Happy Birthday, Pop: I Miss You

Dear Daddy,
    Today, you would have been eighty-six years old had you not left us, far too soon, a little over two years ago now. From the time we were small until Mama passed away thirteen months before you, you always chose, as fathers often do (especially fathers of yours, the Greatest Generation), to play second fiddle, to be the supporting cast, to stay one step out of the limelight in our family circus. You were contented, or at least you always seemed to be, with Mama being the star, the center of our attention, the hub of our family's culture and activities. On those rare occasions, when you would answer the phone whenever we called in years after we had all left the nest, you would greet us very briefly and even a little uncomfortably before saying, "Hang on, let me let you speak to your Mama," as though you assumed that we really only called to talk to her anyway. You were always humble, often retiring, and sometimes even servile in your demeanor. But all along, you were our anchor, her rock, and all the while you were an unwilling star awaiting your stage. Once Mama left us, you seized center stage, perhaps if only to fill the void in your heart that she had left behind, and you had your time to shine as the family focal point. It was a most blessed thirteen months, and as I said, your shining moment ended far too soon for the four of us. We came to know you and love you in an even deeper way during those few, precious months than we had during the previous decades.
     During these past two years since you left to be with Mama, I have missed you terribly. While I always respected and looked up to you, your stature has grown exponentially in the pages of my memory. I realize more and more, with the passage of each day, what a very, very special man and father that you were. Over the years, Mama did indeed dominate my bond to you as parents, and I will always cherish the very deep, unqualified, love that we shared over the fifty years that I had her in my life. But those thirteen final months of your life, talking to you on the phone almost nightly, spending time together, just the two of us, with you as the marquee attraction, those few months are seared indelibly on my heart and in my mind. While I dearly cherish that time and cling to it, I feel regretful that there wasn't more before you left and that I didn't seize more time to be with you over the years. Hardly a day passes that I don't think of you, miss you, want for you, and wish that I could talk to you again. Happy Birthday, Daddy...you were always...and remain to this day...my hero. I love you, Pop.

Me

The Silver Lining of 'Tweenior-hood: It's Okay to be a Musty, Old Gray Cloud After All

Okay, so I've been pondering what the positive parts of this human fermentation process could possibly be for a few days now, and I think I've finally figured them out...I 'P' better...that's right...I 'P" better...NO, NO, NO, I don't mean that I "pee" better...god, get your mind out of the gutter, people!!! I mean, of course, I don't "pee" better. I'm a fifty-four year old man, for goodness sake...we don't "pee" as good as we used to...more often, maybe (several times a night, at least), but DEFINITELY NOT BETTER!!! The things that I'm talking about that have improved with age are my personal P's...things like my Priorities...my Patience...my Prudence...my Passions... my Pragmatism...and even my Peculiarities...in all of these aspects of my life, it turns out that time has been my friend rather than my foe.

When I was a young man, like so many, I had my priorities all wrong. I was laser-focused on career goals. More than anything else in the world, I wanted to become a head basketball coach. I have always loved me some basketball, and I still do, but not in the same way, and not nearly to the same degree. I mean I have actually sat on the toilet diagramming basketball offenses and defenses (remember that Reader's Digest vocabulary?)...that's right...Xs and Os, and there she blows!!! Now, that's being serious about your sport...that's commitment...that's really working to become an expert on the game, Coach Richt...maybe you try that in the off-season. To this day, I still find stuff in boxes, in old file folders at work that have court diagrams filled with Xs, Os, and arrows moving them to and fro'. When I reflect on the all of those years, all that time spent thinking about a game, all of those man hours spent on planning and carrying out practices, the waiting, the preparation, the emotional and intellectual energy expended on game days, the hundreds, maybe even thousands of hours spent riding on cramped cheese wagons (school buses), those precious summer days spent doing kids' camps and on the road at team camps, I can't help but wonder about what I sacrificed, what I missed out on, what the trade-offs may have been. Yes, I had some amazing experiences and met some incredible people that I will always treasure, but I know that I could never go back to those times. Today, my laser-focus is on my marriage, on my family, on my home, on all of the vital relationships and simple pleasures that really enrich and define one's life. I see work as a means to an end, but not an end in itself. I have learned with time not to place a premium on material things...after all, when it's all said and done, it's just stuff. Having had the bittersweet experience of being with both of my parents in their last days and dying moments, it struck me that, in the end, all that will really matter when we take our last breath is the love of the people that we love. While I don't have vivid memories of lots of things in life, I will always remember the words that my daddy spoke upon learning that he was probably spending his last living day there in that hospital bed in Macon. He said to his children who were lovingly and sadly watching him ready to slip away, "Well, y'all have been a good family...take care of yourselves." Tearing up over two years later as I share his words with you, I can say, yep, that heart-rending experience and those tender words helped to crystallize for me what is really important in my life.

They say that patience is a virtue. Well, it's not a young person's virtue...that's for certain. While I realize that this is no revelation, no radical newsflash, young people, including young adults (and even some way past young) want every thing now. Like so many, I wanted everything before I could afford it. I didn't want to sit through things and stand in lines that would take to long. I wanted each work week to fly by so that we could get on with the next weekend, which I then proceeded to rush through. Today, as the wheels of the rat race of life whir by, I find myself wanting things to slow down. I find myself wanting to savor every moment of every mundane experience (my wife laughs at how I allow good beer to roll around my tongue) that I would have previously been in too big a hurry to enjoy. With my ten year-old daughter, for instance, I find myself so patient that I am perhaps, at times, enabling (and if you knew me, you would know how it pains me to say use that term in reference to myself) of responses and behaviors that, in the past, would have caused me to say to myself upon hearing, witnessing, or discovering her childhood transgressions, "Lord, please save this child, 'cause I pity the fool!!!" Lately, I cannot tell you how how often I look at her and silently plead, "Slow down, child, don't get so big so fast," and then tear up thinking of how badly I will miss her when she is gone. Similarly, in my work, I have always been very structured and very demanding, to the point of intolerance, when it came to how student's conducted themselves in my class. Well, I can't lie and tell you that it has changed much...because it hasn't. But now, I take everything pretty much in stride as I go about putting out the daily fires that one has to put out in my profession, and I measure and temper my words in a way that would have been foreign to the somewhat Vesuvian, drill sergeant demeanor of my earlier years (Student: "Coach, did you used to be in the army?" Me (deadpan): "No, but I played a harsh, military dictator on TV..."). Yes, patience is a virtue...it is a virtue that evolves within us with the passage of time, the acquisition of experience and wisdom, and with the realization that our days on this earth are numbered (for people my age, life is likely at least 2/3 over...and that's if you're really lucky). Indeed, young eyes are sharp and can see like eagles, but when it comes to tomorrow, they most often can't see beyond the noses on their faces. Late middle-aged me? As I bemoaned in an earlier post, I can't see doodly squat, like any of these words that I'm two-finger tapping out in front of me, but I can see that tomorrow and time in general is precious and that I had best slow down and take time to smell the bouquet of this one life (as Sally Fields so sagely reminds us in her Boniva commercials) that I have that is ever so rapidly slipping by.

On prudence? I tell my daughter all the time, largely to help her understand the thoughtless words and actions of her mean little peers (little girls are just mean) but also because it is a universal truth that is an integral part of my world view, that people do stupid stuff all the time. I don't know why they do...they just do. I guess because...well, they're people.  Let me establish this up front and fast, I have been no exception to this rule. I have done more than my share of stupid stuff in life. Really stupid stuff. Most of it was victimless, some of it hurt others, and, fortunately, none of it got me into any real trouble. For the hurt I may have caused, I am regretful. For escaping any really serious consequences for my stupidity, I am eternally thankful. In my profession, as I imagine is true in many others, the young guns view themselves as special and are often viewed as such by those who recruited and hired them. They have all the answers. And sure, youth can infuse any endeavor with new ideas and creativity and can imbue a once-tired school or organization with excitement, energy, and verve. However, reflecting back on some of the stupid things that I did and said as a young teacher (as well as what I have seen and heard over the years), I can say sans reticence that there is no substitute for the prudence that comes with age and experience. Knowing what to do, what to say, and how to act, based upon countless successes, failures, and mistakes over the course of a career or a lifetime, is priceless. As I move through the various facets of my life today, carrying out the diverse duties and responsibilities that each entails, I can honestly say that wisdom is an acquired trait that I treasure dearly and that, over time, has helped me to minimize the amount of stupid stuff that I do today...and boy, has that ever made life easier, simpler, and less painful.

Passion is a broad term that describes the myriad of strong emotions that we, as human beings, experience as we go through our daily lives. When we are young, passion is perhaps our primary impetus, often dominating us and dictating our every thought, action, and decision. We are driven by the uncontrollable intensity of it. But I'm not sure that in our youth we really understand, appreciate, and embrace the breadth and depth of the meanings, nuances, manifestations, and effects of our ardor. As our savoir vivre evolves, we discover and master the finer points of passion. Today, the love that I have for my wife, for instance, has grown in geometric proportion from its origins. While she remains smoking hot to this day, sixteen plus years removed from first being smitten by her beauty, I love the woman that she has become, the person that she has become, the mother that she has become,  and the best friend that she is and that makes my life complete. Similarly, I love my youngest daughter in a way that I don't know was even possible for me twenty-five years ago. I love my oldest daughter, who does not love me, with all of my heart, and I accept and embrace my blame and responsibility for the existing estrangement. Having lost my parents, my brother and my sisters, their children and children's children, have become dearer to me now than ever before. The friends that I have made, even those whose connection to me lies largely in my past and may now be based solely upon sporadic exchanges on social media, are a priceless part of the interpersonal web that helps to define my life and to make it rich. The bottom line is that I love harder, more deeply, and more completely than when I was a young man, and the compassion and empathy that I feel for others far supersedes the egocentrism of the earlier, more shallow editions of me.

According to the latest versions of the Viagra commercials (not the one's with the catchy little "Viva Viagra" ditty), in addition to needing a little romantic assistance now and again (now NOT me, mind you...oh, hell no), I have arrived  at the age of "getting things done." You know, that dang commercial is right. Today, I am a lot more practical and pragmatic in my approach to problem-solving than when I was a young dude. When stuff used to break, I would routinely respond in one of two ways: 1) I would grab the yellow pages and look up who to call to come fix it right away, or 2) I would just throw the damn thing away and go get a new one, if, that is, it was something that I just had to have. In my more mature years, I have learned new coping strategies, like researching it on the internet, rigging it, duct taping it, doing whatever I have to do to AVOID HAVING TO CALL SOMEONE OR BUYING A NEW ONE!!! If necessary, I will even read the manual that came with it. I kid you not...that's how far I've come. I am not really certain, however, if this is really a manifestation of my evolved pragmatism OR is simply evidence that I have become  an incorrigible cheapskate and tightwad (just call me Silas Marner, or maybe Ebeneezer). In addition, I also used to put off having to deal with stuff in need of my attention as long as was humanly possible...to quote a line from one of my favorite songs by an obscure Rock-a-billy, beach bar performer who was brother of a friend of mine, "Procrastination is the national pastime, do it all tomorrow, let's get high today." I used to make procrastination an art form. Now, I know better...it's not going to just get better on its own or go away. I just get it over with...the sooner, the better. In any case, us older folks have a lot more common sense and practicality than when we were younger. Our "get up and go may have got up and went", but when we find it, or catch up to it, and finally get going, I put a lot more stock in our getting the job done and getting it done right than I do in the younger generation (and, yes, that would apply to a younger me, too...maybe doubly so).

Am I peculiar? Yep. Always have been, but I guess, to some degree, we all are in own way. I would describe   myself as curmudgeonly conservative, socially maladjusted, skeptical, cynical, and as a misdiagnosed arrogant bastard (remember, I stole that from a craft beer that I sampled a couple of weeks ago on one of our rare date nights). In young adulthood, pretty much as is true in adolescence, it is critical that you establish that you are different, that you are your own person. How? By being as much like everybody else, conforming to the mores and styles of your peers, as possible. Being peculiar and curmudgeonly is socially unacceptable and might resort to people perceiving you as personna non grata,or even worse, as being UNCOOL. I have routinely told my students in first day of the session orientation that, while I realized that a lot of the "cool" teachers ignored rules and policies regarding things like wearing hats or texting in class, I needed to assure that I was not one of those "cool" teachers. One of the truly neat things about getting older is that being peculiar becomes more acceptable, if not completely expected of you, especially by those who are younger than yourself (Student: "OMG, he is just a  crotchety old fart!!!"...Me: "Yes! You finally get it!"). In other words, what was once a social anvil around your neck becomes, in the "age of getting things done," simply a trait that makes you...well, YOU. And as you grow into that plain ol' "elderly" stage of life, your eccentricities will likely even result in your being labeled "cute." Now, there's certainly a bonus of getting older, even if there weren't any others...it's okay to be a pain in the ass. Yes!!!

So, as I theorized from jump street, this gradual process of my falling apart, bit by bit, hair by hair, cell by cell, day by day, as time and gravity hammer away at the beauty of my youth (such that it ever was), does indeed have a silver lining...at least it has resulted in my 'P's being better than they used to be. I 'preciate more, I parent better, I'm more passionate, I patch things up that I used to toss away, my perception of things (at least, intellectually and emotionally) are more vivid, polished, and complete than when I was firmer, I pause and think before I speak or act, and my prickly personality doesn't put people off is much as it did in the past...'cause after all, I'm old...so being a little weird is to be...well... expected...and besides...I've got more cause to be pissed than ever before...after all, I am coming apart at the seams...fast...

Man, I knew that this aging thing had to have some kind of upside...whew!!!...now, has anybody seen my dang reading glasses?...I gotta' trim this hair sticking out of the middle of my forehead and then I'm gonna' mow my eyebrows...

Later...

A 'Tweenior's Lament: Every Gray Cloud Has Its Silver Lining, Right?

It happened...literally overnight...about three years ago...I woke up to discover that I couldn't read jack crap any more...nada...zip...especially if the lighting was dim. A toddler's book published in giant kiddie font? Maybe. A newspaper, or this tiny, freaking net book, or, God forbid, a menu in a romantic, candle lit restaurant? Forget about it. I mean, I can't even pay the tab in that setting anymore because I can't read the damn receipt, and I live in fear that I will severely over (in which case my penny-pinching, coupon-cutting, bargain surf 'n'shop wife would become utterly distraught) or under tip the server...only to return to the eatery for another meal one day to have my food spat upon by the offended party.

Getting old sucks...no, it doesn't...yes, it does...no, it's great...no, it's not...I wouldn't be any other age...that's your problem fool, 'cause I'd kill to be young again...to be able to read normal stuff, you know, without reading glasses (I'm up to three pair...one a t work, one on the table next to the couch...and one on the night stand next to the bed) and without the need for flood lights to read by. Such is the lament of people my age, an age group that I fondly refer to as "Tweeniors" (you like that? I made it up...I think). A "tweenior" is someone who is deep, I mean really deep into middle age (let's face it, if I'm middle-aged, I'ma gonna' have a party 'cause I'm gonna' live to be hunnerd), but too young to truly be considered a senior (i.e., they won't give me the early bird discount yet at dinner).

'Tweeniors like me wake up many a morning only to look in the mirror and ask, in a state of shock and perhaps horror, "Who the hell is that in my mirror?" Like I said, getting old sucks for a lot of reasons. As I have whined already, my eyesight went to pot in the blink of an eye, and O...M...G, worst case scenario, what if I don't have or can't find my reading glasses? Can you imagine being reduced to having to ask that pixie who is serving me, "Um, ma'am, could you please read this to me and tell me how much I owe?" And what the hell is up with this hair all over my ears? I mean, what is that about? I have to shave my ears now? Really? And honest to God, I pulled a nose hair the other day that was an inch long...and I 'bout cried too it hurt so bad. And my eye brows, if I don't take a mower to 'em regularly, they are almost like kudzu. And what about the rest of my hair? My follicles, the ones what have survived, are all old and tired and won't hold color anymore. The back of my head has made me a poster boy for that spray on hair color for years now. In front, my hairline has been in steady retreat for some time...I got this one hair, this one lone survivor that sticks out like a sore thumb, seemingly in the middle of my forehead...I mean, there isn't another hair within an inch of it...it's like in its own little follicle desert. I refuse to pull it out of either respect or pity for it...I can't decide which. I just don't understand this whole redistribution of hair thing when you get older...maybe the President could explain it to me.

And what about the rest of my body? Where did my six-pack go? Wait...I think I drank that last weekend (not even kidding myself here...only one I ever had came in either cans or bottles). My skin?...I used to stay tan all the time...even without visiting the Island Tan during the winter (by the way, I went there one time a few years ago and used that machine that tans your whole body, 3-D, while you're standing up...naked?...wasn't in there but ten minutes and couldn't sit down for three days), but like my follicles, my poor, tired ol' skin cells just refuse to take or hold color like they used to. And the crow's feet, and the bags under my eyes, and...well, I don't want to even visit the whole topic of man boobs (makes me think about the episode of Seinfeld where Kramer tries to market "the bro"). And losing weight? It's like what my friend said the other night on Facebook...strict diet, walking every day for months, and weight is down a pound and a half...of course, he was talking about his bulldog...I'm talking about me.

And my brain? I used to be one prodigiously smart dude...seriously. I mean, as a kid, I remember studying the vocabulary from Reader's Digest...in the bathroom...'nuf said. But now, sometimes I can't remember what happened yesterday. I wanna' chalk it up to spending the last thirty-one years hanging out with teenagers all the time but that can't be it entirely because, if that were true, I wouldn't be able to string together a single sentence without the word "like", wouldn't be able to function without earphones jammed in my ear canals, and...the clincher...I don't really like cell phones or video games very much, so "the company I keep" excuse can't entirely explain my individual intellectual decay. And socially? It's just so sad...all the young folks, the ones who are "the bomb", all jiffy pop, the eager beavers, the go-getters, you know, like I used to be...they are starting to treat me like some quirky, dusty, pathetic, old relic that you have to obligatorily call "Sir" and be respectful to and all...you know...because you're their "elder."

Like I said...aging really bites. So if every musty, old gray cloud (clearly intended to be a metaphor for me and the all the negative aspects of my current condition...at least I think it's one...remember, I don't know all that kind of stuff like I use to) really does have its silver lining, then what are all the positives of getting older and being a 'tweenior?...h-m-m-m-m, I'll have to chew on that and get back to you...I'm sure there are some...well, one?...I think...I hope...

Later...