Today's thoughts

Category: CREATURE FEATURES (Page 35 of 38)

Lions and Tigers and Bears, Oh My! (Plus dogs and cats)

Retirement is not without Hassles: Links of Friendship #175

It’s good to be home and at my desk once again.  I’ve added another 6600 miles to my retirement travel log, bringing my total to nearly 40,000 for the year. Not bad, for someone my wife calls a “homebody.”  It’s always great to get together with family and friends, explore new places, and get some fresh air, but there’s no place like home.   I get to stay in our house now for about three weeks before our trip to San Francisco to meet up with the grand kids.  My desk is cluttered with unopened mail, bank statements, bills, receipts, souvenirs, and travel brochures.  I was just looking at a 2019 Viking cruise from London to Norway to see the Northern Lights, so it’s easy to get distracted when your mission is simply to reorganize.   Several loads of laundry await my attention in the next room, as I still have some unpacking to do.

I got back from Miami in the middle of the night, and got up early to take the dogs to the Coast, so last night was my first good sleep in my own bed.  The dogs sure enjoyed their romp on the beach, as the tide was out, exposing a great deal more sand than usual.  Their big dog friends played in the surf, while Tally, our youngest schnauzer, searched for an escape route up the steep cliffs.  I swear she’s a mountain goat, and would normally keep her on a leash, but she was securely contained in a canyon bordered by water and rocks, much too high for her to scale.

While the dogs played, I spent the afternoon with a group of my home town cronies, reminiscing about our high school and college days.  All of us are married, but this was the first of several days planned for just the boys.  There will be five of us for a weekend of guitar playing, dining, beer drinking, wine tasting, live music, and just catching-up.  In a way, I’m the outsider, since I’m a year older and none of them was ever a college room mate.  The other four lived together at one time or another, so they have a lot more history.  Plus, they’ve all been good about staying in touch,while I drifted in and out of their lives.  I was the first one married, and wasn’t part of the original migration to the West Coast.  While three of us now live in Oregon, one currently lives in Denver, and the other two in San Francisco.  Since I’ve only lived on the West Coast for three years, I hadn’t seen Eric for nearly 30 years until just recently when he and his wife visited.  It had been over 17 years since Mike and I reunited yesterday, and nearly 10 years have passed since Dan and I were together in Maui.  It’s definitely a “Big Chill” weekend.

This first year of retirement has been filled with 15 instances of re-connection, starting back in February (Post #15).  According to my wife, who dabbles in numerology, I’m going into a “Nine Year,” the end of the numbers cycle,  when people from the past re-enter your life as part of reflection and review.   Face Book has played a role in two of these coincidental encounters with people from my past.  My college room mate and I got together in Tucson after 45 years, and just a couple of weeks ago I found another lost friend after 10 years at a Chicago White Sox game.  There have been an inordinate number of chance reunions with former bosses, neighbors, co-workers, friends, and clients already this year.  I’ve also made arrangements for two more get-togethers in the next few months, as others continue to re-enter my life.  I can’t remember another year with so many of these rewarding encounters with long-lost acquaintances.

With today’s Social Media outlets, it’s more difficult to lose friends and easier to stay in touch.  Also, you get to know people before you meet them.  A good example was a friend of mine’s parents who I just met in Florida.  I had seen their photos posted for years, so as I was introduced, it felt like I’ve always known them.  Furthermore, there’s no longer that shocking surprise of not seeing someone for a long time because you’ve watched them change via Social Media.   Even though I don’t see my grand kids on a regular basis, I can at least watch them grow-up through daily picture sharing.  I can remember when the first thing you said to a kid was, “wow, you’ve really grown tall!”   Nowadays, you aren’t surprised at all, and they aren’t embarrassed by the obvious.  By the same token, about 90% of Face Book posts seem to be related to good news – promotions, vacations, achievements, accomplishments, and friendship.  The bad news is communicated in a much slower manner.  Obituaries, illnesses, misfortune, and pain are still typically delivered by phone.  It’s tough to get those phone calls, and to think about all the broken links in life.

The dogs are quiet today, resting up from an exhausting yesterday.  As I enjoy the quiet here at home, I’m glad that people from the first quarter of my life are still around in the third quarter, even if they were missing in the second quarter.  Who knows who will be around for the fourth quarter – if there is a fourth quarter?  I’m in the second half of the third quarter, enjoying retirement and savoring friendship.  I hope there are many more missing links from my life that get reconnected, and wondering if there will be reunions in the afterlife?   There are a number of people that I would love to talk to, as we all try to make sense of the good, bad, and ugliness of life.

Creature Features: Cat Scratch Fever #171

I’ll have plenty of time for posting tomorrow, as I fly cross-country from Seattle to Tampa.  I’ll lose three hours in the process.  Last night was indeed outstanding – “Outstanding in the Field.”  It was our fifth dining experience with the company that does group dinners in outdoor settings all over the world.  The table was set this time on Netarts Bay, just west of Tillamook.  The guest chef was from Ranata restaurant in Portland, and the host was the Jacobsen Salt Company.  On the site of a former oyster farm, the company converts water from the bay into gourmet salts.  The tour was very interesting, as part of a reception that also included appetizers and wine by the gallon.  It’s a pricey event, but each year we find it well worth the money.

We went with friends who live in that area, and stopped by their house on the way there, to admire some of their improvements.  Their cat was on the kitchen table, and when I reached out to play, it bit my arm, leaving a small puncture mark.  I hope I don’t get, “Cat Scratch Fever,” since I couldn’t keep that song out of my mind as we enjoyed dinner.  I’ll keep an eye, and some antiseptic, on it.  I also felt sorry for their two huge playful dogs, who probably thought that we would bring our two dogs to romp with them.  They are best of friends.  Instead, they were once again stuck at home with the ornery cat.  While I watched all these “lovable” creatures in one room, I could only imagine what they were thinking as we walked out the door.  Also, since we had just visited the Oregon Zoo last weekend, I thought of this cute little poem that I wrote about our dogs several years ago:

 

Mammal Mania

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They chase our cats,

Have caught a mouse.

Not much going on,

When stuck in the house.

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Their first attack,

By bugs or flies.

They might admit,

Was a big surprise.

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They dream to escape,

Free to see the world.

Who knows what they think?

When they lie there curled.

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The world to them,

Is our backyard.

To know what’s out there,

As our faithful guard.

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We go for walks,

And rides in the car.

And on occasion,

We go quite far.

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Strange new sights,

Through the eyes of a dog.

Like the time they came,

Nose to nose with a frog.

 

Or at the lake,

A ferocious bark.

It’s only a fish,

Not a shark!

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Or a close encounter,

With a big old goat.

Scary horns,

And a wooly coat.

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Sometimes they’re wrong,

It’s not what they think.

They turn into chickens,

And raise a big stink.

 

So much commotion,

Growls and moans.

Some wild beast?

Just Traffic cones.

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They try to be brave,

Put up a good front.

So little time,

So much to hunt.

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These pups get excited,

At the sight of any mammal.

Especially the day,

They spotted a camel.

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I haven’t seen,

Such barking activity.

As I drove by,

A Live Nativity.

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Squirrels are their favorite,

A more favorable size.

They’ve never caught one,

After many futile tries.

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Birds are mysterious,

As they fly away.

Why can’t we fly?

If words they could say.

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Once an armadillo,

Was an attraction.

It was unimpressed,

Showed little reaction

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They haven’t seen a snake,

Reptile or crocodile.

Hope that doesn’t happen,

For a long while.

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And any encounter,

With a Giraffe.

Without a doubt,

Would make me laugh.

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Not to mention,

An Elephant.

Can you imagine?

I certainly can’t.

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Let alone,

A Dinosaur.

Extinct impossibility,

To hear that roar.

 

If they only knew,

What lurks outside

They rely on me,

To be their guide.

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A trip to the Zoo,

Would be the best.

Lions and Tigers,

A true bark feat.

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Then back home,

To dream some more.

About these strangers,

Outside the front door.

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johnstonwrites.com copyright 2012

 

 

Retirement is not without Hassles: Sweet. Home. Sweet. #169

A certain sense of relief came over me as I walked into my home office this afternoon.  I only had lunch with a friend and made a dry cleaning stop, but it still involved a good hour of expressway driving.  I had the top down on the convertible and the radio on, as the sun warmed my skin.  It does feel good when the sun is shining, but otherwise going outside can be taxing to a homebody like me.  I’m stuck on this “homebody” label that my wife gave me the other day (Post #165).  I don’t honestly know why I consider it to be an insult?  I do enjoy the cool air-conditioned comfort of our home, that has never changed.  I don’t like heat and humidity, although that is rarely the case in Portland, Oregon.  I also don’t like the rain, ice, or snow associated with Oregon winters.  Plus, I definitely don’t like bugs, some reptiles, and especially noisy kids in my quiet retirement years (OK – six months).  All of these negatives are outside!

It’s a jungle out there!  To prove it, my wife even took me to the Zoo.  The animals were all locked in their homes, with limited responsibilities.  Are you seeing the similarities?  My locks are self-imposed, and I clean my own cage, but I still expect to be fed.  I try not to bite the hand that feeds me, or rattle the bars.  I do have my moods, like any mammal, so I can be a lovable Panda or an Ass.  There is a wild-side to me, and tend to pace a lot.  I get along well with other animals, but often forget to share.  I’m also a fan of the Cubs and the Bears, but not so much the Lions or Tigers.  Oddly, I do not have to be chased to run.  I also don’t hunt, fish, fight, or hike, but have been known to reproduce.  Finally, I’m relatively low-maintenance, with few needs outside of air-conditioning, TV, computer, bed, and shower.  I could survive in the Zoo, but not in the Jungle.

I’ve been traveling a lot lately, including a couple of hours in the car yesterday.  We were just in Indiana for 6 days, and I’m headed to Florida for another six this weekend. We’ll drive to the Coast tomorrow for our annual, “Outstanding in the Field,” dinner, and I have a luncheon and happy hour plans on Friday.  It’s not exactly a hermit’s existence, but I do enjoy my own bed, the company of the dogs, and my daily routine that I can only get at home.  Then, talk about homebody disruption! I  will have to get up at 2:30 a.m., do a shortened version of my run, and be at the airport by 4:30 a.m. for a 6:00 a flight.  By 7 a.m., I’ll be in Seattle, and then fly cross-country to Florida.  My son will pick me up at the airport, and drive me to his home south of Sarasota.  We’ll leave first thing the next morning for Miami, stopping briefly in Bonita Springs to pick up some friends that will joining us for all the Baseball All-Star events.  I’ll live on jet fumes, fast food, ball park hot dogs, and Diet Coke.  In the process, I’ll see my grand kids, my daughter-in-law, and hopefully lots of baseball players.

Although it will be a fun excursion, I’ll be glad to get back to my wife, the comfort of our bed, and my lazy, care-free days of hanging out with the pups.  It will be more than enough to curb any travel urges until we leave for San Francisco in early August.  I think that Tinker, our arguably 90 year-old schnauzer, would like to be more of a homey  She is very sore after our many outings the past few days, while Tally, who is half her age, is always ready for more.  After six days apart, my wife will surely be ready to retract her insult.  She will miss me, as I will miss her!

“Sweet Home Chicago,” by the Blues Brothers, “Sweet Home Alabama,” by Lynyrd Skynyrd, “Home Sweet Home,” by Motley Crue, and “Home on the Range,” by John Denver are not necessarily my favorite songs, even though they should probably be personal anthems, at least according to my wife.  I have seen each of these songs performed live on numerous occasions, proving that I was never one to sit at home and listen to music on the stereo.  I have a fond memory of my son, seeing a Lynyrd Skynard cassette in my car’s glove box and pronouncing it Line-rad Skine-rad.  He’ll never live that down.  I saw Buddy Guy perform “Sweet Home Chicago,” at his blues club in Chicago, another unforgettable memory.  The Motley Crue lyrics, “I’m on the way, Home Sweet Home,” I’ll be singing in about a week on my trip back from Florida. A poet, Dr. Brewster M. Higley wrote the lyrics to “Home on the Range” in his verse titled. “My Western Home,” back in 1872.  Many “cowboys” performed the tune including Slim Whitman, Gene Autry, and Roy Rogers, but I heard the version by Henry John Deutschendorf, Jr. in Indianapolis.  He was about as far from a cowboy as you could get, but like Neil Young and even Frank Sinatra, covered that popular Western tune.  By the way, home would never have been on the range for me.  I once panicked when we looked at a property out in the country that didn’t even have sidewalks.  I’ve always preferred live shows, but have experienced some (Post #121) unpleasant moments at various concerts that would make anyone want to stay home.  Been there.  Done that.  Sweet, Home,  Sweet,  the words are interchangeable.

I can be a bit obsessive, so I apologize for my recent rants on being hassled by my wife about being a “homebody.”  Hopefully, I’m over it now, knowing that my wife will need to be kept busier on the weekends.   I’ll just become less active during the week, and try to give the dogs some rest, as well.  My wife does have Planter Fasciitis that supposedly limits her dancing and walking activities.  Otherwise, I’d probably be totally exhausted.  It’s one of the hazards of marrying a younger woman.  I pledge to rub her dogs, pet our dogs, and respect her “double-dog dare” to be less of a “homebody.”

Retirement is not without Hassles: Picnics #168

Nothing says 4th of July like a picnic, one of my wife’s favorite things to do.  Picnics, for me,  date back to childhood, particularly 4th of July reunions with the family.  We were either at my Great Aunt and Uncle’s house on Simonton Lake, or at an Oxbow Park pavilion.  All my grandparents, parents, cousins, nephews, nieces, uncles, aunts, and ants were in attendance.  The ants were actually not welcome, they just showed up expecting to be fed.  We’d play softball, croquet, badminton, toss a football, Jarts, and go for a swim or a boat ride.  They were always very memorable get-togethers, that became less appealing to attend as I got older.  One of my uncles would spend all day at the grill drinking beer and cooking hot dogs and hamburgers.  While he was getting toasted, he’d also toast your buns.  We didn’t congregate very often, but it served the years before weddings and funerals brought us all together.

While I was, of course, content with staying home for the 4th, my wife had a much grander plan in mind.  (see Post #165)  She was in the kitchen preparing a Kidney bean salad, and grilling chicken.  She has a lot of energy, even after our one-hour walk/run with the dogs earlier.  Before we started our stroll this morning, we sat together and decided on a location to do a picnic.  She was not going to allow me to be a homebody on the 4th!  I found Punch Bowl Falls on the map, about an hour away on Eagle Creek.  It’s a popular Oregon destination, right up there with Multnomah Falls and Crater Lake, so I felt quite confident that no one else would think of going there for their day-off.   They’d probably want to stay home and watch TV.  She got out one of our many picnic kits, in this case a back-pack, loaded up the cooler with some adult beverages, and we were ready to hit the road.

As they watched her pack up, our two schnauzers got that “are you leaving us again?” look on their faces.  They weren’t tired enough after their walk this morning, and there was plenty of room in the car for them to G…O – we spell it out, since they know the word, and then don’t get overly excited.  It was then time  for the dogs, the wife, and the homebody to head-off to the Punch Bowl for our 4th of July picnic.  She even mixed together some Lemonade Punch, spiked  generously with vodka, to add to the picnic festivities.  My wife’s assessment of me is accurate, you know, I can be a happy homebody, but to an even greater degree I’m certainly not an outdoors-man, anxious to take a hike in the woods.  I am “condo man,” who prefers very little yard work and an air-conditioned environment.  Even my mother told my wife that as a kid “Mike wouldn’t mind sitting at home working on a sewing card, while his sister would come home with a black eye.”  Apparently, there were no sexist stereotypes in my family.  Maybe I should take up sewing again in retirement!

Besides family picnics, I’ve certainly attended and organized my share of company picnics.  These were events that no one really wanted to attend, but the perception was that if you worked for a “bad” company, they didn’t have a Holiday party and a picnic every year.  If you were employed by a “good” company and had a picnic, then it was an intrusion on an employee’s weekend time, and logically they should probably be paid for attending.  Employee committees, designed to let the boss off the hook, went through this dilemma every year, so they tried to come up with enough door prizes to make attendance worthwhile.  Those that had to work were paid overtime or given extra time off, and someone usually delivered picnic food to the station.  Regardless of what you did as an employer, it wasn’t enough!

When I worked for WISH-TV in Indianapolis, I referred to their employee outings as “WISH-nics.”  You “wished” you didn’t have to go, but if you didn’t, you were talked about.  I would always try to make an appearance, and duck-out as quick as possible.  I don’t recall having picnics at prior stations where I worked, but I’ve probably just blocked them out of my mind.  One of the worst company picnics that I can recall, was done by my Dad’s company.  We did not go, because I think he felt the same way about company parties that I do.  It turned out to be one of the best decisions of his life, as hundreds of people got sick.  I remember playing in our yard and hearing ambulance sirens screaming in the distance as they traveled back and forth from the Emergency Room.  It was more disturbing than air-raid or tornado sirens, especially after we discovered what was going on.  The problem turned out to be bad potato salad from a local bakery.  Ironically, my dad’s company made Alka-Seltzer, but “plop, plop, fizz, fizz” was not enough “relief” to counter the nasty effects of food poisoning.  I don’t think anyone died,but I doubt that they ever enjoyed potato salad again, or attended company picnics.  I have always referred to it as the Miles Sick-nic!

As I think about hiking and picnics. I remember one afternoon when we lived in Austin, Texas, climbing through the Barton Creek Greenbelt.  This unique area covered over seven miles of limestone cliffs, dense foliage, and shallow bodies of water.  We could easily access it from our apartment, and the dogs would gladly G…O.  My wife had packed a picnic, as we searched far and wide for the perfect spot to enjoy the food she had laboriously prepared.  At last, we settled on a location that had a beautiful view, but it was also precarious.  We realized after we got settled, that there was a sharp drop of several hundred feet just off to the edge of our picnic blanket.  I typically eat quickly, but the thought of sliding down that hill made me rush even faster.  I had a death grip on a small tree nearby, as I also tried to get the dogs settled.  We called it a “Cliff-nic,” and ever since have tried to find flat, level spots to enjoy our meals.

One of our first weekend dates involved a picnic.  We drove down to Bloomington, Indiana, where I had gone to school.  I had brought along a gift, her first Limoges box. (See Post #146)  I think that every time she prepares a picnic, she expects a gift.  It’s probably why we picnic so often!  There’s been Symphony on the Prairie, on the beach in Maui, on the Oregon coast at Haystack Rock, and every time we go into wine country.  We’ve done the Gypsy Picnic in Austin, where no packing was necessary, but rather you sampled from a variety of food truck vendors.  Our dog Tinker especially enjoyed our regular picnics at Rudy’s (See Post #133).  Once again, we didn’t have to cook or bring a “pic-a-nic basket,” as Yogi the Bear called it.  They had a grassy picnic grounds behind the restaurant, and the dogs could join us at the table for Texas BBQ.   We also tried the Picnic House Restaurant here in Portland, Oregon, hoping to get that picnic experience without all the hard work of frying chicken and marinating Kidney Bean Salad.

I think I spotted us in the Georges Seaurat painting, “Sunday in the Park with George,” that has also become a popular Broadway Show.  We were the couple on a picnic blanket, by the lake, with our dogs.  The painting captures the romantic aspects of the picnic fantasy that my wife is always trying to attain.  I’m usually too distracted to share in this daydream because of the delicious spread that she packs.  I probably should bring a gift on our next outing, but they can be so spontaneous, like yesterday.   Surprisingly, there was very little traffic, and we were easily able to find a parking spot right by a picnic table at Punch Bowl Falls.  There were a lot of people along the narrow two-mile trail that leads to the falls.  It was a bit precarious, “Cliff-nic like,” with cables embedded in the rock to serve as hand rails, in those washed-out areas where a stumble might lead to a deadly fall down the side of a rocky hill.  We wisely waited, this time, until the hike was completed to enjoy our picnic lunch.

Even though I had to spend a lot of time outdoors, it was an enjoyable and memorable 4th of July.  Though disappointed, we decided that we were both too tired to stay up late to see the fireworks.  I have to say that this morning I’m as confused as ever on what day it is?  – with the 4th of July falling in the middle of the week.  I’m just glad I didn’t have to go to work like my wife did, as I’ve comfortably resumed my homebody lifestyle, with the exception of lunch with a friend today and a stop at the dry cleaners.  For me, living the retirement life without the hassles of health and financial problems is certainly, at this point, a picnic in the park!

 

 

 

 

“Sunday  in the Park with George

Fried Chicken and Potato Salad

 

 

 

Gypsy Picnic – Food Trailers Austin

Yogi Bear, talked in rhymes  pic-a-nic basket I’m smarter than the av-er-age bear

Picnic House Restauratnb

Retirement is not without Hassles: Firecracker #162

My wife and I enjoy seeing fireworks.  The dogs, not so much!  Tinker, our eldest schnauzer,  has her “Thunder Shirt,” that provides some comfort around noisy storms and loud noises.  Typically, we go back home, to Indiana, for the 4th of July, but we went early this year.  We’re trying to make plans for here in Portland, but do not want the hassle of going downtown for the Blues Festival.  We did that two years ago, for our first Fourth in Portland, as both of our employers were sponsors of the event.  Since I’m now retired and my wife now works for the competition, it would not be appropriate for us to attend.

We did not see any fireworks at the ballpark last week, but between Epcot, Greek Festival, Navy Pier, Padre Island, Galveston, Paris, Conner Prairie, Rome, and Sky Concerts we’ve certainly seen our share of great firework displays.  My wife teases me about my lack of hearing, whether that be physical or mental.  I blame it on the rock concerts and loud fireworks that I’ve had the pleasure of watching through the years.  I hope this year is no exception.

Fireworks

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I don’t hear well,
What did you say?
Sometimes I get it,
But there’s a delay.
.
Could you repeat that?
I’ve said too many times.
Like trying to communicate,
With one of those mimes.
.
Sometimes when I listen,
It just isn’t clear.
Like a firecracker exploded,
Right next to my ear.
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Am I getting old?
Have grown inattentive?
My undivided interest,
Is the least I can give.
.
It’s not intentional,
I Love You too much.
I value your words,
And crave your touch.
.
It’s annoying to you,
And with that short fuse.
I don’t mean to set you off,
Or your patience abuse.

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What did you say?
I just couldn’t hear.
There was a loud bang,
Followed by a cheer.

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Please say that again,
When the ringing clears.
Here’s my new promise:
To lend you my ears.

.

Copyright 2003 Johnstonwrites.com

Old Sport Shorts: I.U. Wins It All! #161

We recently returned to Indianapolis, and while my wife took her mother to see an ear doctor, I spent some time with some old friends.  We went to Syd’s Tavern in Noblesville and shared some sports memories.  He is a sports memorabilia collector and she was a former client, who bought radio and television advertising.  I hadn’t seen them in nearly a decade, but we quickly reconnected like time wasn’t really a factor.  I had met Bill as a result of my business relationship with her, and discovered much in common, including the Chicago White Sox and Indiana University.  I would love to have many of the items in Bill’s massive collection, and built my modest “man-cave” because of his influence.  We’ve attended many games together, but our most memorable experience occurred in March of 1987.

Indiana University, our Alma Mater, was the NCAA Tournament #1 Seed in the Midwest Regional, and won its first two games in our then home town of Indianapolis.  My good friend Peter and I were there to watch them easily beat both Fairfield and Auburn, on what was essentially I.U.’s home court, just up the road from Bloomington.  At that time, conversations started brewing about following the team through the tournament, as the next game was also close-by in Cincinnati against Duke.  I conveniently planned to be in Cincinnati that Friday on business, so I was able to score a single ticket and watch Coach Bob Knight’s Hoosiers defeat Coach K’s Blue Devils 88-82.  The excitement was building!  The Regional Championship game in Cincy against L.S.U. was on Sunday, so Peter and I were forced to watch it on TV.   I.U. was nine points behind with less than 5 minutes remaining, and I remember that our dreams of going to the Final Four in New Orleans were in deep jeopardy.  Somehow, with six seconds on the clock an injured Ricky Calloway, who grew up in Cincinnati, put in the winning shot for an Indiana 77-76 victory.  After the game, we decided to go to New Orleans, whether we had tickets or not!

Bill, through his University connections, was able to get good tickets and called in need of a ride.  Peter had a place for us to stay, so my job boiled down to securing a vehicle.  We were meeting two of Peter’s friends in Bowling Green, Kentucky and added one other passenger, Mark, from Indianapolis.  The plan was to leave from my office parking lot with the four of us and pick up the other two at the Holiday Inn, just off of I-65.  The final piece of the puzzle came together after a business acquaintance of mine was able to get us a van.  We’d take Friday off, leave late in the day on Thursday, share the all-night driving responsibilities, and get to New Orleans sometime on Friday.  It was about an 850 mile trek that would take 12 to 13 hours to complete, so it seemed easy enough with each of us driving a couple of hours on four-lane highways.  We decorated the van with red and white signs and team flags, and I sat in my office eagerly anticipating a 3 p.m. departure.

About two hours before we were ready to leave, I got an emotional call from Peter, who was the main instigator of the trip.  He was the one who had the connections for our rooms in New Orleans, and had extended the invitations to the two guys in Bowling Green and to Mark.  Unfortunately, Peter’s father had just passed away in upstate New York, so he wouldn’t be able to go with us.  As a result, Bill and I would be traveling with three total strangers to the Final Four.  Plus, we didn’t even know each other that well back then.  I was certainly sympathetic for Peter’s loss, but he wanted the trip to go on despite his absence.  I was concerned, but the van was packed, tickets were in-hand, and five willing drivers were anxious to hit the road!

The three of us from Indianapolis met in the parking lot and made the appropriate introductions.  Mark seemed like the great guy, as Peter assured me he would be.  I volunteered to drive first and anxiously turned the ignition key.  Nothing happened!  The battery was dead, so I went back into the office and called for assistance.  Keep in mind, there were no cell phones at that time, so communication was a little more difficult.  A tow-truck arrived about an hour later.  In the meantime, the car dealer who loaned me the van had decided that another van would be the best option, so the revised plan was to follow the tow-truck to the dealership and make the exchange. The tow-truck driver was intent on removing the signs and flags from the vehicle, but we couldn’t lower the windows that secured the flags, so he had to take the time and trouble to jump-start the battery.   Apparently, the flags were blocking his vision behind the van-in-tow.  I was beginning to think he was a jealous Kentucky fan! Another hour passed.

We all hopped in one car and drove to the dealership that was inconveniently located on the opposite side of town.  The dealer then had to transfer the plates and paperwork, while we redecorated the van.  As we were exiting that parking lot, the van died.  Fortunately, the battery in that van was still working, so we were easily able to remove the flags and move to our third van of the afternoon.  Another two hours had gone by, and we were forty-five minutes north of where we initially started.  I was just glad that we didn’t break-down in a remote highway location.  However, we were supposed to be in Bowling Green already, instead we were at least four hours away.!  Furthermore, none of us in the van knew these other guys, what their names were, or how we were supposed to get in contact with them?  Peter was already on a flight to New York to make funeral arrangements, so he couldn’t help.  I didn’t think to ask those details while we were talking about his father.  A cell phone would have come in handy!

Finally, we were on the road and decided that since we were so late, we should call the Holiday Inn in Bowling Green.  We stopped just south of Indianapolis to use a pay phone, and a half-hour later, I finally got through to the bartender.  While I was in the phone booth, Bill moved over to take my place in the driver’s seat.  While he accelerated, I recounted the conversation, explaining that Peter’s friends had gotten to the bar early for Happy Hour, so they were already through a six-pack.  We were still over 3 hours away from picking them up, so they undoubtedly wouldn’t be fit to drive once we arrived.  At least. they knew we were on our way.  They had not been aware that our mutual friend had lost his father, but at least they knew the people we were supposed to stay with in New Orleans.  Fortunately, Bill  didn’t drink alcohol, so he continued to drive, while Mark and I enjoyed a couple of beers.  They were already starting to get warm after the cooler had been moved from van to van. Unfortunately, a traffic accident blocked our way!

Ten hours after the time when we originally had planned to leave, we arrived at the Holiday Inn.  It was approaching 1 a.m, and nearly seven hours later than anticipated. Our two new friends had been pounding beers since Happy Hour, so our first encounter with these strangers was worthy of a comedy skit.  They didn’t say their names and preferred to be called by what they were drinking.  As a result, they were know as “Bud” and “Lite Beer by Miller” for the rest of our time together.  Mark tried to catch up with them, as they passed a couple of  joints between them. I did not join them at the time, as Bill had no interest.  We stayed alert while the “Three Stooges” thankfully soon passed out in the back seat.  My sober collector-friend, Bill, was still at the wheel as a blanket of fog completely blocked our vision.   I kept an eye out for cops as our highway speed dropped to under 25 m.p.h., and the snoring in the back escalated.  As the hours slowly passed, I eventually relieved Bill at dawn after a short nap, so he could get some well deserved shut-eye.  About that time, “Bud” started to rally and graciously offered to buy Bill dinner for staying up all night.  He and Bill hit-it-off quickly, relieving my anxiety about Bill’s reaction to the pot smoking.  He didn’t say anything, but I only really knew him through his wife.  Mark and “Lite Beer by Miller” were still out cold, as we continued our foggy journey through Alabama.  It was quickly approaching “high” noon, as the van filled with marijuana smoke and empty beer can rattled against each other under the seats. It was also nearly 20 hours since our original departure time, and we still weren’t there.

There was more beer drinking and pot smoking, as Bill preferred to stay behind the wheel.  He had a restless couple of hours sleep, as I continued to fight the fog, but once the “beer twins” woke up, the van started rockin’.  They found a radio station to their liking, and continued to charm Bill.  They guided him into New Orleans and to our residence just across the river from the Superdome.  The reality of finally getting there was starting to set in, as we had all become fast friends.  There was a rally that night at the Hilton, official team headquarters, and Bourbon Street to explore.  No one seemed too concerned about where we were staying, until we walked in!

The location was great and we had plenty of room, but the entire duplex was stripped to the bare two-by-fours.  Red spray paint, marking the construction plans, looked more like the Manson murders had just happened before we arrived.  Did we somehow miss the crime scene tape on the way in?  The only pieces of “furniture” were one mattress and four lawn chairs situated around the table saw.  There was saw dust everywhere and you could see through the floorboards.  Furthermore, it was unusually cold outside, and there was no heat.  We all agreed to let Bill have the mattress, since he did most of the driving, and we bought him dinner at Pat O’Brien’s that night to further show our appreciation.   Prior to dinner, we met our fellow fans, Coach Knight and the players at the hotel that was directly across the river from our luxurious quarters.  We wore our red, sang the fight song, and wished the team well in their game against once-defeated #1 U.N.L.V.  Their only loss was to Oklahoma after a disputed bucket was incorrectly ruled two points instead of three.  The “Runnin’ Rebels” fan-base were all decked out in attitude and gold chains, as they displayed blatant overconfidence.  We tried to ignore them and spent most of the night on French Quarter bar stools, before taking the ferry back to the wrong side of the river.

I left the “comfort” of my lawn chair bed on Saturday morning with a gnawing headache.  There was one more rally before the big game, so we crossed the Mississippi from Algiers Point, once again.  “Bud” and “Lite Beer by Miller” did not come back last night to take their place around the table saw, stacked precariously with empty beer cans.  The place was starting to look more like a Frat House and less like a murder scene.  Bill, Mark, and I at least tried to get some sleep rather than prowl the bars. Hopefully, the Hoosier team was getting a good night’s rest, and the beer twins had been entertaining the “Runnin’ Rebels” all night.   We would need all the help we could get!  When we got to the Hilton, there was a giant I.U. banner hanging above us, that apparently I just couldn’t live without.  It was attached to a projection screen that moved up and down via a switch in the control room.  If I could get someone to lower the screen, I could easily run off with the banner.  Obviously, I had alcohol poisoning and wasn’t thinking clearly, but I went to maintenance and told them, “Coach Knight wants us to get that banner over to the Dome.”  I think he was ready to flip the switch and lower the banner, but changed his mind once he spoke to a supervisor.  It could have been a focal point of Bill’s collection, or mine, if I had been able to pull that off.   We walked to the Dome empty-handed.

The five of us had a variety of seat locations at the Dome, none of which were together.  Bill had the best seats, so I sat with him.  Mark had met some woman named Mary, and was up in the nose-bleed section sucking face with her.  I hope his wife didn’t mind!  “Bud” and “Lite Beer by Miller” were probably still drinking Hurricanes on Bourbon Street.  I’m not sure they were even at the game.  It was the first NCAA tournament where the players had the benefit of the three-point shot, that would surely be to Steve Alford’s benefit.  It was like the movie, Hoosiers, as most of the experts didn’t think that Indiana would be able to contain the dynamic U.N.L.V duo of Armon Gilliam and Freddie Banks.  Others felt that I.U. would have to slow the pace of the game down to even have a chance.  It was stacking up to be the classic battle of the “Good Guys” against the “Outlaws.”  I didn’t realize it at the time but we were part of the largest crowd to ever see a college basketball game.  Bob Knight elected to run with the Rebels and devised a plan to beat their full-court pressure.  The result was a 97-93 victory, despite a record ten 3-pointers from Freddie Banks.  Coach Jerry Tarkanian, “Tark the Shark” choked on his towel.  Steve Alford had 33 points for the “Good Guys,” and we’d be staying in New Orleans for at least two more days!

“Ain’t no Sunshine when she’s gone,” became the U.N.L.V. parting blues song on Bourbon Street.  “Ding-Dong the witch is dead,” as Indiana prepared for Syracuse on Monday night.  Bill continued to show his maturity, while the rest of us acted like kids in a liquor store.  He got some rest while we sampled the wares up and down The Quarter.  After all, he had the mattress and we had the lawn chairs.   Mark continued to hang out with Mary, so I partied with “Bud” and “Lite Beer by Miller.”  We probably had 3 hours of sleep in the four nights we were there.  There was another rally on Monday, but the banner was missing.  Maybe someone else stole it?  Being in the Championship Game in New Orleans was almost like a dream.  I sat next to Bill and covered my eyes as Syracuse dominated the game.  It wasn’t until the last few minutes that I peeked through my fingers, as Rony Seikaly continued to miss free throws for The Orangemen.  I simply couldn’t watch as Keith Smart launched the winning shot.  However, Bill  pried my hands away, insisting that we didn’t drive this far to not watch the end.  “The Shot” a famous photograph that captured that historic moment, must have been taken very near where we were sitting.  Also, CBS produced the very first  “One Shining Moment,” following that exciting 74-73 finish.  It’s been a tournament tradition ever since.  I’m glad that Bill made me watch!

We left for home immediately following the game, since we all needed to be back at work the next morning.  Honestly, none of us really expected to stay through Monday, but somehow scraped our funds together,  The room was at least free, but they should have been paying us to stay there.  The construction crew had returned that morning to wake us up, so we packed everything into the van and parked near the dome for a quick get-away after the game.  Bill volunteered to drive us back, probably for his own safety.  He even battled the darkness and a freak, blinding snow storm, reminiscent of the fog on the trip down.  We were all powered by adrenaline, having witnessed a moment of sports history we will never forget.  Mark daydreamed about Mary.

As I write this story over 30 years later, I’m sure I forgot a few details and exaggerated everything but the extent of our drinking.  I see my friend Peter on a regular basis, and just had the reunion with Bill.  Peter continues to stay in touch with “Bud” and “Lite Beer by Miller,” and I’ve followed them both through Facebook.  Mark is still with his wife, with Mary as a faint memory.  I had been to New Orleans in 1982 for my very first Final Four experience, so to return with my Indiana team as the victor made it even more special.  Coincidentally, I recently stumbled across a framed copy of the front page of the Indiana Daily Student, dated March 31, 1987. (See Post #60).  I was surprised to find it in Portland, Oregon of all places, where pot is now legal, by the way.  It hangs in my office, where the I.U. banner from New Orleans should have hung, if that maintenance guy would have just flicked that switch.  The headline reads, “IU Wins It All!”  I know – I was there!

.

Old Sport Shorts: My Kind Of Town #156

My wife is working today in Chicago, so I’m doing my retirement thing here in “My Kind of Town.”  The nice thing about retirement is that it can be done from anywhere.  She did seem a bit jealous this morning, as she went one direction to make calls and I went the other for a Diet Coke.  However, I think that today will be considerably easier on her than the past few days of tending to the demands of her 95-year-old mother:  errands, closet cleaning, bank duties, dining, cemetery, wheelchair pushing, and the frustrating efforts to communicate.  We’re both glad to be away from the assisted-living environment that doesn’t exactly exude positive vibes.

Technically, it’s “Date Night,” so she’ll have yet another reason to want to get back home as soon as possible.  We’re going to a White Sox game tonight and  she’d undoubtedly rather “set her hair on fire” than watch baseball and eat hot-dogs.  Only I am looking forward to Date Night this week!  If she had her way, we’d probably be paying top dollar to see Hamilton, or at least go back to Joe’s Stone Crab for seafood and Sancerre.  That’s where we started this journey a few days ago to bring us back home to Indiana.  We did stop by to see the frozen-tongue of Flick stuck to the flagpole from the Christmas Story at the Indiana Welcome Center next door to our hotel.  It’s often the main highlight of these quarterly trips back to visit, if that gives you any idea of the level of excitement sometimes associated with this treks to the Hoosier State.   We’re in a different hotel room every night, up early every morning, and sluggish from our daily intake of fast food.  Not to mention, exhausted from long flights, traffic hassles associated with hours in a rental car, and conversations with her nearly deaf mother, often written on a dry-erase board.  I’m proud to say though that we had no major disagreements, other than where to turn.

My mother-in-law is a big sports fan, although apparently this wasn’t always the case.  It certainly didn’t rub off on her daughters!  We did take her parents to their very first Cubs game at Wrigley Field nearly 18 years ago.  Mark Grace was her favorite player at that time.  It’s probably because of her hearing issues that sports became the focal point of her television viewing after my father-in-law passed away.  She could easily follow games without dealing with closed captioning, and always tuned-in for Cubs games   It’s become a common bond between the two of us, and gives my wife a break during our visits.  We watched them play the Nationals the last couple nights, bemoaning their sluggish first half of the season.   We also were at Wrigley Field for last year’s World Series games 4 and 5, and watched game six from Cleveland with her at the assisted living home.  Honestly, if the Cubs were in town tonight we would have undoubtedly gone to Wrigley Field rather than Guaranteed Rate where the White Sox play.  However, since the Sox are playing the Yankees, the game will definitely bring back many memories. (See post #148: Summer baseball)

I haven’t seen the Yankees play in Chicago since 1960 when my dad took me to a game at original Comiskey Park.  I had just become a fan of the White Sox and their catcher, #10 Sherm Lollar, most likely because they had played in the World Series the previous year.  My had dad actually talked me out of being a Yankees fan that previous year in favor of a team closer to our Indiana home.  He hated the Yankees, but didn’t exactly have the White Sox in mind as my team of choice.  He was a Tigers and Cubs fan, and was hoping that I would follow suit.  Because of his efforts, I was a frustrated baseball fan for 46 years until the White Sox finally won it all.  I could have been an obnoxious Yankee fan, like so many others I’ve known through the years!

Original Comiskey Park and its exploding scoreboard named “The Monster” was right next door to where they built the new Comiskey Park – U.S. Cellular Field .  Just last year it was re-named Guaranteed Rate Field.  My White Sox finally won the World Series in 2005 in the new Comiskey Park, and I had the pleasure of attending a couple of those games. It was the last time I saw a game played there, even though we drive by it all the time on our route to and from Indiana.  Unfortunately, during the last dozen years, the team has been consistently “down,” and many White Sox fans, like myself,  are concerned about the Guaranteed Rate association with the stadium and their logo that consists of a giant red, downward pointed arrow.  Don’t  rub it in!

I return to the field tonight, after 12 years of enjoying season tickets with the Cubs, while struggling to maintain my childhood loyalty to the White Sox.  I’ve attended a couple of “Crosstown Classic” rivalry games at Wrigley in the meantime, so I didn’t totally forget about my allegance.  I’ve also worn my White Sox jersey to a several Mariner’s games up in Seattle, since moving to nearby Portland.  I’ve been to Yankee Stadiums, old and new, several times in the last few decades.  In fact, my wife and I went to see the Yankees and Cleveland play in 1999 in original Yankee Stadium.  We were just dating at the time, so we both made compromises.  Instead of hot dogs we tried Dippin’ Dots for the first time, and between innings some guy told us to “get a room.”   Six years later, as a married couple, we made a second compromise and went to see a Civic Theater presentation of “Damn Yankees,” with a show-stopping performance by the one-and-only Jerry Lewis.  That was probably the best trade-off we ever made between her love of Theater and mine of Baseball.

Ironically. before we started dating, my wife had access to tickets through one of her suppliers, and got me seats to take my ex-father-in-law to a Yankees game in Tampa at Tropicana in 1998.  He was one of those obnoxious Yankee fans, that I could have been just like if it weren’t for my dad.  I saw those “Damn Yankees” beat the Red Sox in 2009 at new Yankee stadium, and repeat the feat against the Rays in 2004 at the old stadium.  In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever watched them lose.  Hopefully, tonight will be the first time they go down in flames, and that my wife won’t set her hair on fire, instead of enjoying the game!

Retirement is not without Hassles: White Noise #149

Just before I retired, as I began to count down the days, meetings and conversations about work were nothing but “White Noise.”  I was painfully aware that words were being spoken with the intent to educate and motivate, but I didn’t hear them.  It was like I had muted the TV or put my ear buds in to listen to something else instead.  What?

My wife complains that I say that word “What?” entirely too many times.  It’s a bad habit and I use it whether I don’t hear, can’t hear, or don’t understand what she is saying.  It may very well be a hearing deficiency, but to a greater degree it’s an attention deficiency.  I don’t mean to be rude or disrespectful of what she says, my mind just can’t pull it all in.  All I get are bits and pieces of what is said, often stuck on one word that I didn’t fully understand.  Or worse yet, my mind often wanders, easily distracted by people, animals, and sounds around me.  My iWatch and iPhone don’t help matters, constantly alerting me to breaking news, sport scores, and e-mails.

This is why we have Date Night, so we can get away from distractions around the house, and enjoy a fully attentive conversation.  Yes, there are moments where one or the other of us pulls out our phone, or the restaurant is too loud to talk comfortably, but most of our Date Nights are a success in togetherness.  Last night, it was Jack Rabbit, a new restaurant in downtown Portland.  Date Night (see post #55) by definition means mid-week dining in a restaurant that we have never been to before.   In retirement, it’s often times the only way that I know it’s Wednesday, and not just any other day of the week.  During Date Night, my wife vents about work or family and I give her 100% of my attention, if that’s even possible.  There were a few “Whats?”  This particular restaurant was loud, our server a bit obnoxious, the service very slow, but the food quite good and our conversation steady.

As my wife talks about work, I find it to be personally relaxing, but I can see the stress in her eyes.  It reminds me how glad I am to be retired and not having to deal with supervision, discipline, frustrating clients, and corporate nonsense.  I remember when I was 5 years away from calling it quits, as she is now, and seeing that finish line so far away.  It has to be difficult for her to know that I’ve already crossed it.  She’s happy for me, though, because I’m truly happier.  I no longer hear the “White Noise” of the work week.

Years ago, my wife and I had a dinner with another couple at their Country Club.  He and I had a lot in common and were becoming fast friends.  We had gotten together for the first time to introduce our wives and share some stories about their two daughters that had coincidentally attended the same college.  We enjoyed many laughs that evening, but the one take-away was her teasing him about being nothing but “White Noise.”  When she spoke, he would predictably zone-out, claiming to hear nothing but “White Noise.”   They had been married for at least 25 years, so for them it was fair game.  Personally, I wouldn’t have touched that subject with a ten foot pole, but I clearly saw the humor in it.  I wrote this poem in honor of that conversation and to better clarify the meaning of “White Noise.”  It has nothing to do with the relationship between my wife and I, but rather other couples I’ve watched throughout the years.

 

White Noise

.

You start talking
Your tongue on a roll.
I try to listen,
But my mind gets full.
.
Your mouth is moving,
But it’s nothing but a blur.
I’m not sure how much of this,
I can honestly endure.
.
You abruptly stop,
Ask me to repeat.
I stare back with,
A look of defeat.
.
I want to cover my ears,
As your ruby lips flap.
I once heard sweet notes,
Now out flows crap.
.
“You just don’t listen,”
I hear you say.
Then you go on…
And on all day.
.
You’re White Noise,
White Noise is all I hear.
Can’t you just whisper,
Sweet nothings in my ear.
.
Word regurgitation,
Feedback’s all I hear.
An Ear Drum explosion,
Is my greatest fear.
.
Can’t get a word in,
Can’t even talk back.
White Noise drives me crazy,
Where’s a mole to whack?

.

She says that I don’t hear well,
But I hear all that I want.
Her words turn into White Noise,
If I’m honest and up-front.
.
It’s not that I don’t love her,
Or she’s not important to me.
It’s just she tries to say too much,
And I’m A. D. H. D.

.

Copyright 2010 johnstonwrites.com

 

 

 

 

Retirement is not without Hassles: Fathers #143

Today is Father’s Day, but like most days in retirement, just another glorious day.  I’m a father, step-father, grandfather, godfather, grand-godfather, father-in-law, father of the groom, pledge father, and fur father.  Hopefully, I’ve also been a father-figure to some and father-like to others.  I’ve had two fathers, one of which I never knew, two grandfathers, who I knew well, and two other grandfathers that may never have known that I ever existed.   My biological father was a putative father, and my adoptive father should have been awarded father of the year.  I’ve also had two fathers-in-law, but lost one in a divorce and the other to cancer.  I’ve been called both “father” and “dad,” but never “daddy,” “dada,” “pops,” or “papa,” like my friend-fathers are sometimes fondly addressed.

I’m pleased to admit that my son is a better father than I remember ever being.  I was far too absorbed in my career, as was my father.  I only knew the traditional male role, and accepted those narrow responsibilities.  Being only 22 years old, I was also never prepared to be a father, but have never regretted being one.  My son’s marriage made me both father of the groom and a father-in-law to his wife, giving me that second chance at fatherhood through grandchildren.  However, I’ve always lived too far away to take advantage.  Plus, I’m not always comfortable around children, and often find them annoying, especially on airplanes and at restaurants.  The older they get, the more I can relate, so I keep my distance and try to spoil them with Disney vacations and gifts.

For me, sports have always been the primary communication link between father and son.  It’s where most conversations started with my father, and continues to be the case with my son.  We go to sporting events together, and try to take the grand kids whenever possible.   I often show my love by writing checks; more learned behavior.   We are in the habit of saying “Love You” at the end of our conversations, something that only occurred in later years of my dad’s life.  At one point, I remember plotting a way to tell him how I felt, worried that he would go to the grave without hearing those words.

I got off to a bad start with my first father-in-law, concerned that he was not being truthful on an insurance payment due to my wife-to-be.   It was a misunderstanding that we eventually worked out.  The marriage didn’t!   When it came time to marry again, I properly asked her father’s permission for her hand.  It was a moment I will never forget, as pancreatic cancer took his life before I really got to share more time with him.   The second marriage was the first step in becoming a stepfather to two daughters.  I do feel that word “stepfather” has some negative connotations.  It’s not a very lovable word, so I try to avoid being one.

Tinker, Tally, and Frankie are my current furry children, although my fur-father responsibilities date back to just after college.  (see post #133). In college, while involved with the Sigma Chi Fraternity, I was a pledge father.  My “son” was blackballed from joining the house just after I transferred to another school.  He’s now the CEO of a major corporation, so I was glad to see he nicely rebounded from this Freshman set-back.  I was also honored to be the godfather to a college friend’s daughter, and I guess that makes me a grand-godfather after the birth of her son.  It only seemed logical that I should stuff cotton balls in my mouth and talk like Marlon Brando in this role.

For those into the Bible, Matthew 23:9 reads, “Call no man your father on earth, for you have one Father, who is in heaven.”  Father is a title of religious superiority, and the basis for the Catholic hierarchy.  Forgive me, Father, but who’s your daddy?  Who’s Father Time’s father?  He invented the clock, right?”  Consider this fine definition of a father by an author unknown:  “A father is neither an anchor to hold us back nor a sail to take us there, but a guiding light whose love shows us the way.”  Or, another uncredited favorite:  “A father is someone you look up to no matter how tall you grow.”

I would not be writing this if it weren’t for my biological father.  I don’t know the circumstances of why he never took responsibility for me, or if he honestly ever knew about me, for that matter.  He was a Marine, but not much of a father.  I was adopted in the first few month of my life, and given everything I possibly wanted.  It takes a special man to raise someone else’s son, and I’m proud to call him Dad. (see post #104)

Happy Father’s Day!

Retirement is not without Hassles: Countdown #139

As I go outside to run each morning, I keep trying to see “Future Mike.”  Future Mike is coming in the door, already finished with his run, while I’m just headed out that door.  Most days I wish I was Future Mike, but that’s like wishing your life away.   I know that running is good for me and I always feel better afterwards, but I don’t always enjoy the experience of sweating and breathing hard.  I’m glad it’s over for today, so I can spend some time writing.

I’m a bachelor for a couple of days while my wife attends some business meetings.  Her company is headquartered in Iowa, “Field of Dreams,” a state that is definitely not at the top of my list of retirement destinations (post #138).  Needless to say, Future Mike is not interested in living there.  Since she was gone this morning, I took the opportunity to sleep in an extra couple hours, but find myself totally disoriented.  It feels like a weekend since I stepped away from my normal routine of getting up just before my wife.  I guess that’s what made the run that much harder this morning.

The Mike of the future will probably still be running every day, and hopefully be traveling around the world.  If I can figure out a way to “Time Travel,” I’ll probably do that, too.  My future self will also be enjoying the next stages of retirement, and not reliving the dreaded Ghost of Work Past.  Maybe I’ll buy myself a DeLorean!  Seriously, I’m not sure I want to think about the future right now, just savor the present.

One way to look to the future is to do a countdown.  These are usually started when you’re looking forward to something.  For example, I did a countdown to retirement.  If I go to the Viking Cruise website, there is a countdown clock showing 277 days until our trip from Venice to Athens happens.  Fortunately, we can only count up when it comes to life, otherwise our lifetimes would be hopelessly ticking away.  I’m counting on another 30 years, but as we all know, today could be my last.  On a more exciting note, I did see a SUV this morning with a countdown to summer written on the glass windows.  It started at 10 and all the numbers were crossed off except 2 and 1.  Two days and counting until school is out and summer is here.

10  9  8  7  6  5  4  3  2  1 Summer

Having the summer off was always good for us kids, but posed a challenge for working parents.  The countdown for them was always the opposite, as they looked forward to the start of a new school year.  We’re currently counting down to my wife’s birthday in 5 days, but knowing her as I do, she’ll manage to stretch it for a good month.  With a little luck, maybe I can stretch my next 30 years, as well.

I remember looking forward to summers, holidays, and weekends, but now every glorious day is the same.  We’ll still celebrate my birthdays, even if there aren’t really any additional Senior Citizen discounts for me after this year.  I will therefore not be counting down the days with anticipation.  If I still stayed up until midnight on New Year’s Eve, I would gladly participate in that countdown celebration.  We’ll also start a countdown for my wife’s retirement in five years.  By the way, only one more day until she gets back home from “Field of Dreams.”

Countdowns can include fractions.  I’ve updated a poem that I wrote in the month of October over 15 years ago, that shows the art of getting the most out of each of life’s events.  I mention the month it was originally written so you don’t get spooked that Halloween is just around the corner, but it will be here before we know it.  Only 138.5 days away if you want to start a countdown!

Fractions

My loving wife has taught me,
The art of timely fractions.
For celebrating each day,
Is one of life’s satisfactions.

.

Events don’t come about,
But once a calendar year.
You shouldn’t have to wait,
Fractions keep them near.

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Days, hours, minutes,
The seconds tick away.
Today’s yesterday’s tomorrow,
Tomorrow is soon yesterday.

.

It was just your 1/3 Birthday,
My 1/6th coming soon.
Our 16th Anniversary,
since our Vegas honeymoon.

.

Sweetest Day has Passed,
November days away.
And it’s nearly New Year,
Almost Thanksgiving Day.

.

Not quite Halloween,
But the countdown has begun.
It seems like only yesterday,
Enjoying summer’s sun.

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As time together passes by,
More magic memories made.
But not a moment shared with her,
That I would ever trade.

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There’s some that I’m not proud of,
Some that made us sad.
I never mean to do you wrong,
Be mean or make you mad.

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I’ve counted every day,
Made calendars and notes.
Today’s 6701 point 5,
My diary denotes.

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Two hundred twenty months together,
Two weeks and a couple hours.
It all adds up to a lot of love,
Gifts, Limoges and Flowers.

.

Because we love each other,
The days go by so fast.
Keeping track of fractions,
Helps to make them last.

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I Love her more than anything,
And cherish that each day.
I’ll always give my very Best,
Not a fraction – all the way.

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