A Father's Love

His father was this 6'5 giant of a man.    He was a man of few words but commanded an audience when he spoke.  He was awkward.  Eccentric.  Really, eccentric IS the best word to describe him.  It's the adjective reserved for geniuses.  Quiet geniuses.  Misunderstood men.

He built a suitcase rack on top of his horse trailer one Saturday afternoon.   Boredom, I suppose. 

In the 15 years I saw this man on a daily basis, he never spoke to me.   In the back of his mind, he had his mind set that I was a bad influence on his son.  I was a best friend.  One of many.  Influence is earned.  We all earned his son's influence.   We were good people.  We loved.  We cared.  We were all best friends.

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Stuck in a Sunday malaise, blood pressure rising to the point where I could hear my own heart beat.  Any minute, I expected my left arm to go numb and then I'd drop to the floor; looking up at the half full mug of coffee wishing I had two more minutes to finish my morning vice. 

I leaned back in my padded chair; waiting.   I guess God wasn't quite ready to take me home.

Something divine, maybe random placed two documentaries into my queue.  Chris Farley was first, followed by Andre the Giant.

Farley's dad was 650 pounds.  A lovely man, by all accounts.  All that resonated with me during the 90-minute Farley documentary was his love for his father.   One man carrying the shame of his out of control weight and the son who idolized him.  When love is pure, it is the most beautiful sight and sound on earth.






Andre the Giant lived on a farm in his final years; surrounded by farm animals and pets.  Dozens of them.   When asked why he had so many, he stated, "They never look twice at me".   I imagine being Andre wasn't easy.  He couldn't hide.  Judgment waited around every corner.  A 7'4, 500 pound man will always be the center of unwanted attention.   Andre's friends all referred to him as a gentle giant.  A lovely man, by all accounts.
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His father was hard to figure out.   We would come stumbling into the house drunk late at night and he would be standing in front of the television; watching soft core porn on Cinemax.  When he heard us laugh, he would turn off the TV and hide in the dark until we were gone.   That man was an OB/GYN.  Why would he need porn?   He sees that shit all day long.   We pondered that question on many drunken nights.

In the 15 years, I saw that man on a daily basis, he yelled at me once.  I never had a father so I enjoyed the negative attention. 

His relationship with his two sons and two daughters seemed odd from my perspective.   He seemed distant.   There was a quiet resentment from his oldest son.  A resentment that seemed to bear the blame for his drinking.

We spent a Saturday afternoon in the smoky club house of the rehab center he checked himself into.  We openly discussed his drinking and his relationship with his father.  I couldn't relate.  I could only listen.  The excuses were palpable.  Genetics.  Dad was always working.  Depression. 

Buddy, genetics control the disease but YOU control your genes.   That was all I really said that day.

Two months later, he was gone.

We all lost a best friend. 

It was a fitting gray Thursday when he was buried.   I stood in the foyer alone of the church as the other best friends were huddled together yards away.  I was just observing.  Taking deep breaths.  Observing, some more.  Trying to process my thoughts.   Searching for my lost emotions.  Looking for answers.

His father slowly walked over to me.  His face had aged remarkably that week.  He grabbed me.  And he wept.  Sobbed.   He was broken, I guess.

He didn't say a word to me.   He didn't need to. 

Tears from a stoic man, a misunderstood father, a gentle giant... those tears are contagious.

I suppose this was the only time in my life where I witnessed a father's love firsthand. 

And it remains as the most beautiful sight and sound I have ever witnessed.

Shameville

Took a guilt trip to Shameville.  Hoped to forget Us. 
Spent too much time there
I feel the same, still. 
I broke down in Hopeless.   Lost direction and focus. 
I hope you're happy now.
It's very seldom
we don't overstay our welcome
I overstayed mine
I hope you're happy now

Strangers can be comforting. 
The indifference is palpable
Seeking deliverance from the suffering
seems rational
Nobody is happy in Shameville

Hypothetical futures become regrettable pasts. 
Sunny days ahead are rainy forecasts. 
Only the weatherman profits from bad news. 
Everyone wants to trade skin.  I want to trade shoes. 
Kindness happens behind closed doors.   And so, does abuse. 

I hope you're happy now. 
No one deserves it more. 
Life ain't fair says the entitled one.  
I refuse to keep score.

Scheduled a flight to heaven.  Hope to wait on the other side for you.
Excuse me if I ignore you...

Valor is the better part of discretion.
Hell is the road to good intention
Kill one stone with two birds
Wise is the man of few words
Better never than late
Good luck is a leg break
Getting on in years
Pity parties and crocodile tears
Every silver lining has a cloud.
I hope you're happy now.

Death of kindness

When your hometown becomes a ghost town
Tell your brain to slow down to avoid the show down
between the adjective and the pronoun
Beautiful she knows what I mean
Isolate me in color
everyone looks the same in black and white
The sky is getting darker and duller
everything looks the same in black and white

Everyone confuses the introvert with shyness
and abuses the hurt in silence
The darkness seduces the self-righteous
Isolate me in black and white
I'll wait for blindness
and anticipate the death of kindness

keep that cigarette well lit
i can be the one you quit
just remember me in color

The skies are getting darker and duller
Envision me in color
Listen to me in color

everyone looks the same in black and white

everyone sounds the same in black and white

Stay was my only demand

Eight years before... I was driving home from work.   Stuck in traffic, air conditioning blowing on my face, shirt off, windows rolled up, and radio playing loudly in my little bubble.

All was perfect in my life at that moment:  great job and friends. 

It was a 40 minute commute and I just wanted to get home, see my dog and eat dinner.  Then, God willing, be with my friends.  And then, go to bed and repeat this routine the next day.

Man, I was in love with the world.  A girl.  Friends. My job.  Everyone.  Everything.

Ten minutes from home, some new song by Eric Clapton played on the radio.  Written after his son tragically died.  Would you know my name, if I saw you in heaven?  Okay, I admit, my inner girl comes out in emotional moments.  Be it; a song, a movie, a commercial, St Judes Hospital infomercial, mama duck guiding her baby ducks across the street.... whatever.  My eyes fill up at predictable times but always when no one is around to notice.

Eric Clapton, on this glorious day, made me cry.

It was an odd reaction considering life was perfect for me at that moment.   1994, god damn.

I got home and as usual, I was greeted by my overjoyed black lab puppy named Buddy.

Wanna go for a walk?  And then he pounced on me and knocked me to the floor. 

I stood up and sternly commanded, "Sit.  Stay".  And he did.   In a not so subtle attempt to hide his excitement for his evening walk, he wagged his tail violently against the tile of my entrance way. 


Fast forward.  God damn 2002.  Worst year. 

Monday.  Driving home from work.  The same company.  Stuck in traffic.  It was fucking hot.  Air conditioning blowing on my face.  Miserable day that began with a chain email.  It is with a heavy heart, we must report that our beloved son lost his life last night.

I didn't cry all day.  I didn't do anything, really.  Sat in my office and stared at my wall.  Numb, I guess.  Who knew I can cry at simple things but not at the news of my best friend's death?

It became a ME moment.  Why am I not crying?  Why didn't ME do more to stop his drinking?  Why ME?  

Radio on in my little dark world.  Skipping through music until I landed on any melancholy song.  Something to make me cry.  Something to make me feel.  Goddamn, where is Eric Clapton?

Finally, got home.  Weakened knees,  Sick stomach.  Trembling hands.  Lost voice.  No tears.  Empty.

That once overjoyed black lab puppy was now an older dog.  He still loved walks.  Life.  ME. 

As usual, he greeted me at the door.  I guess he sensed my despair.  He didn't pounce on me.  Or knock me down.  I'm not sure he cared if I gave him his evening walk.  He just welcomed me and licked my hand as I spoke nonsense to him. 

I laid in my bed and he joined me.  Motionless as his head rested on my stomach with occasional licks to make sure I was responsive, I guess.  Buddy was comforting me.

Hours passed and I whispered, "Wanna go for a walk?".

He jumped off my bed and ran to my front door.  He sat there patiently; wagging his tail softly.  Just loud enough so I wouldn't forget but not too loud to anger me during this difficult day.

Maybe, the only day or week, I never had to say, "Sit. Stay" to that overzealous friend.


Fast forward one year.

Cancer was killing Buddy.  Softball sized tumor in his neck.  He was lethargic.  Not eating.  The joy I always knew from him was gone.

As all dog owners know or eventually will know, that day comes when we must let them go.  With dignity.  To end their suffering.  Compassion feels cruel.  We ache unlike any ache we will ever know. 

Goddamn, 2003.  Buddy's life ended on a cold steel bed in the back room of a veterinarian's office.  Before he closed his eyes forever, he licked my hand one last time.  And left me, this world, with one final wag of his tail.  I was broken, I guess.

Oh, I cried.  Dogs, movies, songs, commercials, mama ducks but not best friends make me cry, I learned. 

It might be the only thing I know about ME. 

Maybe the emptiest feeling in the world is walking out of the vet's office alone with leash in hand; knowing there is no reason to ever come back.

 

That word "stay" resonates with me daily.  In so many ways.  Some things.  Most things, are out of our control. 

And I'm still trying, Ringo.   I'm trying really hard.

Stay.

Compassion always feels cruel.

A Story without an Ending (Volume 1)

It's been a long and difficult road.

Hundreds of people gathered at this 125 acre public park to celebrate America's 211th birthday.   I was there for one reason.  It wasn't the fireworks.  Or a slice of Americana.  It wasn't about the volleyball, the ducks, the matching red, white and blue shirts by middle aged parents, or the traditional barbecuing.   

As I wandered this park with a purpose as Lee Greenwood's overplayed song loudly resonated in the background, I was determined to find her.  This was the summer of love and I would not be denied.

The beautiful thing about love at fifteen is everything.  It's intense.  Genuine.  Slightly myopic.  Moderately grandiose.  Extremely idealistic.   Fifteen is when romantics are born.  

Earlier that morning at church, she reassured me she would be there.  Sometimes, crushes are secrets.  This was the day to reveal it. 

God, I was nervous.  I was about to tell my future wife how I can't stop thinking about her.  I wrote a note to hand to her.  I talk a lot.  I talk fast.  I dominate conversations.  But I'm never quite good at saying what I mean to say.  I speak better on paper.  I'm less awkward on paper.  More honest.  Somewhere between corny and romantic.   That's okay.  I was fifteen.


Fourth grade, first kid who befriended me at my new school, Jason Knaup, died of leukemia.  They named the soccer field after him.  Jason field. 
I don't want to grow up and fall for the woman who only wants a man with a dick and a wallet.
Why don't I ever like upbeat, celebratory, happy music even when I'm in a good mood?
First two bucket items added:  Learn to skateboard and play the drums.

My mind wandered.  Tangents, to calm me.

As the sun began to set and she, nowhere to be found, I circled the lake repeatedly; getting lost in the sea of red, white and blue patriotic souls.  It wasn't meant to be, I guess.

We had a large blanket laid out on the slope of a grassy hill.  Everyone stared up at the fireworks and applauded.  I looked straight ahead.  Just hoping she would appear.

It was the best fourth of July of my life.
It was the worst fourth of July of my life.

That summer, I discovered who I am.  Thirty years later and I'm still that same kid.

As for her, she had a secret, too. 

At fifteen, secrets often go untold.  We learn to endure unrequited love and suffer in silence as insecurity mutes our lips. 

At fifteen, stories often don't have endings.


"You know, when you're little, you have more endurance than God is ever to grant you again. Children are man at his strongest. They abide."

Cake

Beautiful baker doesn't need me
well, she does knead me

I'm cake

All the signs and all the dreams mislead me
Misinterpreted by the needy
I don't blame you for this miscue
One misstep, Deja vu

I'm cake

It's a losing battle to fight alone
Takes two to believe
The chicken soup is cold
I'm cake for the soul

Beautiful baker doesn't understand me
Let's be friends, Mr. Plan B
And I'll wait with all the cake and candy

Beautiful baker wants more
Plan B, always found in the convenience store

Insufficient and inadequate
Inconsequential
Cake is inanimate

Ask me where it aches
It aches in the place you vacated
If love has an off switch
then my heart is antiquated

There's you and me
Beautiful baker with plan B
Dreams of cake and candy
When I'm gone, just maybe
you will understand me

I'm cake

1989

Just a few weeks ago, I stumbled onto my 1989 high school graduation video.  We can talk about all the ugliness and needlessness found on the internet.  Once in awhile, the internet does something right.  Occasionally, this alternate world connects us to things that matter.

This video is the closest I will ever come to a time machine.  I had no idea it existed. 

I'm one of those people... when my time is up, all that will remain are some words I post here and vague memories of those who know me or knew me.  My self-importance ends when I do.  I've always liked the idea of being defined by little things.   And big ideas.  Thoughts.

Watching my graduation was surreal.  For most of the two hour ceremony, the camera is fixated on me due to being seated front and center.  Two hours of me staring at me almost 30 years ago.  It was depressing, inspiring, bittersweet, glorious and astonishing.  Both positive and negative superlatives are fitting.


High school graduation is a monumental day in everyone's life.  The carefree days of summer, the intensity of perpetually falling in love with many, the neediness, and the wonder of what tomorrow may bring... it's over. Tomorrow is here.

As I watched awkward me fidget and neurotically believe all eyes were on me, I wanted to give myself some advice. 

I probably would just focus on wasting time.  God knows I've wasted a lot of time.  1989 me never worried about time.  2017 me knows better. 

Two students from that class of 30 students are gone.  Been gone for two decades.  Out of time.

Sometimes we become so introspective, maybe egocentric, perhaps self-absorbed; we miss the little things. 

So, I guess my advice to 1989 me would focus on time and the little things.  Two things that should be self-evident but rarely are...

My tiny Christian school of 120 students showed foresight and kindness by recording my graduation.  This was done without any knowledge that one day, the internet would be a tangible yet intangible place most reside.  And it came at a perfect time in my life.

A nice reminder of a boy, a young man who had dreams, aspired to be great within the realms of obscurity all the while pursuing the little things... because it is the little things that make an uneventful life great.

The video ends with me strutting down the aisle with this goofy smile of relief that it was all over.

If I only knew then.

Out of time.