PARTING THOUGHTS

                                                

On Saturday the 28^th of April we would have been married fifty years. It was a day she was so looking forward to because she always remembered a few relatives who told us we were too young and it would never last. That we were a couple of snot nosed kids who had no idea what we were getting into and didn’t understand what true love was all about. Those who said that are all gone now too, so there would have been no victory toast to relish. No crow to eat and no one to wink at and say “I told you so.” For me the satisfaction of still having her would have far out weighed anything else vindictive. We didn’t get married to win a contest, we married because kids, or not, we just enjoyed each other so much and that enjoyment never stopped.

It’s so different now that she is gone. I’m getting used to living alone but one thing that does bother me is when I see other older couples still enjoying each other’s company. I never had the “why me,” syndrome after she died but it does get me into a pity mood sometimes when that happens. I guess its human nature to be envious.

My wife was fun loving and gregarious and the last thing she would have wanted was for me to be moping around the rest of my life. If she could text me right now she would say “Suck it up Mike. But behave yourself.” There was a time when I would wake in the morning and think, “I would trade my tomorrow’s for those yesterdays in a New York minute but I know now that life isn’t about tomorrow’s or yesterdays but it is a trail of now’s and that’s what I need to be thinking about.

I have gone to a lot of weddings over the years and heard so many times the song Endless Love being sung. Not always like Diana Ross and Lionel Richie sang it-- but it’s the title of the song I wanted to talk about and not how it was sung. I have found out what endless love really means in the last few months. It’s a love that doesn’t go away even when physically there is no one here to love. Can it be replaced? Maybe, I’m not sure. Not sure because first of all you would have to want it to be replaced and then the answer to the question, can it be replaced, might be more obvious. But maybe replaced is a bad choice of words and it’s not another chapter in the same book but a whole new story. Time will tell I guess.

The other day I was sorting through the freezer when I came across a loaf of frozen pumpkin bread. There were so many people who gave me food after she passed and I froze a lot of stuff. But as I looked at the freezer bag, there was writing on it and it was hers. She had baked it a month before she died. I could only stare at it because here was something she had prepared for me to eat. I plan to have a piece of that bread on the 28^th. I will go to the grave with some flowers and that bread and we will celebrate together our anniversary. It won’t be the party I had planed, but there will be a party.

MY DAD THE ENTERTAINER

                                                

 I think my dad thought he was a modern day Confucius because he had a saying for everything. The biggest difference, between dad and the old Chinese scholar, was that most of the sayings from Confucius made sense. Dad would say things like, “I intend to live forever and so far, so good” or “a clear conscience is usually the sign of a bad memory.” My mother would just roll her eyes, and shake her head, whenever he would get on one of his philosophical tirades. He, on the other hand, would smirk and shake his finger at you like listen up my son. He was like Donald Trump, without any money. Speaking of money, he told me once, “Always borrow money from a pessimist. They don’t expect it back, anyway.”

When I was a young man, and out cruising for chicks until three in the morning, he would ask me where I was last night. When I told him I was at a Bible Study class, he would tell me, “Good one,” and make a mark in the air with his finger. “I was born at night but it wasn’t last night,” he would say. “So start over or I’ll have to refresh your memory for you.” I swear the guy never slept because you could have come home, flown into the upstairs bedroom window on the wings of angels, and he would still have heard you.

I love good quotes, and frequently read books of them, or go on the Internet. It’s hard to come up with new ones nowadays because these wise old codgers, and doting women of days gone by, have been spouting them for five hundred years, and there “Is only so many ways to skin a cat,” and there I go again. I have often wondered if Ben Franklin’s wife didn’t tell him, once in a while, to “Go fly a kite,” with his constant stream of wisdom. Come to think of it, he did fly a kite and maybe, after he got hit by lightning a few times, he did shut up.

My mother only had one saying that I remember, and it was, “What was left unsaid, was best said.” When she would say that to our dad, he would scratch his head and give her his best Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy imitation—which would get all of us kids laughing and stifle poor mom in her tracks. “Yes, my dear,” he would say, smacking his lips and trying to sound like W. C Fields. “That would have been best left unsaid.” I remember my brother once, when he was about twelve, raising his hand at the supper table and asking to go to the bathroom. Dad said, “You may—but not there—go in the biffy with that.”

Yes, dad was an entertainer first and foremost, but you know what—we all loved him for it, and so did mom. There was never a dull moment in our home. I remember talking to you once before about the difference between a house and a home. Our house was a shack by the railroad tracks, but our home was a vaudeville theater, filled with laughter and love. Of the eight siblings in our family, there has been one divorce in fifty years. Dad and Mom should be so proud. So, for now, I think I’m done because, “A conclusion in my life is the place where I got tired of thinking,” and I am.

DRUGS

                                                            

 For the past few weeks, I have listened to the many accolades for Whitney Houston, who passed away so suddenly. The words were very deserving, as Whitney was a wonderful singer, and we are in an era where music plays a huge role in how we feel about life.  Whitney’s death has been ruled to be caused by drowning but drugs played a big part in her demise. She had a long and sad history of use. If this is true, she joins a long list of celebrities who met a similar fate. Always, after sad events like this, we ask why. Why, when someone is at the top of her/his game, would they get caught up in this? They are not alone—read on.

After forty years of the war on drugs, the cost of this to our country is over a trillion dollars, and if anything, it is increasing. The cost in lives is incalculable because of the far-reaching pain and suffering it has caused. There have been over forty thousand Mexican citizens alone—killed in the last few years—caught up in drug wars while supplying this country with its insatiable appetite for drugs. Maybe if these people, and the others who died, were held in the same light as Hollywood celebrities, we would pay more attention. But they’re not because, in our eyes, they are insignificant and the demand for drugs is so great.

Imagine yourself, standing at the top of a high cliff with a lake below. On one side of you is a man telling you, if you jump, you’ll very likely be hurt badly or killed. On the other side of you, is a man telling you this could be the biggest thrill of your life. You choose to jump, just this one time; but now you’re addicted, so you jump time and time again, from higher and higher up the cliff, until one day your luck runs out. That’s what drugs will do to you. At first, they will be taken “just for fun,” but gradually, the fun becomes tame compared to that ultimate high you are now searching for. Stronger doses, stronger drugs, and an insatiable appetite for that ultimate high will now control you. Tomorrow doesn’t concern you any more, it’s today and now that’s important. You used to be popular—a good student and an athlete—but that’s no longer fun. You had a job, but they let you go. Your friends drift away from you, and your parents won’t leave you alone, so you hide in your bedroom and withdraw from society. You hang around with the low life’s that got you here. If you’re a boy, at some time the money will run out, and you will steal or rob to get it, even if it’s from those you love. Right now, you love the drug more. If you’re a girl, you will most likely turn to prostitution, and do things that will morally sicken you, to get the money, risking unwanted pregnancy and disease. Along with this goes the loss of your self-esteem and self-worth, and most of the people who loved and believed in you. Now, you’re left alone with your drugs.

I’m not a former user, but as a fireman, I saw the results of people using drugs over and over again. I helped bag up their overdosed bodies, and I pried them out of car wrecks. I fished them out of the river when they became so desperate they ended it all. I cried with their parents, who sobbed over their lifeless bodies, and could only say over and over again…“Why?” If you are using drugs, stop before it’s too late and you become just another statistic. Look at your friends and family and think of what you are doing to them. God gives you second chances—and so will they.

HONEY

                                                            

 She used to take so much pride in her vegetable garden. I wasn’t allowed in it except to till the earth in the spring and pick the fruits of her labor in the fall. She would sit for hours on end, on her little mat, with her garden tools, stripping away each and every weed and imposter that didn’t belong there. Nothing was allowed there but what was intended to be there—the vegetables and the rich black earth they grew in. She would often work her way, from the far side, to the garden gate, so even her tracks wouldn’t show. Like everything she did, pride always took over and she made it so perfect.

After the angels came that July day and took her away, the garden quickly turned to weeds. I was overwhelmed with her passing and knew I couldn’t grow, or tend, a garden that would be up to her standards, so I didn’t even try. It would have been almost sacrilegious to her memory. So, on a warm summer day, I took the fence down, tilled it up, and planted grass seed and two apple trees. Now I wait patiently for spring, and for apple blossoms to bloom over that special spot.

Years ago, Bobby Goldsboro sang a song called, “Honey.” Some parts of it are so reminiscent of her, and the words and melody filter through my mind whenever I walk past that tiny plot of earth.

“One day when I was not at home while she was there and all alone, the angels came. Now all I have is memories of Honey and I wake up nights and call her name.  Now my life’s an empty stage where Honey lived and Honey played and love grew up.  And a small cloud passes overhead and cries down on the flowerbed. And honey I miss you and I’m being good and I long to be with you if only I could.”

Who knew that a song that I listened to, so many times over the last fifty years, would someday fit my mood so closely and seem so relevant. As if it had been written, with my situation in mind, as a melodious expression of how I feel today. Music has always been special in this way. To say something is one thing, but to put it to music makes it so much better. How many times have you searched for the words to say what you want to say and then—there they are—already written and put to music.

People tell me that someday I will turn a corner and the rest of my life will start again. I believe I am on the right path, but it’s not a journey I want to hurry. I can wait to get to that corner. For, you see, my life really started with her. It didn’t amount to much until she came along and completed me. Somehow, no matter what life brings from here on in, I am sure it will end with her, too. It would only be fitting. In the meantime, I’ll buy my vegetables; and the fruit from those apple trees will be awesome.

BRING IT ON

 Today there is a spring in my step again. The spring I am talking about may be only an analogy, as it pertains to this story, but the spring taking center stage here in the Northwood’s is not. I am talking about the season, when that “warming star” we all revolve around seems to overcome the cold of winter, and melts, not only the snow and the ice, but it warms the cockles of our hearts and the smiles on our faces as well. True, here in God’s country we had a weenie winter, as far as winters go, but it’s not only the cold we don’t need or want anymore. It’s also the darkness that envelops us for a good share of our waking hours in winter.

For me, it’s more of a new beginning happening, than just the rebirth of our earth. It’s my first time going into summer without her, and that tempers the joy that used to be there, no doubt. It’s my first summer with a new pup. Although a lot of work right now—I need this relationship in my life. It’s lonely living alone and responsibility breeds self-satisfaction even if it’s only caring for a dog. It’s been a reunion of old friends and old faces, back from their winter hiatus, at the coffee shop. It’s not a sudden epiphany on springtime I’m feeling here as I write. I’ve been here many times before and they have all been unique.

We heard the words “Arab Spring” last year in the Middle East, and it had nothing to do with the weather, but it did have a lot to do with a new beginning. How that will work out is yet to be seen. They, too, want to come out of their darkness and have a new beginning. Mother Nature seems to be more in charge of her version of springtime than we do. But then, mankind has never been a formidable foe for nature, except to unbalance it. Left alone, nature will repair that damage, but that would mean us disappearing. If we keep going the way we are—that just might come to pass.

But for now, let’s focus on the impending spring season, and what it has always meant to us. It means crocuses and daffodils, poking their heads out of the earth once more; green grass and bubbling brooks and ice-free lakes and ponds. It means there will be babies, of every species, filling in the holes in their ranks and ensuring the continuation of their kind. It means the smell of freshly plowed dirt as the farmers try, once again, to feed a hungry world; fish, thrashing in the shallows, spawning more fish; colorful birds, filling the air with song and building new homes to raise their young in; trees budding and sap running.

But for me today, it’s almost a melancholy mood while I cash in one more spring coupon out of life’s book. Today is a time to sit on the porch, let the sun soak in and reminisce of the times when we had so many dreams left unfulfilled, and our own babies to raise. Now, I can only think of the words from the good book, for they seem so relevant right now, “For everything there is a season and a time for every purpose under heaven.” It puts it all into perspective, doesn’t it?

MEET MISS MOLLY

                                                

I have shared a lot of sad things with you folks the last year or so. Talking about what my family and I went through, with my wife’s death and then the demise of the family pet, Gus, shortly after. So today I want to share a bright spot with you. At least, I hope it turns out to be a bright spot. When my wife passed away I knew there was little chance I would ever find someone to replace her. Yeah, she was that good, and she could have done much better than me, but thank God she didn’t. I think she felt sorry for me. But when Gus went away I knew there was another dog out there for me somewhere, someplace, because...well...they are a whole lot less complicated than finding a good wife. They are also a whole lot easier to keep happy.

So I am going to introduce you to Molly, and those of you who love dogs like I do, know what I am talking about, and the rest of you—well, I understand why some of you don’t want a dog, but I will never understand why someone would dislike dogs. Yes, maybe an unruly dog, or one that just dragged a dead skunk home, but all dogs? No. Those same people that hate dogs don’t hate all of mankind for the bad ones we see in that category, and believe me, there are quite a few of them. At least in the circles I run in.

“Molly” is a white Lab puppy and I got her when she was seven weeks old. A new puppy is as much work as a new baby but you can’t put a diaper on them and you can’t put a cork in them. I’m not a math major but I did work out this formula as it applies to a puppy. W + PC – SQ = Poop squared. For your info W is water and PC is puppy chow, and poop—well, come on—I don’t have to explain that, do I? I was asked to give her a more formal name than Molly for her American Kennel Club papers. Something more regal, more aristocratic, they say, so I have named her, “Madame Poops a Lot of Big Pine Trail.” I certainly hope she outgrows that name as time goes on.

Gus lived fourteen years so I forgot a lot of things that puppies do. I now have no shoelaces in three shoes. My hooded sweatshirt has turned into bedding for her, and it is just a matter of time until she eats the zipper out of that. It’s a Vikings sweater so no big loss there. Yesterday, she chased her tail until she fell in her water dish, and the teething toy I spent four dollars on, still lies untouched. The company that makes them would make more money bagging up old tennis shoes and selling them. I usually sleep seven hours a night, and Miss Molly’s potty breaks are not that far apart, so I have put some papers down for her. With the news we read nowadays, I think that’s a fitting use for newspapers.  I let her out during the night and she did her mess in front of the door and I stepped in it this morning, on my way to the mailbox for fresh newspapers. It could have been worse; she could have lit it on fire and rang the doorbell.

If I live to the average age most men in my family live, then Molly and I will be ready for checkout about the same time. But no more talk of death and dying—long live Madame Poops a Lot of Big Pine Trail.-- Bye for now.-- Mike and Molly

DRIVING

                                                           

I remember a time a while back, when my brothers and I had to ask our dad to quit driving, because he was going to have an accident if he didn’t. The meeting didn’t go very well, you would have thought we were asking him to have a sex change. It was only through trickery, deceit and some smooth talking that we were able to accomplish it and I’m not so sure he went to his grave, liking us as much as he once did.

The other day, while driving down the road, I kept hitting the rumble strips on the side of the road while daydreaming and I thought to myself when is it going to be my turn? I’m seventy now and true, I am a very young seventy in my estimation, but dad was about eighty when he quit driving, so time is not on my side. In defense of myself I know for a fact the lanes are narrower than they used to be and my truck is wider. But be that as it may be, I have taken some steps to protect my driving privileges as long as possible. One is, whenever I am with my kids in my vehicle, I ask them to drive, saying, I don’t know where we are going anyway. Two, my wife is no longer here to tattle on me. She was like having a cop and a driver’s instructor with you in the car. She had imaginary brakes on her side of the car and she would steer me by holding her hand up and waving it in one direction or the other. If I hit the rumble strip it was time for a lecture and that kissing the driveway thing she did when we arrived at our destination, was only funny once. The only way I could calm that women down was to threaten to shut off her airbag.

I find myself sticking to the posted speed limits most days now. They-- meaning the cops-- probably already have enough reasons to think about stopping me so no reason to push the envelope. I don’t talk on my phone while I am driving and I eat my food when I’m at the burger joint, in the parking lot before I leave. I hate eating inside those places because of the potential for catching Ebola from that kid in the booth next to me with the runny nose and watery eyes who just stuck a wet french fry to the back of my neck, but back to my driving. Old people seem to last longer in their lifestyles, if they don’t get too stubborn about the changes and adapt. You can’t see as well at night, so try not to drive at night. Your reactions are slower, so give the guy in front of you a break and stay back a ways farther. If there are people who want to get around you on the road because they like to speed, pull over and let them by and don’t give them the finger when they do. Remember your blood pressure.

I do enjoy driving and I like my vehicle and take good care of it. I’ve been spoiled rotten with all of the gadgets in it and I’ll trade it off when I find one with more gadgets. I grew up in a family that always drove jalopies and somebody else’s junk. If I wanted to take a girl out I always had to go with a friend who had a car. I couldn’t afford one myself and my dads fifty-four Chevy station wagon with the usual cord of wood in the back, permeated with cigar smoke and chain saw gas, was not cool. So as they say in show business “We’ve come a long way baby.” Lets hope it lasts awhile longer. Bon Voyage

IT CAN BE A CRUEL WORLD FOR A SINGLE MAN

Yesterday I went out to the garage to get my Sawzall because I needed to cut some steel. This necessitated me changing the blade in the saw, which I can handle. The part I can’t handle is getting into the package the new blades came in. After a few futile attempts, I took the package over to the workbench, got another saw and cut them out. That’s right—I had to cut out the blades-- to get one, to put in the saw. I used to, when my wife was alive, cuss enough that she would take the package away from me, and with a disgusted look, open it up. She would say, “I would rather do it for you than see you rot in hell for your use of language.”

Men that have been around women—and particularly wives—long enough, learn a few tricks to make life easier for themselves. Men know, if you don’t want to paint, just make a big mess of it and she will do it for you. Don’t want to wash pots and pans? Leave a little sausage in them and quickly put them away. With any luck, you might not be home when she next uses the pan. You’ll never have to wash it again. You might get some flack, but heck, that’s water off a duck’s back compared to painting and doing dishes. On the other hand, if you like fried chicken and dumplings, tell her that her’s is much better than your mother’s ever was.  But here is a caution. Don’t tell her she is pretty when she’s a mess; and for sure, don’t tell her she’s a mess. That’s just crazy talk. They know what they look like, and that reverse psychology you think works will boomerang on you, and you might be snoozing on the couch for a while. Not that that’s all bad—if you got the dog and your flashlight with you. It’s kind of like camping out, but be careful with the snacks. I once got in the doghouse by spilling sardine juice on one of her couch pillows. Not a good thing. I thought the dog would lick it clean, but he just rubbed his shoulder in it. Some buddy he was, huh?

Anyway, I got off-track here but I could write a book about this, and maybe I will—but back to the packaging. I know that, someday, I will be found deceased on the kitchen floor, with an unopened bottle of pills in one hand and a hammer in the other, the childproof lid still intact on the bottle of life-saving pills. It’s providence, my friends, and there is no use fighting it.  I have many electronic devices that I can manage the bare necessities on, but I am stymied on most of it. Unless the grandkids come up, I’ll never learn how to use them.

I once went with my neighbor to pick up some lumber and we had a flat tire on his vehicle. Now men do change tires ladies, but we couldn’t find the jack anywhere in the car. We read the Owner’s Manual in our search for it, but he spilled coffee on the English section of it, and the Spanish section was no help to two guys that struggle with English, unless the jack was at Taco Bell.  Some woman finally lent us her jack, and we did get it changed. However, we did lie a little, and told her we didn’t have a jack because we lost it while changing a tire for a bus full of nuns—on a railroad crossing—in a snowstorm. Oh man, I hope my priest doesn’t read this, and none of you women at the church need to bring it to him, either. I got enough problems right now trying to fold clothes.

A PRIVATE PARTY

                                              

 Many years ago, on a cold New Year’s Eve, my wife and I found ourselves alone at home. No parties to go to and no one coming over. We both sat quietly, watching the tube, and wishing away the last few hours of the outgoing year. It was about ten p.m. and we both had drooping eyelids when I said. “Let’s go outside and have some fun.”

“Are you nuts?” she said, pulling her snuggie around her. “It’s cold out there.”

“I’ll warm it up,” I said. “Trust me on this one.”

So we both bundled up, and walked down the road to where I had a big pile of brush piled up from the summer. I brought along two lawn chairs, two cans of beer and a book of matches. “Yes, my friends, that was the night we burnt the brush pile.”  She was skeptical at first, grumbling at me in her bunny boots and parka; but as the fire grew, and the warmth radiated at us, and the stars winked down on us from an endless cloudless sky, I could see the reflection of the flames in her wet eyes, and the beginning of a smile on her face as she looked at me, and said. “This is better than the New Year’s Eve that you took me to the party at the Radisson.” We both had tears in our eyes. For me, at least, it was a Hallmark moment.

I learned two things that night in the woods. I learned that it didn’t matter where you had a party, it just mattered who was at the party. The simplicity of it all simply added to the ambiance. We sat there and held hands like two teenagers; we talked about how good our life had been for both of us, and how much we truly cared for each other, our family and our friends. Yes, we felt so blessed.

If I told my granddaughters about this New Year’s night, they would just say, “eww grandpa. Seriously, you need to get a life.” That’s what has happened in our society today. We acquaint happiness with momentous events and expensive trips and gifts. I have a friend who sends me a Christmas letter every year, and all of it is about her world travels. There is never a word about her and her husband, who rarely goes with her, or their kids and grandkids. “Just look at me in front of the Taj Mahal,” the captions say. Would I like to go to the Taj Mahal? Yes, if I had my wife to go with me. I traveled a lot with her, but it wasn’t the place that was so special, it was our happiness together, and that is what I will always remember.

My dad used to say, “Most people are about as happy as they make up their minds to be.” I have found this to be so true. The other day I read this quote by an unknown writer, “When I was in grade school, they told me to write down what I wanted to be when I grew up. I wrote down happy. They told me I didn’t understand the assignment. I told them they didn’t understand life.”

When I think of the last time somebody made me really happy—I was with her. I don’t remember where it was—but I was with her. You can travel a long ways, and do many things, but true happiness will never come from new experiences. It will come from sharing those experiences with someone you love. Meaning does not lie in things. Meaning lies in each of us. Yes—even if it’s burning the brush pile.

GEESE

                                                            

 When I was young boy, I used to watch the geese flying overhead in the fall. I often wondered why they flew in that perfect V formation, and all at the same speed. It was years later when I found out that it was nothing more than teamwork. That each bird, except the lead bird, provided lift for the others behind them. It made the long trip much easier. The geese honk when they fly to encourage each one to do their best, and like the little engine that could, they are saying, “I know you can. I know you can.” They take turns flying the point, and when one bird drops out for any reason, two others accompany it to the ground. They leave no man behind. They mate for life. I told my son this one day, to make a point, and he said, “Well, Dad—it’s not like they are going to find a better looking one.” I had to agree with him on that, but it goes much deeper than that.

Sometimes we realize that, as humans, we are at the top of the food chain. The alpha dog, you might say. But when you look at the geese, and how they act, you realize how selfish we can be. That goose has a brain the size of a plum, and we have one the size of small melon. But somehow, in many cases, there seems to be more of a sense of caring for their friends and family, coming from that goose, than us. We don’t have to look far in the bird and animal kingdom to find other instances of this. We also don’t have to look far to find cases of not caring and neglect in our society. So why is this?

Have we evolved to a point where we became so self-centered and greedy that this virtue, of caring for each other, gets lost in the shuffle of everyday life? My dad used to tell me when I was a young man, “Always look out for number one.” It took a few years, but I discovered that “number one” was not always me. When my wife was sick and in the last months of her life, I put my life on hold to care for her. I thank God I was allowed to do that, and deem it a privilege, even though she had to “drop out of the flock” and I came down to be with her. I’m not trying to be sanctimonious here. My children were there with me, and they came down from their formation, too. It was our job, our duty, and it happens every day in our society. But if you look at the people abandoned in nursing homes, and the lost and neglected children in our society, all too often it doesn’t happen. Even a wolf would not abandon her pups.

Fifty some years ago I grew up in a town where we never locked our cars, or in a lot of cases, even our houses. Now we pay for security systems, and lock packages in the trunk, far from prying eyes. A few years back I had a young lady working for me in the cities, and when her shift was done late at night, I made someone else on staff walk her to her car in the parking lot. There are places in the cities you would not think about driving through at night, let alone walk. We have to always be aware of our surroundings because, like the zebras on the Serengeti, danger lurks behind every bush. Yes, even though we have cured many diseases and put a phone in every pocket; even though we have been to the moon, the deepest parts of the sea, and climbed the highest mountains, many of us still prefer to fly alone.

SHARING OUR LIVES

                                                

A while back one of my friends sent me a video that was a New Years greeting. It was Auld Lang Syne being sung in Norwegian with some beautiful visual effects. A singer named Sissel Kyrkjebo from Norway sang the song. If ever an angel sang, this lady’s soprano voice would sound just like it. I shared it with few a friends and got some nice comments back. But the crux of my story is not how Sissel sings but how we find beauty and feelings on this earth in so many different places. I have talked about music before and have used its words in a lot my writings. So many of my memories seem to have a song tied to them.

Pictures are another inspiration and not only pictures about this earth and its creatures but also pictures that are a snap shot in time. Our memories are a wonderful way to visit the past and often a picture can open the floodgates and make remembering them so much more enjoyable. Especially when you are sharing them with someone else because they know exactly what you are talking about when they see it. There comes a time when life has nearly passed you by and about all you have left are your pictures and your memories.

I have found over the years that sometimes it’s very hard to transfer how you feel about things to another person. You want them to see things exactly as you see it but it’s just so hard to get on the same wavelength with them, because that’s how different we are. We are all unique in our own way and thinking and sometimes we have little choice but to keep it to ourselves. Every once in a while though you are moved so much, you have to share and you hope that this time, is the one time, they will feel like you do.

Feelings are another thing we share with others and be it friendship or a deep and abiding love for someone, you share this in the hope that they will reciprocate in kind. It’s not always successful and there is a certain amount of salesmanship involved in it. I remember the first time I told a woman I loved her and my biggest fear was she was going to say. “That’s nice.” But this one didn’t and she loved me for forty-nine years and I never stopped loving her to this day, even though she is no longer alive. Have I told others I loved them? Certainly because I believe the words ‘I love you’ can be all encompassing with different degrees of it. How I loved my wife and how I love my children and my friends, differs greatly, but anyway you look at it, it’s still love. Valentines day is right around the corner. It’s not just for lovers but a day when love does takes center stage. Be sure to tell someone you love them, because they need to hear it from you.

HOUSE OR HOME

                                                

 When I was a young man, and married for just a couple of years, my bride and I decided to look for a house. We had one child and another on the way and it was time to put down some roots. For me this was just another piece of the puzzle in my on- going life with my growing family. I guess at the time this house was in reality just boards, shingles and nails but I was going to find out how to turn it into a home.

For me the words house and home had always been synonymous in my mind. They both meant nothing more than a shelter but now that was changing and the meanings were taking on separate distinctions in my mind. The recipe for a house was as always, cement blocks, boards, wiring and plumbing and a way to put it all together. A coat of paint, some grass and a doghouse in the yard and you had a house. The home however was more complicated, needing all of that and more and the house basically was just a part of it. For you see bit-by-bit that house was taking on a human touch and that is the real recipe for a home.

In my home, to start with, the main ingredient was she and I. She was the foundation and the mortar in the bricks. She held it all together and the home was built upon her. Then the kids came and we had important parts too but she was the choreographer and we were content to just play our parts and take her lead. In many homes this is reversed between husband and wife, or is shared so equally there is no real clear-cut distinction. It’s not that important who drives the boat. What’s important is that it isn’t rudderless and spinning in circles. In the end however in our case, we all played a part in making the house a home.

When people came to our house I always said, “Welcome to our home.” That is what I wanted them to see. Not the pictures on the walls or the walk-in closets. Not the cupboards in the kitchen or the spacious yard. Those are just fixtures and not what the home was really made of. I wanted them to feel the love and compassion that existed there. I wanted them to leave talking about the home and not the house. From my days as a fireman, I remember standing with people in front of their burnt out houses trying to comfort them. Always I would tell them that as long as they were all safe, the house may be ruined, but happily the home survived. The house will rise again and then the home will be whole once more.

In my case, with my wife’s passing, it’s the home that has suffered and the house is fine. Fixing the home will take a lot more work then fixing a house. Houses can last for centuries and the family that once called it a home will fade away. But new families may come and make it a home again and the house will once again be a happy place. So be proud of your house but be prouder yet of your home. You see in most cases the house is what the builder built-- but the home-- that’s what you built.

CREATION

                                                           

 There are days when I go to the woods, across the road from my house, and find my spot on the bank of the river; and just sit down with my back to an old oak tree and soak it all in. It’s ironic, because I used to do that as a kid, too, and I’ve never tired of it. Basically, the scene is the same, and so are the actors when they are there. It’s just my perception that has changed. You see, as a child, my world and the people in it were virtually unblemished, or at least to me they were. The world was far more peaceful and unspoiled back then, at least, what I knew of it was. I never worried from one day to the next that anyone would, or could, harm this unspoiled jewel of nature that lay out before me. Even back then, what I actually saw was far from perfect. I just didn’t know the difference. My life back then was built on dreams, and you see, dreams rarely have complications.

Now, as an old man, I still dream but instead of dreaming of how I want it to be, I now dream of how I wished it had been. If age brings us anything, it brings us a sense of reality, and as the old “Serenity Prayer” says—“The wisdom to know the difference.” The wisdom of having seen so many things go wrong, and also go right, in life. Basically, it’s what worked and what didn’t work. You learn so much from your mistakes, but there is a much better way to learn your lessons. That way is when you learn from others’ mistakes, or discover your own mistakes before anyone knows you made them, and you correct them. 

I believe in creation. I believe this world is just too perfect for someone to not have had a hand in all of this. I also believe that “the someone,” who had a hand in this, must be very sad when he sees what has happened. But it was predestined to happen because we ourselves are so imperfect, and he knew that. Mankind has been driven to find new and better ways to do everything, and often at the expense of others and our world. It’s our definition of “better” that comes into question for many. What could be better than what I am looking at right now? A lazy river that is a refuge for so many creatures, and me, slowly winding its way to the sea.

But we are an inquisitive bunch, and we churn out new inventions and products; sometimes long before we have gotten used to what we have. There seems to be no way to slow the pace. To try and make the world a better place to live in, is admirable, until greed raises its ugly head. I read a quote from a man, one James Roberts, that said, “No matter how much we consume, we never get closer to happiness; we only speed up the treadmill.” There is an answer, however, and what I am doing today is part of it—just stepping off the treadmill for a while. I hope that fifty years from now somebody will sit in this same place and soak it up, too. That this place will still be somewhat pristine; and in the mad rush to make it all happen, we can still go and find this peace. “The New Year lies before us like a spotless tract of snow. Be careful how you tread on it, because every track will show.” Author Unknown.

OUR LIVES ARE AN OPEN BOOK

                                   

 I have an analogy that always comes to my meandering mind whenever I think about our on going human lives and it involves our day-to-day living and me writing a book. A natural comparison you say for an Author. For you see I imagine our lives, like the pages and chapters of a book to be a story that is always a works in progress. Hopefully, someday, someplace, we will be allowed to write a proper ending to it. Right now though, we’re just along for the ride and going where the story takes us. Hopefully, if all ends well, we will have rode happily off into the sunset, like the main character in the book, satisfied, our story is over and our ending complete. As an author I can tell you when writing a novel I don’t always go where I intended to go with a story and in the end I have to go where the story takes me. That’s what we need to do in life too. We have dreams and aspirations about where our lives should go, but things change and situations come up and we have to improvise and come at it from another angle. Sometimes making good things out of bad, sometimes simply failing once more.

It’s this flexibility, this versatility, which allows for us to go forward in life when we’ve been knocked down. Getting knocked down isn’t the problem. It’s not getting back up again that is. To get back up and take those necessary corrective steps, sometimes backwards, only to go forward again, reenergized and somewhat resolved that this too could work. I have had to do this in my life lately because everything was thrown topsy-turvy for a while and I was pulled down into the depths of despair. It’s like being thrown overboard from a speeding boat when you weren’t paying attention and as you brake the surface of the water, coming back up from the depths, you are disoriented for a while, but instead of just flailing off in any direction you treaded water for a while, looked around and pondered your options. You know that time and energy are not finite and you need to get it right this time. That second chances come along all of the time but unlike first chances, this time it has to be right because the odds of another chance are greatly diminished and your life could be seriously damaged.

Life, as I see it in my analogy, like the making of a book, takes a lot of editing to get it right sometimes. We have to be willing to recognize and let go of things that don’t work for the story. Life isn’t meant to be hard and fast and so inflexible. There is a lot of room to be creative and make it the best you can, before it goes to print. We have to do that because it is at this point, that it becomes much harder to change. The best mistakes we can make are the ones we caught and corrected and no one ever knew about them. We learned the lesson without the punishment.

I just finished my tenth book and now I need to think about what’s next. That’s the way life is too. We finish up one story and wonder what’s next. Then along comes another story we never knew existed. Isn’t it great? 

I CONFESS

                                                         

 Just in case I might want to run for president someday, I am going to come clean right now on all of the bad things I have done in my life, so all of you know about them and I in turn, have no dirty secrets. So, pay attention people as you read this, because this will knock your socks off. One day, when I was about four years old and very mad at my mother, I went outside. On the sidewalk that ran in front of our house, for a whole block I stomped on every crack in that sidewalk. Now, my mother’s back still seemed to be fine after that, but she was not one to complain about such things. But Mrs. Klein, next door, turned out to be as hunchbacked as the guy who terrorized Notre Dame, so I might have had a hand in that. Mrs. Klein, I apologize, even though I know you can’t hear me because you’re dead, but I’m sorry that backfired. It was not my intention, but I am no clairvoyant.

I have, numerous times in my life, cut off those labels that say, “Do not remove under penalty of law,” on my pillows and mattresses. I am not proud of this, but I am weak sometimes, and that thing sticking out of my pillow got to be too much, and I just snapped. I have had to live with this on my conscience for a long time, and I must admit, it feels good to come clean on this one

I used to go to a barbershop that had Playboy magazines on the reading table. Now I want you to understand, I did not look at the pictures, I only read the stories, but sometimes it was very hard to not see a picture for a very brief time while turning the pages. My wife started cutting my hair shortly after that, because she said I got too frisky when I came home from the barbershop, and getting a haircut every week was getting way too expensive. Then, for some crazy reason, five years ago she suggested I go back to the barbershop. Women, I’ll never understand them.

I once pirated a movie that I wanted to keep. I have lived in fear of the F.B.I. coming after me for years now, and every time I see that warning on the videos I rent, I have to leave the room. I still have the movie, but it is well hidden in the woods. I have not been there for years because I know I am being followed wherever I go. I am thinking seriously about going into the witness protection program, but it makes it hard to run for office when you don’t exist.

In 1955, at age 14, I stole a pack of cigarettes from the Red Owl grocery in Staples. My buddy, Arnie, and I smoked them all in a junk car, and we both threw up. I did not inhale. I have checked, and the statute of limitations has passed on this petty crime and the Red Owl went out of business, so I consider this case closed.

So there you have it all—the secrets from my sordid past—my soul laid bare for all to see. Mea culpa, mea culpa. I have not yet announced my candidacy, but I am forming an exploratory committee—as soon as I can find someone to be on it. I know it’s late in the race, but what can I say. It’s for our country.---Mike.

NEW YEAR'S RESOLUTIONS

                                               

Each year, at the start of the New Year, we take pause to think about the things that we did last year that we just as soon would not repeat this year. They were mostly things that were unproductive, or hurt other people or us. For some of us this desire to not repeat, comes in the form of a resolution, but for many of us it’s just time to reflect and try to clean up our act a little. If all of the resolutions that have been made over the years were actually kept, this nation would be a much better place to live. But as has been said, “The road to hell is paved with good intentions.” I know I have failed miserably at this many times. Always because I wasn’t serious about it in the first place but also because I promised things that weren’t really possible for me to do. I have rethought this whole process and I am vowing to take these promises more seriously or not do them at all. I don’t want to be disingenuous.

The word resolution has many meanings but the one we are most familiar with, as it pertains to New Years, means to be determined not to do something that we have been doing, again. The second meaning that I am drawn to means finding a peaceful solution to a problem. It doesn’t necessary mean you have to entirely compromise your beliefs but structure them in such a way to make them more acceptable to others. A little give and take if you would.

I think this year will be a year of reckoning for our country. A year when people in Washington and party hopefuls that want to be there, need to be thinking about being more of a problem solver and less of problem makers. That being so resolute in their thinking and beliefs and not leaving any room for compromise will not solve anything. That candidates making promises they can’t keep is lying and wrong. We have all been there before and saw the results. One thing that always comes up in resolutions is the act of looking back, albeit briefly. Now that being said no one in today’s political climate would ever admit that they did anything wrong so how can you resolve to change with that attitude? Their opponents on the other hand are more interested in what the other party did wrong, then anything they themselves did right. Basically nothing constructive will ever come from that.

So this year I say this. We need to look ahead and set some goals and try to get there and if we don’t-- lets just say that in our heart of hearts we will know we tried our best. It’s a big mess and it will take time. Lets not waste energy on talking about all of the things that went wrong in the past but just resolve to do better going forward. No promises, just an earnest effort to solve our problems in government and at home. There was a time when this country was looked up to as the best of the best. A place that epitomized freedom and opportunity and people flocked from all over the world just to be a part of it. But something changed after World War II and we lost all of that good will we had fought so hard to grow and protect. We went from being respected, to being hated. We need to build that respect again and hopefully someday we will be emulated again. In the meantime we need to build character.  Ben Franklin said, “How few there are that have the courage to own their faults, or resolution enough to change them.” Let’s prove Ben wrong and be more then a few.

COPING

                                                                        

 Last night was the first snowfall of the season. This morning I gazed out over my backyard, from the comfort of my desk chair, to see a new world cloaked in a soft covering of dazzling white. Unblemished, as of yet, it seems to masquerade all of the imperfections that were there yesterday—as right on cue, and in the background, the radio softly plays the Irish Ballad “Danny Boy” throughout the room. Selected lines of the lyrics seem so relevant to me right now. “Summers gone and all the flowers dying. The valleys hushed and white with snow. “

It’s my first winter without her, and that is one thing that cannot be masqueraded by snow or anything else. My first time through the holidays, and already Christmas seems so different. So subdued, and inconsequential, and not the season it used to be. I went to the cemetery yesterday and knelt by her grave. The second verse of “Danny Boy” says so well what I felt she was telling me. “And I shall hear, tho soft you tread above me and all my dreams will warm and sweeter be. If you’ll not fail to tell me that you love me, I’ll simply sleep in peace until you come to me.”

The human mind is such a complex depository for all of the feelings and memories we harbor. It’s not something that can be turned on and off, at will, and it seems to want to have all of its files full, and when something like this happens, we keep drifting back and opening them up. Although painful at times, we simply won’t and can’t let go because they are just that precious to us. But each sunrise brings a new dawning, and eventually we will add new files and try to fill them with more good things, in the hope that they, too, will become relevant and precious to us. We’re not trying to purge anything; we’re only trying to cope by making new memories because, beyond that, we simply don’t know what to do. Each day there are new packages to open. Ones that try to replace the memories we can’t, and won’t, throw out but we put them away in the attic instead.

I look around me at all of the lonely people in the world. There is no comfort in knowing you aren’t alone in this—only a greater realization of what life is all about, and an understanding of how fragile our lives really are. No, it’s not the same for everyone. It does seem like the greater the love you had, the greater the love you lost. But it is also the greater the lesson you learned, about how to love, and without her, that would have never happened.

“Danny Boy” is now over and the radio has gone on to a new song. I know the song can’t last forever and neither can any of us. I also know there are new songs to sing every day that we never knew existed.  It will take us some time to learn them but we have to try, because only in learning will we realize their true meaning and what they’re trying to tell us. “Danny Boy” won’t go away—it will always be there as long as you have a memory. And now “Tis you must go and I must bide.”