Author: mikeljohnston1 (Page 37 of 269)
My nickname growing up was “Smiley,” given to me at summer basketball camp by a guy a came to despise. The name was probably appropriate, considering the wide grin that was seemingly plastered on my face at all times. I was never much of a talker, so the smile was a quiet expression of my shy nature. One of the bullies in my school was using it to mock me and it quickly caught on with the other campers. I was horrified, and remember feeling relieved when camp was over, thinking that I would gladly never hear it again. However, I ran into the guy that coined the name later that summer at a movie, and he began to taunt me again. “Hey, Smileeee, give me a Smiley smile!” or “let’s see that smile, Smileeee.” If he could have only seen the hatred in my eyes but found great delight in drawing out the final vowel in an obnoxious way. Others followed his cruel lead. By the time school started, everyone knew me as “Smiley.” Since then, I’ve been called much worse names in life.
I think that my fellow classmates thought that it was my given first name or my last name and never realized it was a playful, silly gibe, or the bully’s insult as it was intended, in my mind. Even though the use of the name seemed to anger me, my only reaction was sadly an uncomfortable smile, reinforcing the behavior to others. I never expressed my feelings about its use or confronted anyone who called me such. I saw it as confusing, personally embarrassing, and disrespectful, so I refused to call myself “Smiley.” As a result, I rarely used the phone since no one seemed to remember that my real name was Mike. “Hi, this is Mike.” “Who?”
Mike no longer existed, and smiles weren’t as frequent, as I continued my internal fight against having a stupid nickname. It made me think of the song, “Tears of a Clown.” In retrospect, I could have simply adopted the name. At least other classmates knew who I was, when I could have been just another Mike. It was so well known that I could have probably won a school election, or better yet created my own “Smiley” face and capitalized on its marketing. Instead, I cringed every time someone used that reference, and envisioned putting a bloody smile on its inventor’s face.
All these years later, I still run across former classmates who knew me as “Smiley,” and by habit call me such. At one point in my first marriage, my wife and I owned a golden retriever that we named Smiley. It somehow seemed more appropriate for a pet and ended my nickname torment. If friends came to our house and called for “Smiley,” they usually got a friendly, wet tongue and a lapful of fur. It made me smile, again!
My longtime friends arrived yesterday afternoon from Marco Island. They are headed back to lower Michigan tomorrow, after a stop near Panama City for a few days. We enjoyed a duck dinner last night and another outdoor concert, this time from a group named Brigade, a Heart tribute band. There were major thunderstorms all last night, so I got thoroughly drenched on my run this morning. I cut it short to two miles, but it was soothing to run in the rain. My GPS stopped working so I technically only got credit for .03 miles on my Nike Run app and at the same time the music stopped, leaving me with only the sound of the rain.
The band was tolerable, at times sounding like the original Wilson sisters. We sat with some neighbors in our beach chairs. Once I get comfortable, my butt nearly drags on the ground, so I can’t easily get up. Distant thunder roared in the background, but the rain held off. An Indy 500 discussion ensued after the show, as my grade school friend plans to attend this year and one neighbor in particular, a former Hoosier, has attended over 50 races. We shared some stories about past races that we’ve been to see, including the very first my buddy and I enjoyed back in the mid-eighties.
Shortly after I got back from my run this morning and stripped off my wet clothes, the downpour stopped, and everyone returned to their normal activities. My wife took Tally to the dog park and my friends walked the neighborhood streets. The plan is to go for a late lunch at Snook Haven, if we can figure out how to cram four bodies into the Lexus. Their Suburban is packed to the gills with snowbird stuff for their transition back home, leaving no other option but our sports car. Last night, the golf cart comfortably got us all to the nearby concert, but the restaurant is too far away. Good thing they are close friends.
Last night was the first fundraiser that I’ve attended in some time. Memories of rubber chicken, formal dress, and paddle raising came to mind. However, we were actually on the outside looking in. A barrier of red ribbon separated us from the VIP section, as we picnicked in comfortable clothing. We did have to listen to the boring speeches and pleas for dollars, but had the same view of the Venice Symphony orchestra and fireworks finale. They didn’t even give us a bidding paddle, only a foam light stick to keep beat to the music.
Those inside the barrier were treated to a buffet dinner and encouraged to give their hard-earned dollars to support student scholarships at the State College of Florida, the host of this annual event. We apparently missed the first thirty-two and may not go back again next year. The show did not compare with Symphony on the Prairie, my wife’s favorite event back in Indianapolis. The pleading for money and long speeches took most of the fun out of the evening, as we painfully awaited the music and fireworks. Plus, hit songs from The Beatles, Katy Perry, Lionel Ritchie, Phil Collins, and Barry Manilow did not necessarily work for me when put to strings. It reminded me of a harpist at a fine dining establishment playing “Wasted Away in Margaritaville.”
Nonetheless, we enjoyed each other’s company, drank lots of good wine, and dined much better than the VIPs. It was only a $25 dollar donation and close to home, despite any disappointment, so well worth our time on a Saturday night. Tonight, we’ll attend a free lawn event in our own neighborhood with the band Brigade, playing the hits of Heart. We have friends in town for the night. We’ll take the golf cart and enjoy another evening of wine and song.
I remember that “Saturday Morning” feeling, knowing that there was no alarm and two more days before I had to go back to work. Work wasn’t always so bad, but it was just the fact that I had to do it. The weekends were my own schedule, but now every day is just like every other day. Wake. Walk Dog. Puzzle. Run. Write. Repeat. Yes, it gets more complicated after lunch but essentially mornings are always the same. I’ll mix in a little TV while I’m writing, check my finances, and get ready for what’s ahead.
This afternoon, I’m going to help out in the kitchen, by preparing some wings for tonight’s “Symphony Under the Stars” pitch-in. The weather looks great and it’s about a mile to the event site, so it should be an enjoyable evening with friends. Eat. Drink. Be Merry. Fireworks will follow the concert featuring music from The Beatles, Katie Perry, and Lionel Ritchie.
Tomorrow, friends arrive for a two-night stay. They will be our second to last house guests until the fall. Like many of our visitors, they are snowbirds with lake homes up north. These transients come down in January to avoid the snow and leave in May. While they are here, the roads, restaurants, and beaches are jammed. After Memorial Day, we reclaim our town, as the population shrinks. We’ll make our trek up north in late August, around my birthday. Right now, we’re considering the long drive, since we’ll need a car to get around Indianapolis. My wife’s niece is getting married, we’re staying with friends who work, and we look forward to reuniting with Hoosier pals. Mobility is the key.
My wife is going back to Indiana in June without me for the bachelorette party. It will be just after our 2nd annual Indy 500 watch party and our final houseguest. She is not a snowbird but rather another former Hoosier, now Florida resident, from the east coast of our state. Once she leaves and my wife gets on her Indy flight, I’ll be more than ready to relax at home with Tally after a month of trapsing through Cairo, Petra, and London. Tally will be equally glad to be back from Schnauzerville, and in her own bed, hopefully for the rest of the year. It will then be time for all of us to make the best of home, sweet, Islandwalk home.
Only 21 days to go until our Egyptian journey, as we also celebrate our second anniversary of moving to Venice, Florida. ‘May the fourth be with us’ as we board a Tampa United flight into Newark, fly across the pond to Frankfurt, and finally land in Cairo the next afternoon. We’ve waited a long time for this great adventure, while threats of war and Covid delayed our initial plans for nearly four years.
“Matinee Monday” was moved to “Theatre Tuesday” and today will become “Feature Friday,” as we try to work in our weekly movie. We’ll couple it with “Date Night,” and make it a special outing. We hope to see the movie, “Air,” another story about our one-time Portland, Oregon home. This Nike tale happened long before we even thought of moving to Oregon, but shaped the future of the iconic company that now employs my wife’s daughter.
Michael Jordan was never one of my favorite basketball players. He was the enemy of I.U. in route to a Championship and a rival of my hometown Indiana Pacers. I leaned more to Reggie Miller and Larry Bird and was therefore never attracted to the Air Jordan brand. I remember it being the most expensive and desirable shoe of my day. Many think of MJ as “THE GOAT,” but I don’t agree. He was certainly one of the greatest of his era, but records are meant to be broken.
My Oregon friends recently attended the Nike Hoops Summit, a high-school All-Star game (USA vs. World) that I would have certainly attended with them, if I still lived there. We had already gone to the PK80 events at the Moda Center and saw our share of University of Oregon venues that Phil Knight built, including Matthew Knight Arena and Haywood Field. LeBron James has taken the shoe role of Michael Jordan, while his son Brony was featured in the Nike Hoops. I watched it on TV, and he certainly doesn’t have the physical prowess of his father, as yet. He also hasn’t decided on a college program, pro career, or even a shoe contract.
My daughter-in-law took me on a tour of the Nike Headquarters in Beaverton. Only there are Michael Jordan and LeBron James forever teammates, each with their own building. MJ was LeBron’s favorite growing up and wears the #23 in his honor. His ‘Airness’ retired the year before James’ rookie year. However, in 2003, LeBron attended Jordan’s basketball camp in Santa Barbara where they reportedly played on the same team. Will Brony get a Nike campus building and shoe of his own one day? His future is in the Air!
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Blood and bladder tests today to determine the next step in prostrate treatment. I’m currently fasting in preparation. Later this afternoon, I will read a couple of poems via Facetime to my retiring friend in Indianapolis. It reminds me that I’m into my 7th year of retirement but considering something part-time to supplement our travel funds. We just made arrangements for 5 nights in Mallorca, Spain at the Marriott Vacation Club, Son Antem, to end our 2024 Southern Atlantic Crossing cruise. We also have stops in Granada (Malaga) and Barcelona after visiting Casablanca. As a result of this adventure, I will have been to five of the seven world continents, missing Australia and Europe. Adding 49 of the 50 states, many European adventures, and extensive travel in the Caribbean, I’m pretty satisfied with the extent of our travel, so far.
Money will be the biggest issue in expanding this footprint that we have made. I’ve done a bad job of managing our retirement funds with extensive travel and home improvements. I certainly don’t regret any of these expenses, while hopefully our home will provide future financial benefits. Travel, on the other hand, is only an investment in making memories. I’ve already logged over 300,000 miles on what was originally a million-mile retirement quest. At an average of about 30,000 miles a year, it will take 23 more years to get there, if the funds are available. I think I was a bit overaggressive in establishing this particular retirement goal.
I’ll be happy if I can at least get to Maine, that elusive 50th state in the next few years. The plan is to drive up the Eastern coast, with stops in Hilton Head, Williamsburg, Washington D.C., New York City, Atlantic City, and Boston, taking advantage of Marriott Vacation Club properties and hotels along the way. The thought of the drive exhausts me. Maybe, I’ll just fly to Maine and back.
I was a bit sluggish this morning from too much wine last night, coupled with the rain, led me to shorten my run to just over the minimum mile. No one else was out this morning with the dark clouds and drizzle that is expected to last all day. Checking my phone, it was day #5,218 since I last missed a day. My sister was supposed to arrive this morning, but I haven’t heard a word. It will not be a sunny beach day, as was the plan. If they do show up, we’ll “pivot,” as was the attitude of the Chris Pine character in the Dungeons & Dragons movie. This will, of course, drive my wife, “the planner,” nuts.
I love my sister, but she’s never well organized. Throw in her daughter and grandkids, and I should not be surprised by her lack of communication. I did give them plenty of flexibility, considering travel time, a sick ex-husband, and weather. She’s trying to herd a party of five, including two teens and a 10-year-old, on Spring Break. I don’t envy her but “the planner” would like to know soon… if we’re to be involved… or NOT.
Just after I finished the last paragraph, the word came down that they are not coming. We now have two free days to do as we please. I’m just glad that I went out for pizza last night, as if another night of pizza would have been horrible. I’m now sitting here watching Curse of Oak Island, while composing this post, a Wednesday morning tradition. I also just signed up to me a subscriber to the Facebook page, Indy Radio Alums and Fans, another source for obituaries. Thankfully, I didn’t see my name this morning.
My chair yoga instructor is in Costa Rica today, so there will be no class. I hope to get to Costa Rica someday, reinspired by the Reluctant Traveler, hosted by Eugene Levy. He also went to Finland in last night’s episodes on Apple TV. I can easily relate to his comedic approach to avoiding nature. We had just finished Daisy & The Six, after growing stale watching Lost for months. It will have to satisfy the “Theater Tuesday” urge, since my wife needs to stay home today to prepared for her book club event tonight. I will escape in a friend’s Miata for a drive down the coast and dinner at Bobarino’s Pizzeria. It has just recently reopened after Hurricane Ian damage.
My sister and her entourage may or may not come tomorrow. I was hoping to see my nieces all grown up, but an emergency room visit may send them back to Indiana early. Their father has been hospitalized on three recent occasions, again yesterday, and guilt has come into play. I certainly wouldn’t want my kids shortening their precious vacation time at my expense – I’m sure he wouldn’t either. Hopefully, he will feel better soon, but other factors like getting to SeaWorld and nasty weather may also interfere in their planned stay with us.
My birth mother supposedly celebrated her 90th birthday on Easter. In past years, I’ve at least been able to see pictures of her on Facebook, but both of her kids have mysteriously stopped posting. There has been no word for some time on her health status, but 90-years of life is encouraging for me to think about. Cheers! Hopefully, I have some of those genes. My adoptive parents both lived to be 93, so I’ve been fortunate to see longevity run in the family. My birth father took his life at 79, so I figure I have at least ten more good years ahead of me.
It’s a shame that I was never able to make contact with any of Edna Faye Banister’s family members. My bio-mom is still a mystery and apparently still wants nothing to do with me. No one has bothered to answer my letters or respond to my Messenger notes. Thankfully, it’s not that way on birth father Cecil’s side of the family. They have all been very gracious about staying in touch. At least, half of my genetic family history is clear.
