean I am at the half way mark.  The optimist in me says 40 should be closer to half way home, but only time will tell.  Be that as it may, there are some things in life that have become far more important to me than they once were.  Remember when going to bed was a nuisance and your internal clock said rest was over when the sun broke over the horizon?  These events were often not more than three or four hours apart and there was a time when that was more than enough.  Those days are behind me now, and if I don’t get the requisite 8 or 9 hours, my aging body pays the price.

Perhaps one of the hallmarks of aging is the importance of one’s bed.  Not just the time spent in it, but rather its quality of construction and the level of comfort it provides.  I find these days that the number of pillows required for comfortable sleep has increased 10 fold.  I often puzzled in my youth why adults had so many fucking pillows on their bed.  It seemed wasteful, excessive and decorative at best.  They come in different shapes and sizes and I had presumed this to be a statement of style not a matter of function.  As it turns out I was mistaken.  Age dictates that one stuffs all these small pillows around their bodies, under their neck, between their knees or wherever else is necessary to remove pressure from aching joints.  Falling asleep with a crooked neck no longer means an extra stretch or two is required come morning, it means that the following day will be spent in misery while praying that your failing peripheral vision will keep you from colliding with another vehicle due to the continued inability to turn your damned head.

And yes, I realize that this is a bit overly dramatic for a guy in his late thirties.  The truth is, however, that while the wrinkles don’t bother me as a man, the inability to move as quickly and freely as I once did is a depressing reminder that I am approaching the downhill portion of my journey on this earth.  In recent years I have taken the necessary steps to preserve my aging chassis and am proud to say that I don’t fit the traditional “DAD” look at the public pool.  That being said, I have spent the better part of a week or so trying to convince my wife of the value in owning an aging Mercedes-Benz.  She has a very valid point, why would you spend that kind of money on a car when you can buy a brand new Honda for half the price?  While it is true that the former is high maintenance at its best and requires a bit more consideration than a simple turn of the key when starting it on a cold winter day, to assume this to be the only factor in your decision making process would be an unfair assessment and deprive you of perhaps the greatest automotive experience of your life.  The Mercedes is quite capable of mating for life.  It is a timeless work of art.  Yes, perhaps less technologically advanced than the cockpit of the average space aged rice rocket, but beautiful none the less.

The soft leather seats of the Mercedes hold you tightly when you need to feel reassured and they shape themselves perfectly to fit your current needs.  The burl wood on the dash ages with your touch and every instrument seems to remember your preference.  The leather ages as well, and eventually some of the shine is gone from the instruments due to their continued use.  And yet they function, just as they should.  In the end, the well-worn interior is perhaps more beautiful once you have made it your own than it was when you purchased it so many years ago.  And so what of the exterior?  Well, buying a Mercedes means that it won’t get lost in the parking lot and that the quality material and craftsmanship will keep it looking youthful for many years to come.  Yes, the Mercedes is temperamental and you might not always want to drive it to the local store for fear it might not start when you return, but I promise the alternative is not as attractive as it seems.

Sure, the Honda is reliable.  It will start and run for years after its looks have become outdated.  It will do as it is told and will never offer to second guess any of your commands.  When purchased new, it is a statement of technological advancement.  It isn’t stately and timeless like its counterpart, it is new and glitzy and wants you to be impressed.  While its youthful vigor is impressive and many would prefer it to the aging luxury class, it has failings where the other does not.  The seats never really mold to your body.  The instruments don’t simply wear to your touch.  Repeated use will in fact make many of the buttons and switches simply fall off the dash.  The exterior is of no better construction.  It will quickly become outdated as new models become available and its lack of distinction means you will spend hours at the mall looking for the damned thing in the parking lot.  Hell, you might accidentally even try to unlock one that looks just like your own except for that Apple sticker in the window.  The benefit of its cheap price is that one can simply trade it in for a new one the moment it gets a little worn around the edges.  Let us not even discuss the possibility of an auto accident.  The Mercedes is built like a brick.  Any dents or dings can simply be hammered out and repainted.  It’s defiant presence will protect you when times get tough and you feel as though it will always look after you the moment you slip behind the wheel.  Not so for the Honda.  The slightest bump or bruise, the remote possibility for rough road conditions will have it folding like a cheap suit.  Once damaged, the Honda never really gets back to the way it was.  It remains broken.  It creaks and cracks, parts no longer fit as they should, even after extensive repair.  And this much I promise, the repairs will be EXTENSIVE.

The wife’s response is this:  “Well, if I am going to spend THAT kind of money I may as well spend a little more and buy a damned Ferrari.”  While I am certainly not going to go on record as casting aspersions about Magnum P.I.’s 308 GTS, I will say this . . . The Ferrari is a thing of beauty.  It will always be beautiful.  The Mercedes has historically been far too clunky and Germanic to be as breathtaking as the venerable Ferrari.   It’s unmistakably beautiful exterior betrays certain truths.  The interior in uncomfortable, it doesn’t understand you.  It is a FERRARI and that is all it has to be.  You must simply accept it for what it is.  I won’t change for you because it is far too self-absorbed to take your feelings into account.  And perhaps most importantly, the Ferrari is remarkably unreliable.  Fast, yes, but not a daily driver.  Enough said.  For every one of the wife’s points, I have a counterpoint.  Toyota . . . expensive but reliable and will unfortunately run long after its looks have failed you and a majority of its body work has rusted away.  “NEXT!”.  Exhausting the entire automotive industry with this same laundry list of pros and cons, one can come to only one conclusion . . . buy the Mercedes and you won’t be disappointed.

So, now where does that leave us?  For those of you that haven’t been paying attention at all . . . I AM A MERCEDES-BENZ and though she may regret it now, the wife couldn’t afford the Ferrari and was fortunately sensible enough to leave the Honda dealer in her rearview mirror.  So long as she keeps me garaged and my engine full of oil, I will be there with her till the end . . . or at least till the kids go off to college.  By then she will probably want a convertible and I don’t have an argument for that.  Stay tuned.  R.

Ski Poles and Assholes: Living the Griswold Family Vacation

As I write, I find myself coming to grips with a harsh reality.  I’m the asshole.  I had a generous dissertation written out in my head about how the word “tourist” is only a few letters removed from “terrorist” and how skiing is a pastime for self-absorbed assholes.  I was going to carry on about how it is a sport catering to those who have nothing better to do than waste their hard earned money on an overly expensive activity that brings with it not even a modicum of joy when compared with the hours spent queuing up at the lift and the humiliation of repeatedly jamming snow into the crack of one’s ass.  I was going to argue that the first two days of our vacation had been the worst days of my life and that if I was to die tomorrow, I would have proudly had the following engraved on my grave stone:  “Here lies Jack Butler.  He was NOT a skier”.

I spent the first day walking through hell on uncomfortable shoes.  Not once did I strap a single ski to my feet and completely lost my religion on more than one occasion.  My two boys both had ski lessons while the wife and I waited and proudly watched them succeed as all parents do.  Both are naturally athletic and seemed destined for greatness.  Once the lesson was over and lunch was consumed, the youngest wanted nothing more to do with the sport while the eldest was keen to have another go.  Not wanting to deprive the eldest, I agreed to babysit the youngest while the wife accompanied him on the slopes.  I spent the afternoon taking the youngest for bathroom breaks at the single restroom allotted for the throngs of urine spraying masses and dragging both our skis and assorted winter paraphernalia  from one spot to the next.  “Misery” doesn’t do it justice.  Once those that actually got to ski had had their fill, we rode the funicular down the mountain only to find that the bus that was to return us to our hotel was no longer running at its regular 15 minute intervals.  The thought of walking back to the hotel in the torturous ski boots was enough to make a grown man cry.  We called to see if a taxi could come and pick us up and we were informed that this would be IMPOSIBLE!  You can go ahead and insert your own shitty French accent.  It appeared we would be hoofing it.  Swearing that if I did in fact make it back to the hotel on foot I was going to throw the fucking skis off a cliff, we thankfully caught sight of an amended bus schedule.  As it turned out, the bus would soon return and we would make it back to our accommodations without further incident. 

Day 2 couldn’t possibly be worse . . . or could it.  The youngest was in rare form and had no interest at all in another lesson, so we had decided to enroll him in the daycare facility so that his foul temper would not ruin the remainder of our day.  This sat heavy on my heart.  While I knew he was being nothing more than a manipulative 4 year old, the thought of dumping him at some daycare just so we could selfishly get our “ski on” turned my stomach a bit.  Still, we agreed that this would be best under the circumstances and after A LOT of angry words, we got him checked in and hit the slopes.  By this time, the eldest was starting to get the hang of it and wanted to show old mom and dad what he could do.  He had a second lesson that day and was improving at a remarkable pace.  So much so, that his instructor said he was ready for the big slopes and would only be limited by the skills of those accompanying him up the mountain.  Talk about  a slap in the face.  Neither the wife nor I are master skiers.  The wife is amateurish at best whereas I am a complete fucking disaster.  Not wanting to rain on my eldest’s parade, we agreed to accompany him for some practice on one of the “moderate” slopes after a quick lunch at the car.  We had learned our lesson with the funicular and drove ourselves to the ski station on our second day.  Not having a cooler full of ice, it was my bright idea that we simply put the perishables in a bag and stow them underneath the car.  My Holmesian deductive reasoning led me to the conclusion that the ambient temperature would surely keep our mayonnaise cold.  Upon our return to the car, we found that our lunch bag had sprouted legs and wandered off.  My able Watson seemed less impressed with my initial plan since we would now be relegated to dry peanut butter sandwiches and a tepid bottle of water as our only option.  We gulped it down and headed back for the slopes.  I spent the torturous walk cursing my ski boots and scanning the parking lot for the lunch bandit that had made off with our lunch supplies.  With aching feet and a day’s worth of heartache under my belt, some Frenchman was gonna get his ass whipped for stealing my turkey.   The bandit had made a clean escape and we jumped the next lift to the top of the “moderate” slopes.

 

At the top, my eldest and his mother zipped off into the mist while I floundered, fell, cursed, spit, cried and generally threw a very unflattering tantrum all the way down the hill.  At the end of my first run, I called it quits and made it clear in no uncertain terms what I thought about the sport.  I took a seat and let the wife and eldest boy head back for the top.  I spent the next hour fuming over my predicament and swore never to step foot on a ski slope again for the remainder of my days.  By the end of the afternoon I was hatefully angry at everything and everyone around me.  We gathered the youngest from the daycare and headed for the car.  On the way, we ran into some friends.  We were actually staying with another couple for the week, one of which was a colleague of my wife’s.  They are both accomplished skiers and offered to take the eldest up the mountain to the larger slopes where the wife and I dare not tread.  Still angry, I reluctantly agreed, not wanting my disgust for the sport to prevent my eldest from his hard earned achievement.  And achieve he has.  After just two hour long lessons, he proved to be a natural and now skis like a pro.  This however, came with a burdensome lesson for both he and I.

Lending him to our friends, he was provided very specific instructions to check in with Mom and Dad at the end of each run so that we could monitor his activity to the best of our ability.  This would prove to be a test of maturity he was not prepared to pass.  I can’t say as I blame him, peer pressure is tough to handle at any age, but particularly difficult when coming from an adult who you presume outranks you in your decision making paradigm.  When he did finally return, beaming with stories and highlights, I crushed him like a bug.  My rather foul mood made the tongue lashing particularly unpleasant and I was certain that the message was received.  After I had thoroughly “Hulked Out” we returned to the hotel for the evening.  Slowly returning to Bruce Banner, I realized I had judged my eldest much too harshly and had thoughts of rescinding my earlier comments.  Instead I decided to let it simmer and see what the next day would hold.  Preoccupied with the lesson being taught, I realized that I had in fact taught him two lessons that day.  The first was a valuable lesson regarding peer pressure, the other was that his father is a quitter.  Shame washed over me as I struggled to get to sleep.  I have preached perseverance to this boy since he was old enough to hold a spoon and now my actions will surely speak louder than those thoughtful words.  SHIT!

I woke the next morning determined to right my wrongs and truly show my son the meaning of perseverance.  I was going to strap those fucking skiis to my feet and learn to ski if it meant I was going to break every bone in my body.  Fortunately it didn’t and I soon learned to control a semi-graceful decent of the larger slopes.  Eventually, however, the abilities of my son eclipsed that of my own and I allowed him to move along to the more advanced slopes with our friends while the wife and I returned to pick up the youngest from his second day at the day care camp which he actually seemed to enjoy.  On this day, the eldest did as he was told and checked in from time to time so Mom and Dad didn’t worry.  I was still quite irritated by his prior disregard for my instruction and couldn’t shake free of the lock the Hulk had on my emotions.   The skiing went so well for most involved that it was agree that we would wander further into the mountains in pursuit of better snow.  The wife and I needed to a day off, so it was agreed that we would take a day off before our next skiing adventure.  The next day was spent just the four of us.  We jumped in the Renault and charted a course for destinations unknown.  At an information booth in the middle of nowhere, the wife procured a hiking guide and we decided to do a little backpacking.  Despite some difficult directions, the guide turned out to be quite handy and we spent the afternoon exploring the wild with our two boys.  I am pleased to say that we all clicked off a 5km hike in the mountains under our own power.  No small feat for the youngest of us since it was all uphill.  We closed out our day of rest with a drive down a treacherous mountain road for some spectacular views of the scenery.

With a day to recharge our batteries, we were anxious to get back on our skis.  We loaded our respective vehicles and headed for a small village state by the name of Andorre (Andorra).  It is a very small country wedged between France and Spain.  It is in fact the 6^th smallest country in Europe.  The monarchy is carried out jointly by two “co-princes”, the President of France and the Bishop of Urgell.  While it would seem that there is a fair bit of French influence there, it is still an autonomous “country” made prosperous by a booming tourist industry and its status as a tax haven.  The change in elevation was apparent as the snow was plentiful and the slopes much more challenging.  We knew that the youngest was not going to be able to tackle any of this terrain, so the wife and I agree to split the day between us.  One would ski and the other would stay behind to play with the 4 year old.   We would then change guard at mid-day.  I drew the short straw and ended up with the morning skiing session.  I quickly realized I was over my head and stayed with the easier slopes while the rest of the party went further up the mountain.  I spent the morning skiing on my lonesome and was better for the effort.  After lunch, however, the wife’s story would be quite different.

Being more confident on her skiis, the wife adventured further into the mountains with the rest of our team.  She quickly became stuck in the middle of nowhere with no “EASY” route back to the car.  With only the moderate red slopes to choose from, she spent the remainder of the afternoon tumbling downhill.  It would seem that her preferred method for speed control was to stop her decent by using her face which was apparent based upon the loss of her hat, sunglasses and the sizable red rash on her left cheek upon her final return.  As noted, the best skiers go “off piste”.  The wife did so as well, but it was more of an out of control plummet into a ravine after a catastrophic wipeout.  Thankfully, no bones were broken and only egos were bruised, not the least of which was that of my eldest son.  Now, I know what you are thinking.  You thought I said he was a good skier.  He is, but once again, he failed to heed his parents words and received my wrath for the effort.  Disappointment was the appropriate response to his failure to learn a lesson that had been carefully taught, but instead my rage kept me from formulating coherent sentences.  I decided it would be best to cool down before I said anything at all.  He knew he was in a fair amount of trouble, and seemed terribly concerned that I remained so silent.  You could hear the fear in his voice and I knew my next move was crucial.  The wife was kind enough to drive us back to the hotel which gave me a fair amount of time to sort things out.

What was I to say about my disappointment?  He clearly knew the error of his ways and had already apologized to my wife for once again dismissing our requests.  That would surely be enough.  The lesson had finally been learned.  I was proud of him at the end of the day, but angry none the less.  For the entire drive I sat there wondering why I had been so cross with him throughout the week and then it dawned on me . . . I AM THE ASSHOLE.  My irritation was not because he had an error of judgment.  In fact, I was pleased to be able to teach him this lesson in the safety of the current circumstance.  I was angry because I was alone.  I had been left behind.  Was it pride and male bravado that made it difficult to swallow the fact that he is better at skiing than I?  No, I wish it was that simple.  I know and I pray that he is already better than I in almost every way at the tender age of nine.  I realized that I was irritated because this was the first time I would receive a reminder of a day in my not so distant future.  The day when I must let go.  The day when I can no longer be his guide.  A day when I can no longer be there to protect him and be his best friend.  My heart shattered.  I had beaten him up emotionally because I am not ready or able to say goodbye.  I know that day is not today, but being reminded of its certainty was a bitter pill to swallow.  I pray that I have the fortitude to sort all this out before the day finally comes when I must really tell him goodbye.  On that day, I swear that I will stand with him shoulder to shoulder and acknowledge him as my better and wish him the kind of joy in life that he has given me.  And so ended our ski trip.  My son learned to ski, the wife got a free dermabrasion and I learned how to be a father. R.

Laryngitis

Somewhere over the last two weeks I seem to have lost my voice, metaphorically speaking.  Whatever the underlying cause, I can’t seem to kick it.  I really want to write, I just can’t bring myself to do so.  Perhaps it is the onset of depression or maybe I have become bored with the project.  Either way, I am receiving a fair bit of heat from my better half over the lack of content since our return from vacation.  It’s not that I don’t have anything to say, it’s just that I feel a recent need to keep to myself.  To be left alone.  Perhaps there has been some shock to the system that I am unaware of, or maybe self-preservation is what prompts this behavior.  These days I do feel more like a trauma counselor rather than a husband and father.  Constantly mediating disputes between the children and talking my wife away from the edge so as to maintain some familial peace and tranquility.  The effort is exhausting, and tending to everyone else’s emotional needs leaves little time to mend my own soul.  Perhaps that has been the reason for my absence.  I have spent most of my days since our return from the mountains simply going through the motions, trying not to get too involved with any one thing.  Letting myself rest, heal, recharge.  As I write this now, I realize that this is what I should have been doing all along . . . writing.

Over the past week or so, I have been plagued with semi-restful, dream filled nights.  The content of these fanciful flights seem dominated by thoughts of career and a life I once lived.  Let’s face it, retirement isn’t easy.  The transition one makes in their sixties or even seventies is trivial when compared with the aftershock left from dropping a bomb on your career in your thirties.  I think most envy my position and it is enviable indeed, but it doesn’t come without a price.  Everyone enjoys a good pat on the back once in a while, a recognition that their hard work hasn’t gone without notice and is in certain circumstances deserving of great praise and adoration.  The typical retiree has lived out 30 or 40 years worth of milestones leading to their gold watch.  I, however, called it quits early in the first quarter.  I guess I miss the recognition.  Acknowledgement that I am good at what I do for a living.  It is petty and stinks of the kind of self-love that I abhor, but if I am honest with myself I believe it may be why I open my mouth but cannot speak.

In the end, it could well be self-inflicted emotional injury caused by the guilt one feels when they wake up and find they have been blessed but are not deserving.  It is the human condition I think.  Suffering for the sake of suffering.  It is true what they say, money can’t buy happiness.  But then again, happiness can’t buy happiness either.  We look for ways to torture ourselves and pretend we have problems to mask our insecurities and hide the truth of the less fortunate.  Why do some of us have it so damned good, when others are clinging to the bottom rung of the proverbial ladder?  There is famine, illiteracy, poverty and war on every corner of the globe.  How can I complain?  And yet I do.  I bitch about this and bitch about that, trying to keep myself from feeling too good.  Embarrassed by my fortunes, it is easier to turn a blind eye and rough myself up a bit so that I don’t have to face the truth.  The truth is, there are those in the world that didn’t choose a life of leisure and whose perception of a job well done is colored by their woeful unemployment.  A pat on the back doesn’t mean shit if you can’t pay the rent.  They didn’t choose this life.  They don’t get to feel sorry for themselves because they don’t get a “good job” at the end of the day.  Instead they end their day dreaming . . . no, praying for any job at all.

And just like that, I utter my first raspy words after a long silent illness.  Better for the fever and stronger from the cough.  It is time to recognize my blessings without the guilt and do something for those that are truly less fortunate.  I know not what that will be, but I know that I must find it.  Like the smallest crack in the largest damn, a breakthrough will soon be made and many upcoming post will come flowing forth.  Stay tuned.  R.