Memories of Laughter; memories of love

We just lost our seventh dog. That’s not quite right; the dog didn’t run away; the dog died. Yet, I don’t feel particularly good about putting it that way either. I sentenced this dog to death, and the veterinarian was the executioner.

Vikki had been with us/me for over 13 years. She was a beautiful, brindle Cairn terrier I’d purchased from a wonderful couple in Rhode Island. I had to go through a three hour interview on a Sunday morning before I was even allowed to view the pups. As I recall, I was asked to remove my shoes before I entered the house because they had a new litter in their bedroom upstairs and didn’t want to expose them to something I might bring in [if they’d only known where those socks had been – just kidding]. By the way, that new litter, as I recall was less than a week old. Following the interview, I went to see the 8-week pups playing in the backyard and told the breeder which one I’d like. “We’ll call you in a couple of weeks with our decision,” she said.

One week later I called the breeder. “Look, we don’t wish to wait another week,” I said. “We’ve had dogs before and we’re a good family for them. I’d like you to tell me ‘yes’ or ‘no’ please.” It sounded to my mind somewhat angry…which it was. “That’s funny; we were just about to call you and tell you that you can pick up your dog whenever you want,” I was told.

To shorten the story…We did. My late wife had eight wonderful years with our Vikki, and I had five more. About two years before Joan was diagnosed with cancer, the dog knew she was sick. There were no signs or symbols, but one evening, Vikki suddenly jumped into Joan’s lap, snuggled down and began licking Joan’s hand. She began doing it more and more often…right up to the time of the deadly diagnosis. No one will ever convince me that Vikki didn’t know Joan was ill.

In her 13^th year Vikki went blind. She knew the house and the yard well enough to get around and do so rather skillfully. Whether her other senses sharpened or not, I have no way of telling; however, this blind=as-a-bat pooch must have had one hell of a sense of smell because she presented us with three baby rabbits the day before she collapsed. Her collapse occurred in the backyard. She was lying in the grass and went to get up. Her hind legs just collapsed and she landed on her side. No matter how hard she tried, her body would not respond. Juli carried her into the kitchen and lay her on the cool tile floor. I called the vet and was told to bring her in the next day.

Vikki was the seventh dog we had owned since 1961. We knew she was in serious trouble. When the vet came into the examining room, she sensed immediately how upset Juli and I were. After a brief examination, she inquired, “Are you both here to say goodbye to Vikki?” We looked at our dog, then at each other, and despite my promise to myself that I would not show emotion, the tears began to flow. This was my seventh dog. I have no idea how many Juli had before moving to Massachusetts. I had never cried before. I love every one of our other dogs, but I’d never cried. I rested my head gently on Vikki’s as the injection was made. I cried like a baby and so did Juli.

Then it was over; Vikki was gone.

Someone said to me a day or two later, “I know what you’re going through; it’s like losing a child.” I’m certain I just looked at them and said nothing. Had I opened my mouth it would have been to say, “Are you fuckin’ kidding me?” A child is your flesh and blood; a pet is a wonderful part of your life that leaves too soon, but to compare the two is sheer idiocy. I will always remember those last moments; better yet, I will remember Vikki falling in the pool and realizing she could actually swim, eventually understanding that on a hot summer day, “Hey, this is a pretty cool thing they put here for me.” Stick up the finger of one hand – not that one, fool – and sweep your other hand around it. That was Vikki in the middle with the world revolving around her. I wasn’t quite that bad, but you get the picture.

When they are pups, they leave little treasures for you to clean up. As they age, they bark at the back door. They let you know when they want to eat and when they want to cuddle. They are loving and they are a pain in the butt. There are times you’d like to slap ‘em upside the head and the next minute they’re laying beside you licking that hand you were going to use before. One moment they’re as stubborn as a rock; the next they are at your side. They are your pet, and if you’ve shown a little love on your part, you get a passel back that’s so big it will just melt your heart. The breed doesn’t matter. If you get a puppy and treat it with kindness, you will receive love that is unconditional. We’ve had Charlie the Dalmatian; Tammy, the Siberian Husky; Snowy, the small poodle, Dapper, the All—American something-or-other who was our only dog to appear on a Boston television show – that’s right a star was born and died on TV…but only when told to die. We had Lacey, our first Cairn. She died of cancer at six…and then we had Vikki. You know the rest.

Will I have another dog? Here’s what I wrote to Vikki’s breeder: “Since I am now 78, I fear this is the end of my pet days. After I go, Juli will be moving back to California with her family and, quite frankly, I just don’t think the kids want any more confusion in their lives Ann already has two labs, and Rick has some monster named Bandit who, I gather is a cross between the Incredible Hulk and Mr. Hyde. Janet’s kids are too young for a dog and they’re so into sports I fear the dog would be a second class citizen.” You should also know that I later e-mailed this breeder, asking if she had any puppies available. If she has, Juli will take him/her to California when my time is up. Vikki has been gone less than a week; the sense of loneliness is inexplicable. Could I love another dog? Of course not…well, not until that first lick on the back of my hand or on my cheek. What a bloody softy; I just hope I never grow up!

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We love our Maxwell

We have adopted him as our own little pig…Maxwell, the wonder pig. You may recall Maxwell’s younger days when he was part of a car pool, holding his little pinwheel out the window as he was being driven home from school. He was always shouting, “Wee, wee, wee,” and then politely – we’ve trained him well – saying thanks to Mrs. B… who was driving. What a darling young piglet Maxwell was back then. Those people from Geico thought he belonged to them, but we were just letting him act in their commercials to earn a few extra bucks for the house treasury; pig slop these days has just skyrocketed in price, and Maxwell really seemed to enjoy the attention.

After his graduation from Swine High and before entering Boar U, Max – as we were now calling him – just scared the dickens out of us with his daredevil antics. After all, how many pigs do you know who’d ride a zip line above the trees or wrap his curly little tail around vines and swing from tree to tree?

Maxwell got himself and us into a great deal of trouble recently. He was driving one of his college friends home in his convertible when the car broke down. Ever the efficient one, Maxwell used his I phone to call for roadside assistance. While they were waiting, it appeared that the young lady had more on her mind than a quick trip home. Our naïve little Max didn’t understand and thought that the young lady wanted to play ‘fruity ninjas’ with him on his phone; who knows, maybe she did. When they finally got home, a few dirty-minded individuals tried to accuse them of bestiality. The ‘kids’ were so infuriated, they contacted the advocacy group, One Million Moms. We don’t talk about how that turned out. Evidently, that group also lacks a sense of humor.

After graduating from Boar, Max flew to the University of Arkansas [ Sooooo-weeee) to apply for admission to their graduate school people husbandry. It was during this trip that we found out exactly how cruel some stewardesses can treat someone of Max’s persuasion. While waiting for the plane to take off – he was flying on Hog Hairlines – a stewardess asked him to turn off his ‘kiddy word games.’ Not at all offended, Max shared with her a Geico Insurance app he was using. Although she appeared interested, another – this time the wicked witch – stewardess overheard the conversation and said loudly, “I’ll believe that when pigs fly.” On leaving the plane, Max ‘hoofed’ her foot. She couldn’t work for several months. Don’t get the idea that Max is a vengeful pig. He’s very polite unless people are rude to him. Why recently he was pulled over by a policeman; Max quickly handed over his license, registration, and even his insurance, all contained on his I phone. As the officer was about to leave, Max politely asked why he had been stopped, thinking perhaps that the policeman was somewhat aghast at seeing a pig driving a convertible…with the top down…but no, Max had merely forgotten to replace his tail light.

During a recent hail storm, Max and his friend Ted both had their cars damaged by hail. Our efficient little Maxy – he really hates that name – used his Geico I phone app to arrange an appointment with an adjuster. Ted didn’t have that app and was on the phone for so long that his girlfriend decided to go for a Jet Ski ride with our little pig.

Yes, our little Max is certainly growing up. He loves to ham it up at gatherings with his friend, Smokey Shoulder. Together they are the life of the party and have various ways to tickle the ribs of those around them!

You go, Maxwell!

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Love/Hate Relationship

Eureka!

I have discovered the ultimate in love/hate relationship.. The answer is “Age.”

Think about it; when you’re very young, you want to be older. When you’re very, very young – and I’m only assuming this part to be true, you look around and see all of these bigger beings walking around; you can’t do that yet…you haven’t learned how to do it, but those who can seem to move so much faster than you can by crawling along, pulling with your arms and pushing with your feet while your belly flows – quickly if you’re on linoleum or tile or wood; slowly if you’re on a rug – across some surface.  Let me give you a clue young babe: When you’re older, you can have the same problem; if you’re on that smooth stuff, you can finding yourself slipping and falling; if you’re on a rug, you can find yourself tripping and falling…see, we’re not so different. While I wouldn’t want to be you – crawling on your belly like a reptile, you really wouldn’t want to be me with my creaky joints, poor eyesight unable to see all of the obstacles that can trip me up. When I trip and fall to the floor, however, it’s like a bag of old twigs that snap and break.

Once you’ve reached that walking point, it’s exploration time and the world – which usually consists of the house or apartment unless you go for a ride in the stroller – is yours to conquer. When you’re old, you remember the conquests that you made – not that kind, fool – and you reminisce about the places you’ve been and the sights you’ve seen. Now you get madder than hell if you have to fly anywhere because you’re unable to walk distances through airports and you have to be wheeled around just the way you are in the stroller. It seems we both hate that time in our lives because of our helplessness.

When you’re young, you want to be older; when you’re older, there are times when you’d like to be younger and there are times when you look back on your younger years and think, “Oh, Lord, am I glad I don’t have to go through that again. In your teens, you get interested in the opposite or maybe the same sex. By the time you’re older, that person with whom you eventually made your way through life with is dead or dying. There was love, but now there’s hate; you hate the world because it’s the world’s fault that he or she is going or gone.

As you go through your formative years – what the hell are formative years anyway – you want to be old enough (a) to get your license; (b) to be able to drink; (c) to get a job and make some money; (d) own a car so you can go places; (e); (f), and; (xyz), you can fill in for yourself…if you can remember back that far. As you get older, you remember the number of times you lost your license; the day you learned that drinking wasn’t all that big a deal; the time you realized that you’d probably never have enough money and that, while important, money isn’t the be all and end all of life – remember, the Joneses are in debt –  the jobs you loved and hated, and; cars come and cars go, but you will never forget that first POSBIR that was all yours (POSBIR…piece of shit, but it runs!).

As we age, there seems to come a point where the love/hate relationship almost comes together to create a neutral center. You neither love nor hate your age. Your feelings about it are very vague. On the one hand, you love many things about where you are; on the other hand, you have four fingers and a thumb…no, no, no, get serious…on the other hand, there are things about this stage of your personal evolution you wish were different, and while you don’t hate them, they could be better. Maybe you’ve just bought the house you love, but to do so, you’ve assumed a debt that you know is going to put some pressure on you that you didn’t have before and you really don’t care for that. Maybe you’ve just received that promotion you’ve been coveting for so long and you really, really love that because it comes with a giant raise…but deep down, you may not trust yourself and you don’t really hate that feeling but it does get the stomach acid roiling about a bit.

You reach a point in your life that you start looking forward to that thing called “retirement” or maybe not; maybe it’s thrust upon you. So you either love retirement or you hate it; there really isn’t a hell of a lot you can do about it. You may retire from one job and go right into another, but then you have to ask yourself, “Am I going to work myself to death?” Retirement can be loved and hated at the same time. Many younger friends have asked, “Did you want to retire?” I always have to carefully consider my response. It changes according to the day. The last ten years of my working life were the best ten years of my working life; it wasn’t work at all; it was fun! It was fun because I had joined that group of people where it was no longer ‘manager as decision-maker.’ I had ten years of working as part of a team…where team accomplishment meant more than individual accomplishment; where team members weren’t that in name only; where people really worked together toward common goals and objectives; where going to work wasn’t a task, but a genuine pleasure. We succeeded or failed as a team, and the odds of failure grew less and less as the team became more and more comfortable with one another. I ha ted to leave than environment. I left because a new leader – overall leader of the institution at which I was working – didn’t appear to believe in the team concept. Remembering that, I have to say that I loved going into retirement. However, getting back to the question that was asked…”Did you want to retire?” the answer is a definite, “Yes.”  I didn’t want to go back to the days of cutthroat competition; I was too old for that crap!

There is a warning that goes with retirement…don’t do it unless you are prepared to be busier than you’ve ever been before.  Did you ever hear of a round tuit…when you retire, the first things you should do is all of those things you said – while you were working – “when I retire I’ll get around to it.” It may be that you’ve wanted make yourself an authority on some subject by reading as much as you can about it…not for any particular reason; just because you want to learn. It may be that you’ve never had time for a garden and you’ve always wanted one; here’s your chance. Maybe you’ve wanted to travel and never had the time; you will now. Let me give you a bit of advice: Before you set off to see the world, see your own country first. I was blessed. When I was 18 I was asked to help drive a lady and her son across country. He was a friend and we had a ball. If you are an American and you’ve ever driven across the nation, you know what I mean. America is a collection of 49 contiguous nations within a single boundary. We speak the same language…almost, but sometimes you just have to listen harder to hear the words. We even have different cultures even though we’re basically the same. It’s quite eye-opening.

Whatever it is you want to do on retirement, have something to do or you’ll be dead in a year or two, and you’ll pretty much really hate that…as far as we know! In retirement, you’ll begin to wish you were younger so that you could do what some of the younger folks do. You’ll hate that, but as I mentioned before, then you’ll start to think about it and say to yourself, “I wouldn’t want to go through that again, thank you very much.”

It doesn’t matter what age you are. Some of it you will love; some of it you will hate. Suck it up and accept what and who you are. Life at any age is a beautiful thing. I may be old and creaky, but I also have memories of times when I wasn’t like this; they are wonderful memories. I’m certain there must have been some times I hated, but those fade much faster than the good memories. Take life for what it is; take your age for what it is. Love it or hate it; heck, you really don’t have much choice when you think about it.

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A so-called friend

“…and how is your lovely wife,” he went on, and before I could say anything, he was talking about all of the wonderful times we had at the beach and how he loved being around us because we always seemed so happy and what a wonderful woman she is and how lucky I was to have found a beautiful, intelligent woman as a life partner…and on and on and on. It’s called ‘oral diarrhea compounded by mental constipation;’ at least that’s the way in which it was explained to me.

When he finally began to run down and had to stop to take a breath, I informed him that my wife had died nearly five years ago. That stopped him momentarily…but just…and he went on to describe her taste in reading materials, in this and in that until I’d finally had quite enough. Since he never bothered to ask how she died or what happened or any of the questions which might have been asked, I figured, “fuck him;” I’m going to have the fun that Joan would have wanted me to have with this supposed friend we hadn’t seen in twenty years prior to her cancer.

As he was jabbering on, I quietly said, “Yeah, it’s really tough when you go for a swim and a shark comes out of nowhere and just chomps down; what a bitch. It was really fascinating to watch the feeding frenzy with the bluefish and all the others though.”

Gotcha, you son-of-a-bitch!

Have you ever seen someone’s eyes bug out; I mean, really bug out, like you thought maybe they were going to leave their sockets and roll down the cheeks into the mouth that had already dropped to the person’s chest…it’s like this huge ‘O’ just waiting to catch the eyeballs, but you know they won’t quite make it because of all the nerve endings and shit, but that’s sorta what it looks like? The clouds stopped moving across the sky; the wind died down to nothing; the trees stopped their gentle blowing; even the waves stopped making noise when the broke on the shore…I was on the beach with some ‘real’ friends when he had stopped by. Even they had been momentarily stunned by my declaration of death.

“But….how….what….when…sharks…bluefish…but…what…” How to describe it…the wind went out of the sails, perhaps? A professional place kicker had walked up behind him and sent his balls some distance away to an imaginary field goal? Mike Tyson had put all he had into a gut shot? Any of those descriptive gems pale by comparison to the look on the face of our chatterbox faux pal. In addition, if he had had a summer tan, it was now ghostly white.

Without waiting, I went on…”Yeah, you know how Joan liked to go for her morning swim about 50 yards out. I was just watching that beautiful stroke and then BAM, that shark picked her right up out of the water.” I pointed at my two friends. “They were here; they can tell you what it was like; man, it was just something to watch. You know how blues can smell blood in the water. They joined in so fast, it was enough to make you wish you had a rod ‘n reel!”

I’d gone over the edge with the “rod ‘n reel” bit. If I hadn’t thrown that in, I could have had him for oh, maybe another hour or so, but that last bit gave the entire thing a loss of credibility.

He just looked at me for a moment. Aside from the fact that he insinuated that my mother was pedigreed; he didn’t put it quite that way; and that my father was an unknown factor, he also expressed concern for my psychological wellbeing and while I have never heard of a sick fornicator, I supposed there could be such a thing. While my friends were rolling around on their blanket holding on to their stomachs and trying to avoid laughing hard enough not to pee in their bathing suits, I withstood the harangue with a perfectly straight face. He finished with “…and when I see your wife I’m going to tell her exactly, exactly – in case I didn’t hear the first one – exactly what you said.”

“You can’t do that,” I told him.

“I most certainly can,” he huffed, “and you can bet your ass I will.”

“My wife is dead,” I said.

“You’re a goddamned liar,” he replied.

I suppose there might have been some justification for his skepticism, and perhaps I was a bit of an ass myself, but his pomposity at the outset had just gotten to me. Don’t come up to me after twenty-some-odd years and pretend that we’re big old buddies when we were never all that friendly in the first place. My real friends know exactly how my wife died; how she outlived the doctors’ predictions; and how she valued quality of life over quantity, and how one doctor told me and some of his colleagues that if he was ever in a foxhole, he’d want her beside him because of her toughness.

So I told this so-called friend the story. But you know what…he just walked away after he’d heard about her battle. He never once said he was sorry for the loss or offered condolences. After that, I was really glad that I’d had my fun. If I ever get back to the beach, I doubt I’ll be seeing him. Gee, ain’t that a shame!

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Where is heaven?

So there I was sitting there, thumb in bum and mind in neutral – that’s just a figure of speech; please don’t take it literally – when I decided to Google a question that had been intriguing me. Certainly, some genius along the way had to have put the answer to my question on the Internet…and it would have to be true because we all know that only the truth makes it to the Net. The question was this: “Where is heaven?” It wasn’t that I was going to take a Sunday drive and wanted to know if I should turn left or right out of the driveway, and it wasn’t that I was going to make reservations…those, I believe, have already been made…or not. I was merely curious about what others might have to say regarding the location of heaven. Can you believe it; in less than a quarter of a second, I had over 381 million references to my question. Is this Internet thingie fast or what? Many of the sites that popped up on my screen cheated to some degree because they discussed the corollary of where heaven is located by also describing the location of hell.

There were all sorts of biblical references to the location of heaven as well as where hell might be found. Isaiah, Revelations, John, Corinthians, Matthew, and nearly any other book of the Bible was quoted by this writer or that. This is fine for those who believe that the Holy Bible – which version I don’t know – but that the Holy Bible is the be all and end all of what we as Christians should expect or understand about God, the Blessed Trinity, and the Holy Mother…as well as everything else. To doubt the bible, we are told, is to doubt God; and to doubt God is not only a bad thing, but it sort of excludes us from any shot at getting into heaven. I don’t happen to see things that way but what the hell, that’s me and I’m just one lonely little soul on earth…for a while longer I hope.

I do doubt the Holy Bible. I have no question at all that it was scribed by brilliant men who believed every word they were writing. I also believe in the old quote, “History is written by the winners.” Who is to say that what is written is not a compromise of what actually took place? Who is to say that women were so subjugated that there are no scriptures written by women? Who is to say that some of those who transcribed or even originally wrote scripture weren’t prone to exaggeration or to the twists and turns of their own minds regarding Christ?

Am I the “doubting Thomas” of whom we hear so much? I most certainly hope that is not true. But then, there are those who believe everything that is printed in today’s newspapers or seen on television…and that’s kind of pathetic. For example, I’m certain that Osama bin Laden is dead. It’s the story of how he died that I question. There are so many versions that I’m not certain which one to believe. Some would say that it doesn’t matter because this horrible man is dead, period, end of report. I’m not one of those; I’d like the complete, unadulterated version by someone who was there and who is not going to attempt to glorify what happened…so there!

Let’s get back to the question of where heaven is located. I think of heaven as a place. Since I haven’t been there – to the best of my knowledge – I really can’t give an adequate description. Were I an avid golfer, I would probably envision the most beautiful fairways and greens with no fees and where my driver could send the ball a nine iron away from the green after every single stroke. Were I an ardent fisherman, I would see a beautiful stream running to an endless lake, where I could cast and get a hit each time. Were I this; were I that, I could spot whatever held my greatest interest and from which I would never tire. But I really don’t know. My personal feeling is that the foundation of heaven is in my heart and in my soul. I build that foundation with the manner in which I treat others as well as the way in which I treat myself. I think that Malcolm Forbes had it right when he said, “You can tell the character of a man by the way in which he treats those who can do absolutely nothing for him.” I believe that the strength of my foundation is truly dependent on treating those ‘others’ as I would like to be treated. Yes, yes, it’s the Golden Rule and very few of us are able to live by it…most assuredly, not yours truly. Perhaps it should have been called “The Golden Guide,” because man is what man is and treating others the way you’d like to be treated just ain’t gonna happen on a regular basis!

Anyway, I believe that the foundation for our house in heaven begins with how we act on earth. When we die, our foundation travels with us, and somewhere the foundation is placed. Where? How the hell do I know; I told you that I haven’t been there – pay attention! With our foundation now gone, we will meet God. He will ask us about our lives on earth, and we will be unable to tell anything but the honest truth. We will not lie because God is God and we will be in such awe of His presence that our words while few, will be without elaboration or exaggeration. My God, the God to whom I will confess my sins – and I will recall each and every one of them as though they happened yesterday – is not a vengeful God. He is a God of Love and Understanding. He will punish, but His punishment will fit the manner in which I lived my life. His guidelines for entrance into the Kingdom of Heaven are far different from my own; I cannot even begin to describe what they might be. If, however, my God decides that I am to be welcomed into heaven, my house will appear, fully constructed, perhaps as a shack; perhaps as something “better,” but it will be my house for all eternity. What will it contain? Well, I doubt we’ll be watching HBO or Cinemax. My wish would be that my house be filled with books, just as the golfer wants his fairways just outside his door and the fisherman wants his lake and stream nearby, I want my books. I’d like to spend my eternity reading and learning. Of course, that’s just me. Go build your own place. You are, however, welcome to visit any time.

So where is heaven? Heaven is in you. Where is it when you die? I don’t have a clue and I don’t believe that one of those 381 million on Google have a clue either. All we have to do to learn the exact location is to die, and I’d like to read a few more books down here first.

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Finding Love

“Whatcha doin?”

“Nuttin. Whatchoo doin?”

“Jes hangin’ out.”

“Wanna do somethin’?”

“Like…you know…like somethin’.”

“Like what?”

“How ‘bout…how ‘bout…how ‘bout…we go find some love?”

“Huh…love? Where we gonna find that?”

“I dunno. I’m seven; you’re six…an we’s both smart. I bet we can find some.”

“What do we do if we find it? Can ya eat it; is it like candy?”

“I dunno. Don’t think so. My Mom says that now that it’s warm and sunny that love is in the air. I don’t see it, so I don’t think it’s like candy…’n I sure don’t see it in the air around me and you. But my Mom’s smart as us and if she says it’s here, it’s just gotta be here some place.”

“I gotta idea!”

“What?”

“You know Mr. Peterson? He’s the one who runs that little store that has everything…you know, the baseball gum, bread, milk…even the good ice cream. You know him, right?”

“Well, yeah. But whas he got to do with findin’ love?”

“Dummy…he’s got everything in that store. Maybe he’s got some love! Leastwise, maybe he knows where we could get some ‘fee don’t have any.”

“Good afternoon boys. It’s nice to see both of you. Your folks know you came up here?

“Mom knows we’re out playin’ Mr. Peterson and she always says we can come to your store.”

“Okay, boys, what’ll be today? Just got a new load of comic books in and even got some of that peach cobbler ice cream. That’s your favorite, isn’t it Billy?”

“Yeah, it is, but Henry and me, we’re lookin’ for somethin’ else. We don’t even know if you have it. Mr. Peterson, we’re lookin’ for some love!”

Whoa, that’s a pretty tall order.  Just what kind of love you looking for?”

“We don’t even know sir. Mom says that love is in the air, but we can’t see it. We thought maybe you’d have it or at least could tell us where we can get some.”

“Billy, Henry, there’s just about a million kinds of love.  You can’t buy it; heck, you really can’t even see it no matter what your Mom might say. Love isn’t really something you can hold in your hand, tho if you’ve ever had a pretty butterfly land in your palm and seen just how beautiful it is, I guess that’s just one kind of love. But let me ask you boys a question: Do you love your Mom and Dad?”

[At this point, you have to imagine the two boys looking at each other. It doesn’t matter how friendly they are, the early stages of machismo are already making themselves known. Finally….]

“Henry, you feel funny when your Mom and Dad hug you and kiss you goodnight; like kinda all warm and safe?”

“Okay, yeah, Mr. P, that’s just how I feel. Howdja know that?”

“How about you Billy…same thing.”

“Well, most of the time, yeah.”

“Do you both hug your folks back when they hug you and kiss you goodnight?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, boys, that’s the best form of love I can think of right now. You love your folks because, well, because they’re your folks. They feed you and put the clothes on your back and all they ask is that they be allowed to hug you and kiss you every day. Theirs is what we call ‘unconditional love.’ They love you because…hmm…because along with God’s help, they created you. They love you because you’re you.  It’s really hard to explain what love is and what it isn’t. People toss that word around pretty loosely, but I’m willing to bet that every time you see your Mother or your Dad, you get a funny little feeling that tells you everything’s gonna be alright. Isn’t that so?

“That’s love?”

“That’s love, Billy. It’s the love you know right now; I think it’s one of the best kinds of love you’ll ever know. The love of a Mom or a Dad for a son or a daughter is almost indescribable. My kids are all grown up now and they have kids of their own. Henry, I’ve got a grandson just about your age, and his Mom and Dad love him just the same way your folks love you.”

“I’ll tell you what boys; why don’t you each take home a container of that peach cobbler ice cream from the freezer over there; bring it home and give it to your Moms. When you do, say, ‘This is because I love you.’ I think you’ll probably get a better lesson in love from that simple thing than all the words, we’ve had to say here. You be careful going home, now.”

Okay, it’s fiction, but just how do you explain to six and seven year old boys precisely what love is. To most of them, it’s probably just a word. As they grow, they’ll learn other kinds of love. They’ll learn that it can make you want to dance on the clouds, and they’ll learn that it can smack you upside the head and hurt like you don’t believe you’ve ever been hurt before. With luck, they’ll find that thing we call ‘true love’ and it will last throughout their lifetime. But, for this one brief moment in time, Billy Flynn and Henry Hunt learned a lesson from someone they thought knew just about everything.

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Where is the beauty?

When is enough enough?  When do we finally screw up the courage to say, “Hey, I don’t care if wheat is going to kill me; I like it and you can kiss my royal ass.” I don’t know about you, but it’s at that point that I sit down with a ‘choke-and-slide’ made on whole wheat bread and with plenty of ‘real’ butter. Maybe you can’t believe it’s real butter you shoulder-length-coiffed-hair-muscle-bound dip stick, but people with taste buds know the difference. And yes, we know that butter will probably clog the living hell out of our arteries, but we’re old enough not to care, and if a heart attack is the way we’re gonna go, well, at least it will probably be quick.

It makes me want to puke when flip by some of these television commercials that tell you their product will “bring back your youth,” “make you look 20 years younger,” “hide those ‘ugly’ age marks,” etc, etc, etc. I suppose it’s possible that some of these products may do exactly as they claim – possible but highly doubtful, but who cares? If you aren’t satisfied with what you look like, you aren’t satisfied with who you are. When you’re not satisfied with who you are, it’s going to take more than what these television charlatans are trying to sell you to make you feel good about you.

As I like to say, “It is what it is and we are what we are.” Would you really like to look 20 years younger? Why would that be so? Hell, inside you’re still the same age that you are as well as being the same person you’ve always been.  My own experience dictates that real beauty is inside the shell that we show to the public. If you are a beautiful, decent, loving person on the inside, you don’t have to have the looks of someone you believe to be beautiful. If you are a decadent, envious, hateful person on the inside, I don’t care what you do to the shell, your ugliness will soon become apparent.

One series of television ads amuses me more than others. These are the lean cuisine, Jenny Craig, nurtra-system, etc. diet plans that show dramatic weight loss…just by eating the foods that are recommended by this movie star or that pop singer or over-the-hill cultural icons. You don’t lose weight by eating the foods that they recommend. You lose weight by eating “proper” foods and nothing that is improper. You lose weight by regular exercise in addition to eating the proper foods. You lose weight by establishing a weight loss program that is difficult in consort with a program of exercise that, at times, may seem equally difficult. Does it sound like I’m repeating myself? You’re damned right I’m repeating myself.  Unless you have one of the most unusual metabolic rates on earth you can’t lose weight without combining diet, exercise, and rest.

Don’t let the exercise gurus like Chuck Norris and others tell you that you can become an iron man simply by adopting their system of exercise…this machine or that machine. The people you see demonstrating these machines spend eight or more hours in the day to look the way the do. It is their ‘job’ to look like that, just as your job may be a restaurant owner, law enforcement official or fireman, nurse or business executive. The chances of you looking the way those people do are about as good as a snowball surviving in hell for very long. I enjoy exercise; it gives me a boost, a burst of energy that carries me through much of the day. However, I came to the conclusion a long, long time ago that I will never have six-pack abs or pectoral muscles that jump and dance all over my chest. Unfortunately for me, I like to eat; yes, I like chicken and fish and vegetables and fruit. I also enjoy ice cream, toast with plenty of jam, and Little Debby chocolate cakes. I’m about 40 pounds overweight, but because I’m happy with me, I may never lose it. I like me the way I am.

Can you be both? Can you be beautiful inside and out? Certainly; if that’s what you want. Perhaps you even have the genes that gave you great looks, a great personality, and even a talent that you can exploit. If not, perhaps you’ve been fortunate enough to have a friend who falls into that category. Just remember one thing; beauty is truly in the eye of the beholder. Ask yourself this question, “If I could change places with this person, would I really want to do so?” Malcolm Forbes said, “To judge the character of a man, watch how he treats someone who can do absolutely nothing for him.”

I invite you to check out this URL: http://lindaellis.net/the-dash-poem-by-linda-ellis/ I won’t even ask you to read the entire poem, but you should check out the very last stanza – yeah, I know, you’ll have to read the entire thing to fully comprehend the last part. Stop bitching; it’s really worth the read. Beyond that, remember to be beautiful on the inside before you begin to concern yourself with that skin-deep appearance stuff!

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Showing love for our kids

It may sound rather inappropriate to some people, but I don’t believe the NRA can take much blame for what happened in Newtown, Connecticut. There’s enough blame to go around without condemning an organization I’ve condemned for years. Let’s begin with the dead mother; she saw significant signs of a troubled youth and she pulled him from regular classes and home schooled the young man. She didn’t see this coming, but I’ll give odds that a school psychologist might have been sufficiently troubled to have taken additional steps. Would it have stopped Mr. Lanza? Hell no; not if they merely tried to drug the guy silly. And if not Lanza, it would have been some other person in some other small town somewhere in the United States. You could also cast some blame on the Congress of the US for not enacting gun control legislation with teeth in it…and here, I suppose, you could say that the NRA lobby is responsible.

Assault weapons sales are not banned in this country. Why should they be banned? There are hundreds, if not thousands, if not tens of thousands of responsible men and women who own guns of all sorts. I’ve mentioned in another piece one person who actually had a working tank on his front lawn. That doesn’t mean he’s going to launch shells at the local school or police station or wherever. There are probably more privately owned arsenals in this country than in any other country in the world. There should be because we are the most violent nation on this little round blue marble.

After Columbine, one town in California moved concrete planters in front of the entrance to the high school.  That’s not a bad idea, and let me tell you why: Since the day that tragedy struck the Sandy Hook Elementary School, every news channel in the Northeast, on every news show, in every football stadium, and heaven only knows where else has made it known that the way to get to the Americans is through their children. No one has said the jihadists are stupid. They have now learned where to hit us to make the biggest impact…and I’m betting that right now some son-of-a-bitch is thinking exactly the same way. Concrete barriers near the main entrance, hell, they should be going up all around the schools, every school everywhere. We are in an undeclared state of war with crazy-ass jihadists from all around the world, and we just told them exactly how to make us hurt. Let us not wait and say, “Oh, it can’t happen here.” Haven’t we had sufficient evidence that not only can it happen here, but it already has…and on numerous occasions. When the hell are we going to learn that there are people in our own community who, for one reason or another, would like nothing better than to shoot the hell out of this or that school. We bitch and wail and piss and moan about what happened at Sandy Hook. We say that this is different because Lanza was a troubled youth – youth, my ass; he was a grown man – and we make excuses for this shooter or that shooter, but what do we do to protect these kids? The answer is that we really do very little. “Oh we can’t put metal detectors in the schools; that will traumatize the students and take too much time.” Bullshit. “Oh we can’t have armed police officers walking the halls and scaring our children.” Bullshit again. “Oh we shouldn’t lock all of the doors because our children will feel like they’re in a jail.” Bullshit for the third and final time.  Ask yourself this simple question: “Do you want your kid to come back to you in the afternoon in the same shape you sent him or her to school in the morning?” As I say, the question is simple. If your answer is “Yes,” and without any “buts” then welcome to life in America in the 21^st Century.

I have a former colleague who has vacationed in Israel several times. When he was younger, he studied one summer in a kibbutz. When he returned to Israel for his first vacation he was somewhat taken aback by the fact that every street corner and intersection had one or two soldiers, armed to the teeth, standing guard over their assigned post. Has America reached that point yet? No, no we have not…but we’re getting there. As sad as it may sound, we are getting there. I remember when Dad was dying. We were watching the news on television and he said, “…at the rate we’re going, everyone will be strapping on six guns again.” I laughed, but maybe Dad knew something that I didn’t know; maybe he was exercising his Nostradamus abilities. I don’t know, but I do know that I’m getting a bit tired of seeing the Joey Pintos, Emilie Parkers, Chase Kowalskis caskets being removed from churches on their way to cemeteries. It just isn’t right.  You know it and I know it.

Joan and I managed to get our kids through public school and even through their college years without incident. I guess those were different times, but things certainly seemed pretty much the way things seem today. I wonder what happened. Should we blame Nintendo, television, movies, X-box, or whatever the latest version of ‘violence is good’ game for our problems?  Maybe we should look at the types of food we’re eating; yeah, sure, that’s as good a thing to blame as any other. How about Uggs or whatever the latest clothing style is for our troubles. Hell, while my youngest was in college, a kid she knew refused to give up his bomber jacket to a gang of toughs; they shot him in the head and took the jacket anyway.  I’m just happy my child wasn’t with her acquaintance.

Let us stop talking about doing something and start doing it. Metal detectors, armed officers of the law, concrete barriers, bullet resistant glass on outfacing windows, and any other precaution is worth the money. It’s a way to show our kids that we really do love them; that we really do want them to have an education; that we really do want them to see what life in America is like in the 21^st Century. After all, it’s probably going to get worse before it gets better…if it gets better.

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Time to think

This little essay is not meant to be inciting, irritating, or berating of children everywhere. It will sound that way so let’s get that nonsense taken care of right up front.

Once we…yes, I was a child at one time; you can’t possibly believe I was born this pissed off at the world…but once we reach a certain age, get married, if we do, have children or other commitments in our lives, it’s really quite horrifying at how much we don’t wish to be bothered by those things entitled “parents.” Oh, they’re lovely enough to have around at Thanksgiving and Christmas, and on their birthdays or those of our children – they bring cash – but other than that, they ask embarrassing questions and remind us that we, too, are growing older and it’s something that we really do not wish to see or hear. Some people out there will by now be saying, “Oh you horrible person.” I love my parents so much that I see him, her, whatever every week. I know people like that; when you pin them down; when you dig out the real truth, they are by and large resentful of the time they share with their parents. Whether it’s  that they feel they should be at work, doing things around the house, paying more attention to their own children, or whatever, there is a definite undercurrent being intruded upon, and that my friends is resentment.

Perhaps this is a confession piece of writing; I can’t honestly say. When my Dad was diagnosed with lung cancer – yes, from those f*&king cigarettes – we lived perhaps 40 miles apart. We had three kids and it seemed that every weekend there were swim meets here, there, and everywhere…never anywhere near where Mom and Pop were living. There were times when I was unable to attend the meets because of work…and which is more important, parents, wife, children, or work? Every single person who may read this could make a strong argument for any one of that quartet. Did I visit my Dad enough? No, he had lung cancer, was dying, and I should have visited him more. In one way I have to admit to being somewhat terrified. I didn’t know a hell of a lot about oxygen, but I did know that oxygen and fire don’t play well together. Whenever Dad would light a cigarette with oxygen cannula in his nose, I’d cringe and wonder if their mobile home was about to be scattered in pieces around the park and our bodies along with it.  It was an excuse; a lame one I’ll admit, but I have to say that having one’s body delivered to my family in a small box was really not my idea of a good time. Obviously, it never happened and in my dotage I can see that the chances were not all that great in the first place. It was an ‘out;’ a way that I could avoid seeing my Dad degenerate. After he died, it was Mom’s turn. She lived less than 45 minutes from where we were. My wife always had to be home with the kids and my trips to see mother grew fewer and fewer. Eventually, we wound up in an argument over the time that elapsed between visits and we no longer spoke to one another. If you don’t believe that’s not the dumbest excuse in the world, you haven’t been listening. It was my mother, and for the last three years of her life we didn’t speak…stupid, incredibly stupid. But, quite candidly, that’s what we as children are. Our age doesn’t matter; as long as our parents live, we are still stupid children. In many cultures, parents are revered; not so in the majority of western society. There are other cultures where the elderly are openly abandoned to die. We call those cultures uncivilized. What does that make me and so many others like me?  What does that make my daughters and six of my grandchildren whom I haven’t seen in over two years? The invitation comes every Thanksgiving and Christmas, but the woman who is my partner knows how the kids feel about her, and she’s very uncomfortable in their presence. The words the children utter seem nice enough, but there’s an undercurrent that makes them sound acerbic.  Funny, but I spoke with a friend today who is going through the same thing with his only child. Maybe it’s a part of childhood midlife crisis. I don’t know, but I do know that I’m not going to worry about it.

One day, when my sister and I were arguing over nothing, I remember my mother saying, almost under her breath, “May you have many children and may they be just like you.” Good call, Mom, you hit the nail smack dab on its head! Perhaps that’s exactly what happened. Our kids grew up to be exactly like us…all except my sister who graduated from high school, went to New York, had an outstanding career as a model and advertising executive; moved to California, got married, never had kids, and didn’t look back. Did she come back for the funerals? Of course she did? Did she love our parents? Of course she did. Did she visit as often as we did or should have? Don’t be ridiculous; New York City and anywhere in California are not drop-in spots when you live in Massachusetts!

This is the season when we Christians celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ. If your parents are still alive, I hope that you will think about this time as being one of renewing your own miracle of birth and the people who were responsible for that miracle. I’ve used myself as a perfect example of what you should not do. Looking back to my much, much younger days, I realize just how much my parents loved and taught me. My folks taught me responsibility and accountability. They taught me ethics and manners. They taught me the meaning of what’s right and what’s wrong.  They taught me to hold on to my beliefs and to never, ever give away my integrity. Yes, school and college were great learning environments, but they couldn’t compare with the living examples in my own home. Dad had a ninth grade education and Mom left school in the sixth. I still have to laugh about the time my mother came home from work. She’d taken a job as a bookkeeper when Dad had gotten laid off. Her only qualification I think was that the place she worked was owned by a family friend and that she kept a pretty tight budget in her own home. One afternoon she walked in and yelled to my Dad, “Hey, honey, what’s double-entry bookkeeping? The auditor said it was great that that’s how I’m keeping the books.” Yep, that was my Mom, a smart one without even knowing it!

These are the memories I have. I’d rather have the memory of sitting and talking with my Mom during those last three years. I’d rather have the memory of being with my Dad as the cancer continued to eat at his body. My own wife died of cancer. Now I know how much better it would have been had I spent more time with Dad. It’s too late for me; I just hope it’s not too late for my kids.

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Thanks, Joan; Thanks, Juli

Remember when Frank Sinatra sang, “Love is lovelier the second time around?” Pat Boone sang it in the movie, ‘April Love,’ or one of those schmaltzy flicks of many years ago. “Just as wonderful with both feet on the ground,” and isn’t that the truth. The first love is the first love, and no one can deny the reality of it. For most boys, I believe, the very, very first love is often more like lust and therefore is not love at all. The first real love is something akin to that rollercoaster-belly-dropping-holy-shit-OMG-wow moment when you realize that this is the one; the one with whom you really do want to spend the rest of your life.

And you do…and she dies…and that wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. You were supposed to die first. She was supposed to grow old, with only a couple of wrinkles, and maybe silver hair, and maybe rocking grandchildren in her lap. And maybe she’d have a shawl around her shoulders in the winter, because old people don’t like the cold; and maybe, just once in a while, she’d watch the grandkids swim in the pool that one of the kids had…and she’d be wearing a wide-brimmed hat, but she wouldn’t stay out long, because old people don’t really like the summer heat. Then, suddenly, you’d be together again, and that would be how your lives would play out…together. But, as they say, “Man plans…and God laughs.”

After she dies, you’re lost…you really are. If her death has been a lingering one, you’re cried out by the time ‘it’ eventually occurs. You’re cried out, and you go through this barbaric process known as a wake, or viewing or whatever else they call it, and then the funeral, and the reception back at the house, and then everyone leaves and you haven’t a bloody clue what to do with yourself…and the hurt is so deep that you just know the agony of loss will never go away.

Day follows day; week follows week; month follows month; and year even follows year. You don’t forget. You visit the grave, even though you know that what is buried there is merely a shell, a vessel, but until the day you die, you can tell anyone the clothing that is inside that casket. You talk to her each night, reminding her that she is still loved and begging forgiveness for all of the stupid things you did when you were together. Time passes, and you wonder when you will be together again; then you wonder if you’ll be together again. You wonder if faith has moved her on to something better and if you would ever qualify to be as good as she was, as deserving as she was…and always your answer is, “No;’ she was that much better.

Hopefully, for you, as it has for me, the “second time around,” does occur. It’s not the same love; there is only one of those. It’s a different love, “Love’s more comfortable the second time you fall; like a friendly home the second time you call.” There is no question that it’s love because somehow it just feels right. It’s what you want and you know in your heart that it’s what she would want. You can actually feel that…and it’s a wonderful feeling. “Who can say what brought us to this miracle we’ve found. There are those who’d bet love comes but once and yet, I’m oh so glad we met the second time around.”

Thanks, Joan for our wonderful times, and thank you, Juli, for giving me that “second time around.”

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