Author: mikeljohnston1 (Page 28 of 269)
Today, just for variety, it’s an eye doctor appointment, reminding me of this Jackson Browne classic:
“Doctor, my eyes have seen the years
And the slow parade of fears without crying
Now I want to understand
I have done all that I could
To see the evil and the good without hiding
You must help me if you can
Doctor, my eyes, tell me what is wrong
Was I unwise to leave them open for so long?
‘Cause I have wandered through this world
And as each moment has unfurled
I’ve been waiting to awaken from these dreams
People go just where they will
I never noticed them until I got this feeling
That it’s later than it seems
Doctor, my eyes, tell me what you see
I hear their cries, just say if it’s too late for me
Doctor, my eyes cannot see the sky
Is this the price for having learned how not to cry?“
Songwriter: Jackson Browne.
My wife knows the words to almost every song – even after hearing it just once. We call it the chip, something that constantly amazes me about her. I really never paid much attention to the lyrics, so when I include them in this blog it’s as if I’m hearing the song for the first time. Yes, I can recall familiar bits and pieces, but I would badly butcher it singing along.
I have seen the years, seventy-two of them and counting. I try to take in the meaning of this song and how it might relate to me. I do know that I tend to shut my eyes when something unjust or controversial happens and maybe this protects me from crying.
My eyesight is a bit blurry, so a prescription update is likely. Maybe this will help me see clearer. Playing games on my phone has led to some eye strain and mild headaches. I’m sure I’ll get dilated, and the onset of cataracts will be apparent. I also need new glasses since there are some tiny cracks in my lenses. A new look is in order, after years of wearing wire rims. Doctor, my eyes require your attention!
I’ve established many habits – good and bad throughout my life. They say that it takes 30-days to start one. Brushing my teeth was probably the first, along with combing my hair, things that hopefully all of us do every day in the spirit of personal hygiene. I didn’t make daily flossing a regularity until later in life. Push-ups are part of my daily regimen, dating back to my teenage years and inspired by a grandfatherly-like figure on family vacations at the Bay Palm Trailer Park, now just a few miles down the street. I do about 90 every day, along with some stretching and crunches before my morning run. This has been slightly disrupted recently with medical procedures.
I’ve tried to add swimming to my list of good habits, but only with marginal success. Some of my many bad habits are sweets, mainly cookies, Diet Coke, and television binging. Video games on my phone, like MonopolyGO and Solitaire Cash are rapidly becoming addictive practices. The phone itself is something I can’t put down, constantly searching sports, Facebook, weather, and personal banking apps. Screen time is often shocking and continues to grow. My wife considers leaning, shuffling, and shallow breathing to be annoying habits of mine. Her list is probably too big to elaborate on.
My biggest addiction is running every day. I’m obsessed with it from the moment I wake up, often regretting what has become a daily task. The Florida heat had me up earlier but overcast skies and cooler temperatures have kept me in bed longer of late. What was once a 7:30 start is now closer to 8:30. I was also in the habit of doing a daily 5k, but excessive heat and humidity caused me to reduce that by a mile. I just completed the month of September with only 64 total miles, and I’m also at 737.5 miles this year, with only 91 days left to reach my 1000-mile goal. For the first time in many years, I probably won’t get there!
I continue to shuffle down the street every day, doing my best to ignore stiffness, lack of balance, and awkward form. Today, was #5,390 on my quest to reach 15-years of running every single day. It is likely that I won’t make that either, with a pending heart procedure that will probably put me in the ICU for a few days. I try my best to enjoy these last days of “The Streak,” but under the circumstances, it’s hard to remain motivated. I feel like I’m running on concrete legs with a piano on my back while the slightest headwind might bring me to a stop. Once I do stop, will I be able to start another one? That’s the million-dollar question, as old habits are in this case thankfully hard to break!
We choose our teams from the area where we live, the schools we attended, and outside influencers that cross our paths. I grew up in the Chicago area (northern Indiana) with a father that was a Detroit sports fan and neighbors that were Bears and White Sox supporters. My folks graduated from Indiana University and even baby pictures showed me in I.U. gear. They were able to win for many years with even me as part of their fan base but have fallen on hard times over the past 35-years of my life.
The Elkhart High School Blue Blazers were my hometown favorite. The only Indiana professional sports franchise was the Pacers, until the Colts showed up in the middle of the night. Nowadays, there are women’s teams and minor league teams, but the state is still primarily influenced by Chicago, St. Louis, and Cincinnati teams. Hockey and soccer were not of interest to me until later in life, while I began to follow the Cubs since my dad and son were big fans. With my record of losers, I’m sure I’ve done them no favors in climbing on the bandwagon.
As a kid, I was drawn to players like Johnny Unitas of the then Baltimore Colts, Sherm Lollar of the Chicago White Sox, and Mike Ditka of the Bears. These attractions were likely due to the influence of television. For Lollar, it was the 1959 World Series against the Dodgers. Unitas joined the Colts in 1959 and Ditka the Bears in 1961, all in my vulnerable pre-teen years when I established initial fandom. “Johnny U” was the only one on a team outside my geographic circle. Ironically, the team moved to Indianapolis, as Peyton Manning eventually took his place in my heart, wearing that classic white helmet with the blue horseshoe. My dad talked me out of being a Yankees fan, despite my love of Mickey Mantle. They wouldn’t have probably won as many rings if I had stayed on board.
Of all my teams, Indiana University basketball under Bob Knight is undoubtedly my most successful sports allegiance, witnessing three national titles, the most memorable in the stands when Keith Smart hit the winner. If I had chosen Notre Dame or Purdue, I would have seen personal glory in other sports, particularly football. I’ve tried to root for these teams, but negative childhood vibes have gotten in the way. It’s odd, because I’ve worked near both campuses and have had personal ties, so I should naturally be more supportive. My cousin played for the Irish and his father was an assistant coach, so it was the first stadium I ever visited, one of my treasured memories of going to games with my dad. I also interacted with Purdue coaches, like
Tiller and Keady, and players such as Drew Brees, but my dad hated both schools, so I loyally followed along.
As we moved from place to place, I adopted the local teams, but only rarely was it productive. The Illini were much less successful than the Hoosiers. While living in Austin, I did watch the Texas Longhorns win a College World Series title on TV and then saw live and in person the Oregon State Beavers equal that baseball achievement in Omaha, while working in Portland. I also followed the Portland Timbers when they won the MLS championship in 2015. The Oregon Ducks had their moments in football and basketball, but never won all the marbles. I even favored the Mariners in nearby Seattle, but they remain the only MLB franchise to have never played in a World Series – my kind of team. The Seahawks won the Super Bowl in 2013 but have been unable to repeat since I became their adoptive fan.
Most all my favorite memories of my father are around attending sporting events, including the infamous “Hamburger” outburst. We went to high school games, ND Stadium, Comiskey Park, Riverfront, and Wrigley Field together. Saw “The Monster” explode with fireworks, celebrated those NCAA Championships of our IU Alma Mater, had lunch with Jim Coker of the Phillies, watched an angry Lou Pinella throw first base at an umpire, and witnessed Sammy Sosa top Babe Ruth’s HR record. Outside of sports, I remember carving our YMCA Indian Guides totem pole, along with a related overnight campout and our pinewood derby entry. We also traveled to Akron as a family to watch my good friend Tim Steffen compete in the Soap Box Derby nationals. Who could ever forget our lengthy station wagon journeys to Yellowstone, Wall Drugs, Mackinac Island, The Wisconsin Dells/Locks, Mt, Rushmore, Englewood, FL, and Gulf Shores.
I never had success in the fantasy leagues or on betting in general, too often choosing players that ended up injured or performed poorly. I tried to stay out of my son’s selections, even though he invited me to be part of his team, a mistake he will learn to regret. We’re off to a bad start. Unfortunately, like father – like son.
As far as professional sports, I have only gotten small doses of victory, otherwise it has been a miserable relationship. The Pacers have never won an NBA title, but the Colts did win a Super Bowl in 2007. Unfortunately, it was against my Bears, so it was a game of mixed emotions. The Bears won it all in 1986 and I reacted with my own “Super Bowl Shuffle.” The White Sox finally won rings in 2005 and the Cubs did it in 2016, games I was able to attend. That’s only 3 Chicago titles in 60 years of following these teams. That’s 171 losing seasons, including this year. The Bears are already 0-3, while the Cubs have dropped their last four as a potential playoff contender, and the long ago eliminated White Sox have only won four of their last ten. I logically should have been an obnoxious Bulls fan, but I spared them the “Johnston Jinx.” I really know how to pick ’em, don’t I?
I’m on my way to that 2,500th post, a milestone I should reach by the end of the year if sticking firm to my original post a day commitment made upon retirement. However, all things are slowing down as motivation wanes with age. I’m trying to muster enough to find a new challenge in the way of part-time employment. My wife has decided to do some substitute teaching, but I don’t think that’s for me. She’s at least found something that supports a community need. I keep going back to the ballpark and trying to find a place there, but once again we’re out of town for most of Spring Training. The Braves have clinched the best record in baseball and could very well claim another World Series title. They just swept the Cubs and foiled their playoff chances to get there.
I enjoyed The Saint of Second Chances documentary, the story of the Veeck family, former owners of the White Sox. There was great footage regarding the Disco Night disaster at Comiskey Park and lessons learned about stadium promotions that continue to drive crowds to games. The Veeck’s were shameless, creative promoters and heroes in the world of marketing, playing a major role in my radio and TV career. More importantly, the show is a study in perseverance and compassion, as fathers and businessmen. I recommend it highly.
I’m currently watching the Last Kingdom on Netflix in the afternoons at the suggestion of a friend. In the evenings, my wife and I have tuned to the Black Mirror series. It will take a back seat to Date Night at Roessler’s this evening. Tomorrow night I will be at Blue Break’s sports shop here in Venice for a card trading event. The owner, Jonathan Stone, and I will further discuss the sale of my Topps Now Shohei Ohtani baseball card collection. He plans to take it to Japan with him in December to help determine its value and hopefully find a buyer. Is my future in the cards?
I continue to struggle with my hands, especially after running. The adrenaline rush makes them shake even more, making it difficult to type. I hit the wrong keys and have to make constant corrections. Caffeine (Diet Coke) only adds to the frustration. I just tried to check the oil in my car and could not get the dipstick back in the hole without using both hands – one to steady the other. Using a screwdriver is often impossible. I once again ask the question of how is a tremor essential? I can’t imagine the trials of tribulations of those suffering from Parkinson’s. I’ve known a few in my lifetime.
Running every day is a distraction from this annoyance, although it’s not necessarily a pleasant experience. It’s hard work for a 72-year-old like me. I once thought that I would do it up until the day I died, but my mechanics are awkward, and balance continues to be an issue. I see the same people every day along my route, but most are biking, walking, or working in the yard. There are only a couple of other runners in the neighborhood, and half of them are snowbirds that are just beginning to return from their summer retreats. Misery sometimes likes company, so I miss them during the hot months. Today was pleasant with overcast skies and temperatures in the mid-seventies (just like me).
I’ve also been plagued with technical issues this morning. I can’t get into the MonopolyGO! game app on my phone and this Go Daddy site was stuck on the Spanish language. I couldn’t find a way to change it back to English because all the options were no entiendo. That has finally been straightened out along with the hacking of my Peacock TV account, after too many phone calls, e-mails, and chats. I’m still getting errors on my phone apps but hopefully that will clear up soon. Also, I spent $550 unbudgeted dollars yesterday on my air conditioning system after a routine service call uncovered that my UV light had burned out and there was excessive slime mucking up my drainage lines. Then, it’s painful procedures and co-pays, maintenance contracts, and association fees, as the bills pile up. Oh, the hassles of retirement – it’s really no different than the daily grind for all of us!
John Cougar Mellencamp is a fellow Hoosier, from Seymour, Indiana, where my 90-year-old birth mother just passed. I never met her but talked with him at an I.U. basketball game. He wrote these lyrics that always reminds me of our pink Coverdale Lake home (See Post # 2399):
“Aw, but ain’t that America for you and me
Ain’t that America somethin’ to see, baby
Ain’t that America home of the free, yeah
Little pink houses for you and me
Oh yeah, for you and me.”
My parents bought it for themselves, but it ended up in my hands, then my sister’s, before we sold it. One of the first goals was to repaint it and eliminate the pink tiles in the master bathroom. For that matter, it could have been Barbie’s house! I bought gallons of gray paint and rented both a pressure washer and sprayer. The rest of our family taped-off windows, doors, around fixtures, and grabbed paint brushes. We were ready to start the de-pinking process.
I set up the sprayer just outside the garage and filled it with paint before starting it up. A gasket apparently failed and the machine began to spew paint all over the garage, cars, pavement, and me. It was a total disaster before I finally was able to shut it down. I then quickly grabbed the power washer to rinse-off all the areas covered in the gray paint that was supposed to do away with the pink. Ultimately, it took hours of time and gallons of pressurized water to clean up the mess, while the rest of the family began to paint by hand. Fortunately, nothing was ruined except for my ego, that had devised this quick-fix plan. By the time I had cleaned-up the mess, returned the faulty sprayer, and took the time to buy more paint, it was no longer an economical or efficient idea. They were nearly done by the time I got back. Painting has never been one of my strengths.
Other improvements that we made to the house, included a wood-burning stove in the basement. A friend built the concrete block flute, and a window opening was adapted to serve as a pass-through for wood. I spent most of my time working on the limestone retaining walls that framed the stairways down to the lake. I would no sooner get one re-built before it once again crumbled from erosion. Friends would come over on weekends, but I was always busy fixing these troublesome walls, enviously watching them play in the water. They would also drink all my beer until I stopped buying brand names and switched to generic BEER. They eventually got the hint and began to bring their own. Lake life was never as I dreamed!
We had several big parties at the house. One was a Halloween party where I built a cardboard chute down the basement stairs as an entrance to the haunted house below. The other was a softball series between the two Federated Media radio stations where I worked. The Ft. Wayne stations, WMEE & WQHK, against my original employer WTRC in Elkhart. Players arrived in motorhomes filled with kegs of beer and camped at the end of our dead-end drive after an afternoon of competitive softball. We roasted a pig and borrowed a pontoon boat that nearly sunk; then got stuck in the narrow, muddy, channel between the lakes. It was a wild scene out of the Jungle Queen!
I worked at a Styrofoam factory, FORMEX, for many years, so I had a fleet of sailboat and catamaran seconds, along with paddleboards, floating lounge chairs, and kick boards. I also had a pinball machine in the basement, plus ping pong and pool tables, so it was the ideal party palace, certainly not what my parents envisioned when they originally bought it. Multiple balconies looked out over the lake and the pier was ideal for sunbathing. No wonder it was a popular weekend retreat for my friends once it was no longer pink.
One of my greatest pranks of all time involved my parents. They had bought a second home on Coverdale Lake, just north of the Indiana state line in Michigan. It was a small lake with a narrow channel that led into popular Long Lake. This channel was not deep enough to accommodate speed boats. As a result, Coverdale flotation traffic was limited to slower pontoon boats, sailboats, and fishing boats. The house was painted pink when they bought it with a knotty pine-paneled interior, so they initially had plans for extensive remodeling and to turn it into their retirement retreat. That’s a whole other story! Instead, it eventually became my home that I rented to my sister when my wife and I moved to Ft. Wayne several years later.
The home sat high above the lake in a wooded area on a private cul-de-sac with no other homes on either side. The properties across the street were at Long Lake level, so their driveways were steep drops downward. This meant that there were fabulous lake views from both the front and back of our home, in addition to the privacy, so the home had a lot of investment potential, especially once it was de-pinked. There was a stone fireplace in the living room that had a lacquered 4-ft. long log, six-inches in diameter, suspended over the mantle. It had a smooth surface, having been stripped of bark, with a knothole, and the stub of another sawed-off branch. The log must have had some significance to the former owner, but it seemed like an odd way to decorate a living room. At least, it was stained the same color as the pine paneling behind it. My dad hated the look of that log, and it became the first thing that he removed from the home after purchase. We thought about burning it in the fireplace, but for some unknown reason they never used their fireplaces for anything other than decorative displays. The one in their main home had a black, antique grate with white birch logs and never once was used for an actual fire.
I describe it as a log; however, it was really a severed tree limb. I’ve seen mantles shaped from trees, but I have never seen another log suspended over the mantle, hanging there like a broken branch as a decoration. It sat in the garage for some time before my dad decided to dispose of it. One day, I helped him load it in the back of his station wagon, and he took it to a dump site near a construction project in his neighborhood. For some onery reason, I decided to follow him in my car and retrieved it. You have to understand that my dad was meticulously neat about everything. He did not like things out of place or unorganized and treated his lawn like it was part of the Master’s golf course. My sister and I tried to meet his rigid standards of cross-cutting, recycling the clippings, and properly trimming. I probably failed miserably, being impatiently in a hurry to just get the never-ending job over with. We both feel that we spent most of our high school years mowing and edging his landscaping masterpiece. Heaven forbid that a fallen leaf disrupts its pristine presence.
Dad would stand at the kitchen window each morning with his cup of coffee and admire this work of art. One morning he discovered something out of place and went out to investigate. That’s when he discovered the abandoned log sitting on his precious lawn. I, of course, had placed it there the night before. This was just the beginning of what would become a family tradition.
My mom thought it was funny, as she observed his reaction and called me to report that he had taken it back to the same dump site. I immediately drove there and retrieved it once again, but stored it for a while in our garage, waiting for the right time to strike again. I guess a few months later I wasn’t being very creative when I pulled the same stunt again. This time my dad kept the log, ready to devise his own stunt.
It arrived at my office at the radio station in Fort Wayne a few months later via Fed Ex, a long package on my birthday where I was admittedly clueless as to what it contained. Inside, covered in gift wrap and adorned with a bow was this log. My parents were much more creative than I ever was with this delivery. However, the next time they visited Fort Wayne to see me, I booked them at the new Holiday Inn downtown. Knowing the manager, I also arranged for the log to be nestled in their bed. They took it back home with them. By then, my mom had used a wood-burning kit and began to engrave the dates and places where this log showed up unexpectedly. At one point, it stood upright decorated for Christmas. Mom had a ball with it! My sister was the next victim, and she returned the flavor, but over the years the log mysteriously disappeared. In fact, I’m still waiting for it to reappear!
“The Run is Done,” a simple rhyme that I hear in my earbuds each morning as I strip off my shoes and socks. It’s said by the AI coach that lives in my Nike Run App and keeps track of my miles or provides performance data. I haven’t always used this app to monitor my runs, but it does date back to 2021, two years ago. Before that, I relied on it occasionally but also used a Nike watch, Fit-bit, Apple watch and various written diaries or logs to time and record my runs throughout the years. I’ve averaged just under 2.5 miles every day, although recently I had cut back from a 5k to 2.1 miles in lieu of the Florida heat.
For many years, I used a transistor radio to keep me entertained. After being in the business, I liked to listen to local radio stations as we traveled and hometown favorites on my everyday jaunts. On many occasions I would listen to talk radio. Sometimes, I just liked the silence with only the sound of my shoes striking the pavement. Nowadays, the Nike app allows me to play my favorite Apple Music downloaded tunes unless the connection goes bad. I’ve written poems in my head as I’ve plodded along, solved the problems of the world, and planned the day ahead, all along wishing to hear the words, “The Run is Done.”
I was hard-wired to the devices that I carried until the technology for wireless earbuds evolved. Prior to this ingenious innovation, there were times when I got entangled and disconnected while running or even nearly decapitated when it caught on the branch of a tree or poorly trimmed bush I was passing. Currently, it’s just me, my phone, and these earbuds that go with me on these daily journeys. I also get notified by the AI coach in my ear every half-mile that I complete and also heard split times before my pace got embarrassingly slow and I shut that feature off. I don’t even want to know anymore but can’t help but sneak a peek after I finish. This morning, my first mile was under 15 minutes, while the second slowed to 17 minutes. Most people walk faster than this, unless they are tethered to a dog or two. Granted, I’m taking it easy after a heart procedure.
I now wonder what the Nike running coach will think when he (or she) no longer has me to push along? Will they understand the reason that I’ve stopped slogging every morning? Do they secretly laugh at my form and times? What do they do when they’re not watching me and filling my head with praise and encouragement? Furthermore, what will their final words be when I make that last run? Will it be more profound than just “the run is done?”
