Spare Some Change?

I worked a long day today. 11.5 hours. It isn't that hard and it keeps my mind from wandering too far. Seems like I should keep it on a short leash, kinda like the kid in Wal Mart, endlessly pulling taut the tether strapped around his chest on one end and held in the hand of a "parent" who obviously got their kid mixed up with the family dog.

I left work and (speak of the devil) made my way to Wal Mart to get some essentials and the 2-presents-per-kid-per-week that seems to make me think I'm not spending that much on my kids for Christmas. Spread out like that, I forget just what I have bought. Thank goodness none of them are wrapped up yet. Smart on my part, I must say..."I may not be a smart man, but I know what a duplicate is."

Out in the parking lot, I was putting my purchases in the trunk area of my (Oh, how I love it!!) Volvo Wagon, aka Grocery Getter/Kid Hauler/Work Transport, when I heard behind me a man's voice. "Excuse me sir." Sir. He called me "Sir". I'm a Mister, but I ain't a Sir... "I just came from Knoxville and am on my way to my parent's house in Lafayette. Do you think you could help me with some gas? I'm almost out and I don't think I can make it there with what's in the tank." Now I could have rolled my eyes in disgust or told the dude to get lost. But that isn't me. I must have an aura around me that either lets people know that "Hey, this guy's a sucker. He'll buy into your story" or that screams "This guy understands and has been there. He has a heart". Take your pick.

I've helped people out before. I'm not a hard nut to crack. I know what it is like to want/need and not have. And what the hell...I've got a little bit of extra money in my wallet. I had just put $20 on my Wal Mart Gift/Gas Card and had $7 left, which turned out to have this dude's name on it. Nope, never got his name, but apparently Someone did, because I felt compelled to tell him to follow me over to the Murphy USA...and because I was headed over there anyway.

This dude seemed sincere. He looked tired and ready to get to his destination. I looked to see if anyone else was in his little beat-up pick'em-up truck. If there were kids in there, that $7 was going to look awfully small to me. Luckily, it was just him, and $7 was plenty enough to get him from Ooltewah to Lafayette. Over at the gas station, he pulled up to the opposite side of the island that I pulled up to. I told him to hold on and that I would pre-pay for him. I gave the attendant the $7, told her to put it toward the gas on pump #6, walked over to the dude and told him he was ready to go. "Pump it till it quits", I told him. I then pumped my own gas. Dude was done far sooner than I expected, but then again, it doesn't take long to pump $7 worth of gas these days. I heard him pull the handle to squeeze in a few more cents (gotta make it an even number) and then he put the handle up. I asked if he got it all and he replied that he did. "Thank you Sir (there was that "Sir" again) and Merry Christmas. I got antifreeze and oil, but just didn't have enough for gas. Bless you".

He got in his truck and pulled away. In the meantime, my pump had filled my car up and had stopped. I put the cap back on, closed the gas flap and was moving around the back of my car to head to my door when the attendant rapped on the window and motioned me to come over to the window. When I approached the window, she asked me, "You prepaid $6, right?" I reminded her it was $7. "Well, he only put in $2." I know I told him to pump till it stopped and that it would be $7. Why he stopped at $2 (actually, $2.01 cause she asked if I had a penny) I don't know. I quickly ran to the front of the product display that flanked the front of the window to see if he was still in the area, but he had already taken off to (I presume) Lafayette. Back to his family. Back to someone he loves. Back to familiarity and hopefully, safety. When I got back to the window, I fished in my pocket, produced a penny, then she gave me back a $5 bill. I was still bewildered. "I don't know the guy, I was only trying to be a good soul and help out another one". She smiled, shrugged as if to say "I don't know" and I turned and got into my car.

I got change back from trying to do a good deed. That's a new one on me. Made me feel like I was in a Discover Card commercial. Cash back on all purchases. It pays to Discover.

I've been a funk lately. Things have taken a turn in my life and have gone in a direction where I never wanted to go. I didn't want things to happen like they have. But it is life and things happen, don't they? I'm in a funk, it’s the Happy Holidays Merry Frigging Christmas time of year and I'm in a funk. I'm sure I'm not the only one. In fact, I know I'm not the only one. This time of year is bad on lots of people. People I know and love so much are in their own version of the “funk”. I love Christmas, don't get me wrong, but there are times when I walk into a store and wanna hurry up and get my stuff and get out of there before I end up either ramming an unsuspecting shopper with my under-laden buggy or pull the hairs out of my head one by one...all because of the tinny oh-so-happy piped-in Christmas music. "Just hear those sleigh bells jingling, ring ting tingling too. Come on, it's lovely weather for a sleigh ride together with you..." "Have yourself a merry little Christmas, let your heart be light. From now on, our troubles will be out of sight..." "Sleigh bells ring, are you listening, in the lane, snow is glistening. A beautiful sight, we're happy tonight, walking in a winter wonderland..." Wait a minute. Is there an underlying theme here? Am I to believe that happiness is founded in jingling bells and mounds of cold, wet and slushy frozen precipitation? And that all my troubles will disappear with the coming of a pre-determined set holiday in the middle of winter? And that all of that has to be shared with someone special in order for that happiness to materialize?

No.

I don't believe that at all. I especially don’t believe that I have to have someone to love in my life in order to be happy. In other words, happiness does not stem from company. I know that. But I also know that having someone special in my life, someone to share all of life’s accomplishments and, yes, even defeats, makes that life a little more cheery, more laughable, more loveable, and the happiness that is already there is shared…and sharing makes it grow. I shared a little happiness tonight with someone whom I didn’t even know. Someone who apparently needed a little sharing…and that act of sharing moved the bold red line up a little bit on my happiness meter. Not because of that person (I don’t even know him, but I wish him well) but because of the happiness that was already deep inside of me, hell, inside all of us, that rises to the surface, more prominent in some, and even less in others.

Being down doesn’t last for long. That I do believe. I think I do…I hope I do. It doesn’t, right?

And by the way…Have yourself a Merry little Christmas now. ;-)

The Fall and the Deluge

Day two of no air-conditioning and all is well. It’s not that my AC is broken; I can turn it on if I want to. I usually don’t have the window units running while I am gone, whether it is all day at work or a short trip to the store. When I step in the door and if it is a bit warmer than I want it to be, I turn on the units. Out comes 70º of cold blow to cool down the place in record time. But I didn’t turn them on yesterday or today. It didn’t feel like it was needed and it wasn’t. The cursed rain has brought a side effect that makes the consumption of electricity here drop quite a bit…cooler weather. The impenetrable cloud cover that has blanketed the sky for what seems like forever has turned away a lot of the sun’s heat. That’s ok. Even though I am sick and tired of the rain, I welcome cooler weather with open arms.

I think that autumn tried to sneak up on me this year. I was flipping the Farmer’s Almanac calendar that hangs in my computer room. You know, the one that has the whole year’s weather predictions and the best days of the month, planting schedule, more holidays than I’ve ever heard of, and even the length of the days. A little concoction of overkill information mingled with a little fortune telling. As I flipped the page (I was about 13 days into September before noticing the calendar needed changing…) I saw that the first day of autumn is next Tuesday. That soon and I didn’t even notice.

I’ve always loved this season. Cooler weather makes for better camping. I love the way the days are tolerable and the nights are brisk. A campfire is a whole lot more appealing when you can hover around it and it actually feels good and needed instead of too hot and just there cause, well, that’s what you do when camping. Cooler weather lets you see your breath. You never see it in mid-July now, do you? Cooler weather lets us get our coats and jackets back out of the closet for yet another season of use. Cooler weather makes the trees shed their clothes and dresses the ground with their cast-off coverings. Cooler weather makes a jaunt up into the mountains pure driving excitement. Cooler weather makes snuggling better…

I’ve been happy lately. Nothing much has changed. A little of the past catching back up with me; anticipation of what seems to be a bit of the future; someone who I am hopeful for…a little of this; a little of that…makes a mixture of something to take the place of any feelings of gloom. My daughter asked me the other day a question that kind of made me think and put a little crack in my heart for her. She asked me if I ever felt like someone didn’t want me around them. I told her of course I had. It really is easy to read people when you know what to look for. I told her also that if people don’t want you around them, then they are probably not the people you want to be around anyway. It would be great if it really was as simple as that. But I didn’t go into the complexity of the heartache of knowing someone doesn’t want you around when all you want to do is be with that person.

I said I have been happy lately. I guess that should be just a general statement. Mostly that has been the norm. Of course there are those days. This brings me to a part of cooler weather, especially in this part of our great country, which is not so smile-inducing, for me, at least. It seems that instead of fluffy-white snow to play in, it is usually cold rain falling down from a cold, dreary sky. Just this morning, at work, as I was looking out of the 9th floor window facing Lookout Mountain, I saw the distant rain coming from Missionary Ridge to the east and from the valley to the south. It seemed to be merging into a wall of water that would soon be splashing up against the window and creating puddles on the parking lot below. I knew it was coming and I just sighed. I really am sick of the rain! On one of the sunny days last week, I was able to squeeze in time to mow my yard. Before that, it had been about two weeks since I was able to mow it. It had just been too wet from rain whenever I was home and had the time to mow. I’m glad that I got it done, because I think it has rained every day since then. So this morning, I was a little bit less than happy for a short period of time. It didn’t last too long, but it was long enough for gloomy thoughts to push their way into my head and push out any happiness lingering within. I don’t mind rain, normally. Everything needs water. Plants, animals, and humans…without it we wither, just like the flower sitting in the pot holding on to the cracked earth, begging for some relief. But day after day of rain is enough to make even the happiest soul yearn for a little sunshine. Too much of a good thing is not always good. Remember way back when…animals two-by-two…huh? Remember? Is it just me? Is there something wrong with me? It seems like constant rain brings on the gloom. I tried not to let those thoughts enter my head. I try not to think about them. I try not to think about the rain. Sunny days come. They really do. They exist between the days of rain.

I try not to think about the distance of the setting sun

I try not to think about the rain

I try not to think about the saints and sinners, who have more fun?

I try not to think about the rain

I try not to think about the evil empires and stupid fools

I try not to think about the rain

I try not to think about the regulations and the rules

I try not to think about the rain

Oh oh oh

What's wrong with me?

I try not to think about the money, the mortgage on my home

I try not to think about the rain

I try not to think about the voice mails, e-mails, angry females on the phone

I try not to think about the rain

I try not to think about the job and all responsibilities

I try not to think about the rain

I try not to think about my TV, BBC or MTV

I try not to think about the rain

Oh oh oh

What's wrong with me?

Oh oh oh oh

What's wrong with me?

I try not to think about the planets when they line up wrong

I try not to think about the rain

I try not to think about the future or the future, so on and so on

I try not to think about the rain

Oh oh oh

What's wrong with me?

Oh oh oh oh

What's wrong with me?

-Skye Edwards “What’s Wrong With Me?”

It's a Big 'Ol Circle

Wanna hear a bit of truth? Do ya?

You never know who you are going to meet or what is going to happen. You can’t tell who is going to step into your life, even if for the briefest of moments. And you never really know what you are going to do when faced with a decision, no matter how important or petty it is.

I was given eyes so that I may see today. I saw, I related, I acted. The initial decision that I made was not given a second thought. It was a no-brainer. Maybe, depending upon what you believe, I moved up a rung on karma’s ladder…got a star in my crown…filled a social need. All I know is that I have been given, and I had to give back.

I stopped for gas on my way home tonight. As I was making the left hand turn at the light near the gas station, my attention was drawn to two people, standing on the corner and holding a sign. As I moved through the turn, I could get a glimpse of the words written on the sign. “Starving makes me hungry”. The holder of the sign was a man who seemed to be in his early twenties, short dreadlocks draped upon his head, coveralls and sandals wrapped up the ensemble. Standing next to him was a woman, a little thin, but not skinny, with short stubby beginnings of dreadlocks, with a tank top, hat and jeans. I admit that I knew that I was going to do something for them as soon as I saw them, but the sign sealed it for me. I filled up with gas and by the time I was done, they had moved to a corner of the Wal Mart parking lot adjacent to the gas station. I pulled over and into a parking spot.

You know, when the woman came over to my bus window, she didn’t ask for money. She called me “brother” and after our hellos, I asked her what was up, what was the story. They were traveling and had made it this far and were doing what they had to do to keep going. I didn’t ask where they were coming from or where they were going to. I did ask about what they needed. Like I said, she didn’t ask for money. But she did ask for blankets or sleeping bags for them and two others who, because of the heat, were with their dogs in the truck they were traveling in. I knew I had lots of blankets in my bus. Some blankets that I had collected over the years, some of them hardly ever seeing use. I picked out four that I could give them. I remembered that I had some Diet Dr. Pepper and water on ice in the cooler. I gave them to them. I had some hot dog buns that were left over from lunch today. No hot dogs for them, but I gave the buns to them too. They were shading the sun with T-shirts. I threw them a tube of sunscreen.

I don’t go carrying around this stuff on purpose. Most of the stuff in the bus stays there, such as the blankets, but the sunscreen was left in there by someone else, the hot dog buns were from lunch, and the drinks were from my trip to the Cleveland greenway yesterday. I had no clue that I was going to be giving personal stuff to two total strangers. I just knew that these people needed and I was able to give what was at hand. I’ve been there. Not on the road without a home. Never been a nomad. Kinda like to stay close to home, ya know? But I have been in need and someone has been the giver to me, the taker. I have also seen pleas for help from a friend in another state, needing help, a place to stay…and was not able to do a single thing to help. But here, I would do what I could.

Mama Lou and Link. That was their names. Given names, made up names, I don’t care. They sounded all right to me. I gave them what they needed and I felt blessed to have been able to give. Even though I knew I was helping other people out, I couldn’t help wonder if I was partly doing it to help myself out as well...to get a lift out of giving someone else a lift. I thought that as I pulled away after wishing them luck.

Now the rest of this story wasn’t so “spur of the moment”. I was headed home. I wanted to get home. But from the time I left them I couldn’t stop thinking there was something more I could do. I didn’t have any money, and I had told them this. It was ok. I saw at least three cars stop and give them money, $5 here, $10 there. Campground fee money or liquor money? I didn’t care. I hoped they could make enough to find a place to sleep tonight…

I made it to Apison and it hit me. No, not a brilliant idea, but a raindrop. Then another, and a few more, then a bunch of them. That’s when the light bulb came on. No, still not the big idea, but one of comfort. The rain made me remember that I had some rain ponchos in the back of the bus, under the rear seat. The rain, the remembered ponchos, and the desire to turn around and give them to those people…THAT’S what brought about the last minute turn around. Necessity. They needed money sure, but I couldn’t give that to them. But there was one thing they needed that I could give them, and that was food and drink. I turned left and headed back to Ooltewah.

All the way I was thinking thought in my head. “What if they’ve already moved on?” “I wonder if they are vegetarians.” “Oh, I hope they are still there.” Almost a mantra, a prayer, I kept repeating, “Please let them still be there”. I made it to Ooltewah and quickly made my way into Bi-Lo. I picked up some water, trail mix, granola bars, cold sliced watermelon, some bananas, and some beef jerky, paid for it and almost ran back to my bus. I left there and after going through the traffic light, I saw they were still there, and their two friends had joined them, along with their dogs.

They saw me coming and I could hear my name being called out. Cool. I noticed that the sign said something different. “These are my friends. I made them myself”. I chuckled at the play on words and parked where I had before, got out, opened up the sliding door of my bus, and gave them what I had gotten. The ponchos, the food, the water. These they took with much appreciation. Before I left, I asked if I could take their picture. I warned them that it would probably end up on my blog. Mama Lou said that if it was anybody else, she would have told them “Hell, no!” But they sat down with their sign and their dogs and granted me my request.

I was done. I had given what I had to give and had nothing else. I wished them luck, told them where the Salvation Army shelter and Community Food Kitchen were located and got in my bus, fired her up, and with a wave of my hand and with “Bless you, brother” ringing in my ears, I drove away, most likely never to see these people again.

I felt good. I had always said that if ever given the chance, I would give back what I have been given. I don’t stop for every person I see standing on the street corner with a cleverly written sign. I don’t know if I related to these people as those I would have been hanging out with in the frazzled fuzzy days of the early nineties. Dreadlock dude with beard…free-spirited sprightly females…you remember them, don’t you? I don’t know why, but I just saw these two and knew that I was going to do what I could for them. Chock it up to a little bit of human compassion. If you don’t know what that is, look it up and try it sometime. You just might like it.

Going home, I passed a house where Ron, an old acquaintance of mine lives. As I passed, I heard a “Hoot!” I had been invited to stop in before, but just never had or took the time. I took the time this time. I got there and started catching up with the past. Come to find out, he rooms with another blast from the past, a guy named Shane. In the conversation, and after others arrived, I was invited to stay for supper. I didn’t have any plans for supper; in fact, I was eating on a bag of beef jerky I had gotten for myself. I wasn’t sure I would stay, but when I was asked a second time, I decided that I would. I ended up having cheese-stuffed hamburgers and homemade tater tots. Never had homemade tater tots before, and let me tell you, these are not O’Reida tots. No. But they were “All-Righta”, that’s for sure. I need to tell Shane that if he isn’t planning on keeping the lovely lady who concocted this meal, then he needs to think again.

What goes around comes around. Karma. Doing unto others as I would have done unto me. Some kind of psychoanalytical babble theory on the relativity of returns…I don’t know. I just know that I was given, I gave, and I was given again. At all three stages, the mood was appreciation and happiness. When I was in need and was given to, the appreciation of being helped caused happiness. When I was able to give, I was happy to do so and appreciated what I do have. When I was given back, I was appreciative and happy to have re-connected with the past in the form of friends. And I even received the gift of a cactus…

What’s going to happen to Mama Lou and Link? I don’t know. I didn’t ask where they were headed. They wanted to head downtown and I gave them information as to where they could get other help. Shoot. I work downtown, not too far from the Salvation Army and the Community Kitchen. Maybe I’ll see them tomorrow with their dogs and their sign, looking to get a few more miles down the road, maybe with a few more “self-made” friends, and hopefully not “hungry cause of starvation”…I wish them luck.

Greased Watermelons, Hot Potatoes, and the Ticking Clock

Sunday was my birthday. I spent this past weekend camping at a beautiful place with beautiful people. I guess the whole weekend was a birthday party, not just for me, but for several others who were there and whose birthdays were close together. I’m glad there was Friday and Saturday, cause Sunday was spent packing up and driving home. But that’s ok. It was a great weekend. It was time well spent.

My daughter is going to an all-girls summer camp this week. It will be the first time she has spent this much time away from either of her parents. A full week of meeting new friends and making memories to treasure. After we had arrived home and cleaned up from camping, I had to take her to her aunt’s house not too far away from my house. Since her daughter is going too, she took my daughter on Sunday and dropped them off on Monday morning. As the time came for me to leave with my son and come back home Sunday night, I started thinking about how big my girl is getting. She was so excited about staying at a camp, sleeping there like a giant sleepover at a friend’s house with more girls to play with than she could imagine. I was excited for her too, but overwhelmed with the prospect that she was not going to be with either myself or her mother. I told her I loved her and for her to have a good time this week. I gave her hugs and kisses and told her goodbye. I put my son in his car seat and came around to my side of the bus to get in…and it hit me. Tears started welling up in my eyes and my body began to hitch. I couldn’t stop it. I had to go see her once more and tell her the things I had just told her all over again. She saw my wet face (even though I had wiped away the tears only minutes before) and asked why I was crying. I just looked at her and told her they were happy tears and that my little girl was now a big girl. That was mostly true, but I think part of it was that I just knew that her childlike innocence was slipping away and I couldn’t help her hold on to it, no matter what I did…

I remember going to camp as a child. I remember spending an entire week away from family. The first time was the worst. I had never experienced being away from my grandma for that length of time before, and the homesickness hit me hard. But as time went by, and I realized just how fun the place was, and how many new friends I was making, the desire to be home again faded and was replaced by a longing to stay longer than just the appointed week. I remember the spring fed swimming hole with a dock and the water slide that made you almost fly before gravity took you to the water’s surface. There were holes big enough that we could swim through and for just a moment, feel like we were swimming through long tunnels, even though it was no more than six feet or less. In that spring, we also played a game. The counselors had thrown in a dozen or so watermelons. The object of the game was to jump in, grab a watermelon, and try to make it back to the dock without someone stealing it from you. But what made the game harder was this: the watermelons were lathered with Crisco. No sooner did you think you were home free with the prized watermelon that it would either slip out of your hands all by itself, or someone would just swim up and push it out of your hands. It took all you could to just hold on to it without losing it.

Remember the game of Hot Potato? You would stand in a circle of others and pass a ball around the circle and try to pass it off to the next person before the music stopped (ala Musical Chairs) and you were left holding the “Hot Potato”. You didn’t want to be left holding it because then you were out of the game. Now for real…hot potatoes are hot. This past weekend we made baked potatoes in the campfire. I really think that if you do it just right, there is no finer way to bake a potato than in a campfire. But you have to get them out of the red-hot coals. Sure, you can use tongs, if you have them. We had some, but they were plastic and really flimsy, so the potatoes had to be taken out by hand. Talk about hot…the true game of Hot Potato was on. Just grab one and get it out of your hand as fast as possible. This wasn’t just a game. You could get burned.

I’ve had my share of greased watermelons and hot potatoes. A lot of things that I really wanted to hold onto have slipped out of my hands, either because I couldn’t hold on to them tight enough, or outside forces pushed them out of my hands. And like a hot potato, some things I wanted so badly that I took them into my own hands and ended up getting singed. There had to be a reason why I couldn’t hold on to them. I truly believe that if I was meant to keep them, then I would still have them. They slipped out and became a part of me that each and every one of us share, something that the rich share with the poor, the evil share with the good, and no matter what you do to retain as much as you can, it slips away from us all…and that is the passage of time. I was watching an episode of Curious George with my son this morning. In it, George was tired of having to go to bed while it was still light outside. The Man in the Yellow Hat had shown him how to set a clock and George thought that if he set the hands back an hour, he would be able to play until dark and The Man could continue reading his book longer. Every day, he would set the clock back an hour without The Man realizing it. This resulted in The Man being several hours late for an appointment with the owner of a blimp that George wanted to ride in. George almost lost out on something he wanted because of trying to gain more time.

You can’t just create time. The mere movement of the hour hand backwards on a clock doesn’t do anything to stop actual time. As The Man in the Yellow Hat told George, “Our clock has to show the same time as everyone else’s clocks”. So true. That’s why you must try to retain the memories you make today, in real time, because what you have now may slip out of your grasp, just like the minutes and seconds of our lives. They slip away and you ain’t ever getting them back. Hold on to those you love. Make every moment count. One day your child is learning to walk and the next day they are running full speed away from you. Make the best of holding on to them and the memories made while watching time become a part of your past. You can’t stop it, but you sure can make sure that your allotted time on this planet is filled with making the best of it and filling it with happy memories.

I saw a sign on the end of a pier in North Redington Beach, FL that read, “God does not take away from Man’s allotted time on earth, the time spent fishing”. I like to think that you can replace “fishing” with “loving” and the meaning would not change. Show your love every day and maybe you can actually hold on tight to things and moments in your life that can just as easily slip from your grasp. And even though time won’t stop, it sure will seem like it.

Ticking away the moments that make up a dull day
Fritter and waste the hours in an offhand way
Kicking around on a piece of ground in your home town
Waiting for someone or something to show you the way

Tired of lying in the sunshine
staying home to watch the rain
And you are young and life is long
and there is time to kill today

And then one day you find
ten years have got behind you
No one told you when to run,
you missed the starting gun

And you run and you run
to catch up with the sun, but it's sinking
Racing around to come up behind you again
The sun is the same in a relative way, but you're older
Shorter of breath and one day closer to death

Every year is getting shorter, never seem to find the time
Plans that either come to naught or half a page of scribbled lines
Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way
The time is gone, the song is over,
thought I'd something more to say

BREATHE REPRISE
Home, home again
I like to be here when I can
And when I come home cold and tired
It’s good to warm my bones beside the fire

Far away across the field
The tolling of the iron bell
Calls the faithful to their knees
To hear the softly spoken magic spells.

“Time” by Pink Floyd

A Party of One

I was thinking the other night while cooking up some stir-fry General Tso’s Chicken. The box said it would feed two people. What are they talking about? The General Tso’s Chicken I get from a Chinese takeout will feed two. Those orders are freakin’ huge! But this home version of my favorite Asian dinner? There might have been enough there to feed two, but this box would only feed one. Sure, I would have shared it with someone if there would have been someone to share it with. But it was only me and my pets, and I ain’t sharing that with them.

What was I thinking about? What was I not thinking about? I think it was the concept of cooking a meal made for two that only one person was going to eat that caused the thoughts that hurt my head and watered my eyes. I don’t normally cook for myself. At least not a full meal. I don’t see the need for it when my kids aren’t here. When they are, it’s a full course meal…meats, veggies, starches, maybe even dessert. When they aren’t…well, its grilled cheese with tomato soup or something else as easy to make. I guess I just feel that I’m not worth the effort. Even that Chinese meal I was making was not a full-course meal…a few minutes on the stove and it was ready for me to devour.

The thoughts. They suck. You’d think I’d learn by now there’s never an easy way. Never an easy way to let go; never an easy way to be free of pain; never an easy way to start all over. It is said that time heals all wounds. I suppose that is true, but who keeps track of the time? Is there a mystical being in some ethereal place surrounded by timepieces…sundials, wall clocks, wristwatches…watching them push time into the past, counting down the time to the seconds to where the pain just goes away? If this being would just reach over to the clock that is tied to my soul and push the hands forward a little…I would be eternally grateful.

There are people that come into your life that leave indelible marks upon you that you will never forget. My daughter is feeling down tonight. She doesn’t want to play with the neighbor boy, which in itself is an indication of something being wrong. I asked her what was wrong. She says she misses her friends from school, namely a boy named Brian. My little girl is missing a boy? Oh boy. I was reminded the other night (not that I need any reminding…I see it happening) that my little girl is not really a little girl anymore. I think the words used were “young lady”. I don’t want a young lady. Not yet. Now school has only been out for two weeks, certainly not long enough to develop deep rooted feelings of missing someone. But it may be long enough. I know that I miss people. I miss lots of people. I keep these little compartments in my heart that hold memories of each and every one of them and don’t think for one moment that I will run out of room in there for those from my past and for those yet to come. Renovation is occurring constantly. More rooms are built for housing the ones I have loved, do love, and will come to love.

I’ve got someone else that I am close to that is going away. Not too far away, but far enough that a short trip across town won’t suffice when I want to hang out. I want to say, “You say that it isn’t that far away, only a few hours. But you know how much I see you now…a whole lot less than I wish for. Just imagine when miles and time are between us.” If you are reading this at all, just know this: I miss you already. I will miss you when you go. Your room is already adorned with monkeys, music, and stories of adventure. Waiting for you to move on in…not you physically, but you know what I mean. And know that I do love you.

It isn’t the being alone that I don’t like. I can be alone. It might not be a good thing, but I do a lot of my thinking and planning while alone. I don’t like being lonely. I don’t feel lonely all the time. No, it is just something, a feeling that comes over me every once in a while, but it always seems to come when I am feeling down, when I am at my most vulnerable, when there is no one here to talk to, to ask how my day went, to tell me how theirs went. And it is always when I am doing something to remind me that I am alone, like when cooking a meal made for two to be eaten by only one.

I just learned of a book by Anneli Rufus called Party of One. In it she talks about the subculture of humans who have one thing in common. They are loners. Loners are often picked upon by the non-loners, the “Joiners, schmoozers, teamworkers, congregants and all those who play well with others”, calling them “Crazy. Cold. Stuck-up. Standoffish. Selfish. Sad. Bad. Secretive”. Throughout history, loners have not only survived, but have actually changed the world; not just saved civilizations, but had a big hand in creating them. I wouldn’t call myself a “non-loner” and I certainly am not a “loner”. I might be somewhere in between I suppose.

Not all aspects of being by myself are bad. Household commodities, like toilet paper seem to last longer (especially when the kids are away…nothing like a whole roll in the toilet to try and flush down); a bottle of laundry detergent seems bottomless; a gallon of milk lasts for what seems like weeks…wait, that’s not a good thing.

There are times when it isn’t easy to be alone. Times when I feel like there isn’t anyone out there listening, because when I call out, there’s no reply at all. Times when I feel like there’s never an easy way to get over the next hill, much less get to the top of the hill I am on at the time. Never an easy way to shake the sensation of a needle in a haystack, the distant star seen on a sunny day, the last man on the planet syndrome, the speck of life on a dandelion being held by a gentle elephant. Never an easy way…


I think I slip the net,
But I cut myself free,
I'm not losing yet,
So don't forget me.

I'll say it, replay it, and try tomorrow
I'll say it, replay it, and live with sorrow.

You'd think I learn by now,
There's never an easy way,
I get through somehow,
I'm on my knees to pray,

You'd think I learn by now,
There's never an easy way,
I get through somehow,
I'm on my knees.

I'll admit I'm wrong,
But I'm getting on track,
I've been here too long,
I'm under attack.

I place it, replace it, and try to change,
I place it, replace it, and rearrange.

You'd think I learn by now,
There's never an easy way,
I get through somehow,
I'm on my knees to pray.

You'd think I learn by now,
There's never an easy way,
I get through somehow.

I'm on my knees to pray.
On my knees to pray.

I think I slip the net,
But I cut myself free,
I'm not losing yet,
So don't forget me.

I'll say it, replay it, and try tomorrow,
I'll say it, replay it, and live with sorrow.

You'd think I learn by now,
There's never an easy way,
I get through somehow,
I'm on my knees to pray.

You'd think I learn by now,
There's never an easy way,
I get through somehow,
I'm on my knees to pray,
I'm on my knees to pray,

On my knees to pray.
On my knees to pray.

Never an Easy Way by Morcheeba

Never an easy way. But I’ll get through somehow…

Opening Doors and Closing Thoughts

Jingle, jingle, jingle. The keys at my hip loudly announce my arrival. They hang from a retractable keychain, the same kind stereotypically worn by all maintenance men. All the keys on this keychain open some sort of door. I have the master key that opens all the outer doors, the master key the opens all the inner doors, a key that opens all closet doors, the key to the Youth Center, and a little key that opens the toilet paper and hand towel holders. There’s a key to the shop and a key to my locker; a key to certain doors on certain floors. They make a lot of noise as I walk around the church where I work. I always know when a co-worker is near because of the tell-tale music of keys swinging from the hip. Jingle, jingle, jingle. Remember Schneider from the TV show, One Day at a Time? Minus the pack of smokes rolled up in the sleeve of a plain, white tee-shirt, the smacking of gum, and the vest…that’s me. Almost.

I open the door to get in the building. I open the door to the room with the time clock drop my time card in and start my day. Every day it is something different. Today I might be setting up the fellowship hall for a dinner; tomorrow I might be cleaning floors on the 10-story building attached to the church. The next day I might be moving furniture from a prayer room to the library or painting hand rails outside the church. I love my job. No major hassles, laid back atmosphere, and the coolest boss ever. Not that I make a whole lot of money. But I would rather be making the money I do here and love it than to make more and hate what I do. I’m not the best at what I do. I do make mistakes. But I hope to learn from those mistakes just like the mistakes made outside of the work arena. And there have been and I’m sure there will be more mistakes made.

Jingle, jingle, jingle. The keys in the ignition of my VW camper sing as they hang from the key chain in the ignition. Bumps in the road and quick turns make them sway and swing, the VW emblem hanging lowest on the chain acting as a pendulum of a clock. The keys on this keychain have different uses. Some open the doors to my buses; others are used to turn the ignition to drive the buses. Some keys open doors to my house, while others unlock padlocks to my utility and camping trailers.

I’ve had to drive my camper to work and using it to take my kids to school a lot lately. I haven’t used it as a main vehicle for many years. It had been staying in a garage (up until the latter part of last year) or in the driveway, waiting its turn for service to carry myself alone or with kids to a campsite somewhere. But while my other bus was out of service, the camper acted as my daily driver, mostly without complaint. It is a good bus. Many, many memories are attached to this bus. Both of my kids went camping in it when they were merely months old. It has taken me and my family to places far and near, and served as a home away from home for those times of getting away from it all.

Jingle, jingle, jingle. I walk down the hallway to the elevator. First stop is the break room on the eighth floor to place my lunch in the fridge. And while I’m there, I make a cup of coffee before starting my work. Dark roast with Splenda and Hazelnut creamer…a tasty cup of joy to start the work day. Next stop I make is the basement where the shop is located. No particular reason…I’m just checking in to see if my boss is there to get my orders for the day. He usually isn’t there. I just go there anyway. I stop by the desk in the main lobby and look at the calendar of events. There’s a funeral today. That means hanging around in the kitchen to clean up any spills that might happen while the mourners are gathered together in the fellowship hall, drinking coffee and water while remembering the life of the loved one who has passed. Then, after the last person has left the hall, I take all the coffee and water back to the kitchen, and prepare the room for the next event. Usually that involves setting up many tables and even more chairs for a dinner. With something going on in that church nearly every day, the need to set up the room is only job security. People die. People get married. People gather together. That room is going to be used for all of those reasons and I make sure it is ready for each occasion.

Jingle, jingle, jingle. Driving to work today (just like about every day) I have about 45 minutes of being behind the wheel…and think about things. I usually think about things while behind the wheel. Today I’m driving and suddenly the thought crossed my mind… “I don’t love her any more”. No, that’s not right either. I will always love her, but the love is different. It isn’t the love that was there when we first got together. It isn’t the love that existed when time had gone by and situations changed. It is a love that is just there, a love that will always be there to remember all the good times and even the bad times. I don’t have any regrets. I have heard to never regret what once made you smile. And there have been lots of smiles in our time together. I will never regret the time we had together. I’m sure that I will regret the loss of her; and I’m sure that one day I will notice that the regret is not as strong.

Jingle, jingle, jingle. The day I got laid off from my former job, I was mad as hell. Here I was, giving this company my time and skill to make a product that was worth thousands of dollars, doing my best to make sure that I put out a quality product and quality craftsmanship. I was doing it to make sure that I had a place to live, my kids had clothes and food, and we all were able to live comfortably. I was doing all of that and then got the notice from my boss. They didn’t need me anymore. Hell, they didn’t need me or the other 14 people they laid off on that same day. I was pissed. I felt cheated and like they were throwing me away, not caring that I had two children to take care of. But now, after collecting unemployment and then landing what I consider to be the best job I’ve ever had (well, besides staying home with my kids, that is), I am actually glad they laid me off. I still feel that things happen for a reason, and maybe the reason I got laid off from that job was so that I could get this one. Why? I still don’t know. But just like all the other doors that have closed behind me and opened others in front of me, I’m sure I’ll find out the answer to that question one day.

Jingle, jingle, jingle. It is hard to let go. But I know that I have to. Things that are a part of my old life are all around me and I keep some of them just to remind me of that life. That may not be a good thing, but I have said before that I don’t ever want to forget it, lest I relive it. But some are too great, holding too many memories and representing a great part of that former life. Those I need to let go of. And I shall do just that.

Sweetpea…I’m going to miss you.

Nothing

I haven't been in the writing mood lately. That doesn't mean that nothing has been happening in my life. Things sure have. I don't know why I haven't posted anything since March. Damn. Its been that long? Anyway, there are things on my mind I am going to share. Its coming. Something is brewing, whether its a storm or a cup of coffee...I'll find out and share.

Composting

I got to get a trash man. Not for me, of course, but for my garbage. Up until I moved to my new place, I had garbage service. But I haven’t hired a new one for over here. I hadn’t really needed to. At my last job, I would just take my garbage there and put it into the giant dumpster just like most of the other employees would. I would do it and not feel bad about it either. But I haven’t been at that job for nearly two months now and my garbage cans are full. It isn’t a nasty situation…I try to keep food out of the garbage and there shouldn’t be anything in there that is recyclable, but after two months of not taking the bags away, there just isn’t much more room for more. I guess I could load it up and take it to the dump myself, but, nah. Let me help the local economy by hiring someone to do it for me.

I remember living in a trailer (oh, so much worse than this one…this one is great!) when I was in college. I lived with my future brother-in-law, my sister, and another friend. The closet in my room had a hole in the floor where my cats would enter and exit the building at their own leisure. The electrical panel would sometimes make a crackling noise and emit a sulfur-like smell complete with smoke. How the trailer never burnt down is a wonder to me. Needless to say, overall cleanliness was not top of our list. We didn’t have a garbage man there either. I think we were just too cheap to pay for it. Once a month, someone would load it up and take it to the dump. In the meantime, we would place the full bags on the back porch. Now the porch had a door, but there were some holes in the floor back there too. Every now and then, wild woodland critters would come in to make themselves at home to the leftovers slowly rotting in easy-to-claw-open bags. My daughter thinks possums are cute. I suppose they can be. I tend to think that they are just R.O.U.S.’s (Rodents of Unusual Size). They aren’t so cute when you step out on the back porch in the middle of a dark night to one virtually in your face, on top of a bag of garbage and hissing at you like a pissed-off cobra. You ever hear one hiss? I just about jumped into the next life hearing that noise after shutting the back door behind me in the darkness of that porch…

Those creatures were after the food we had left in the bags; food that had started to rot and smell rather tasty to some furry critter. I have started doing something lately in preparation for spring. I want a garden. I have plenty of land to make one on (just figuring out where to put it is the problem) and with the success of gardens in the past, I want to do it again. I love fresh veggies, and to know that I grew those veggies makes them taste even better. So, I have started a compost bin. Well, not a bin just yet, but a large can with a lid for the time being. I just scrape leftover foods (not meats…those go to the cat or dog) into this can so it can rot. Banana peels, plate scrapings, used coffee grounds; old leftovers stinking up the fridge…all go into the can. When I get the bin ready, I will add the food to the rotting leaves, mulch, and grass. I realize that I should have started in the fall of last year, so this stuff may not be ready for when I need it, but what I hope to achieve is to make some rich, loamy soil to mix into the soil from the tilled area for the garden. It is supposed to rich in nutrients that the plants need to thrive. It is just nature’s way. Rot leads to richness. Sickness leads to health. Death leads to life.

I heard something about composting tonight that was the catalyst to the brainstorming that led to this writing. I was watching something on PBS on family crafting. At the end of the show, the host showed us a large can (hey, like mine!) where she was adding food to let it rot to add to her compost bin. She made a face when she opened the lid and said that it stank. She then said that composting could be compared to life. Sometimes, life stinks. When it does, it is full of bad times that rot your outlook on life, make you wonder why things are the way they are, and make it impossible to see what is ahead. But if you take all the bad, rotten times and add them to the whole scheme of life, i.e. the compost bin, eventually the result is a life full of richness that smells of the good life and full of potential. The end result is a mixture that provides nutrients that make the seeds that you plant grow bigger and healthier (new life), is the perfect base for them to take root (mental and physical strength), and fights of disease better than any chemical you can buy (the ability to face the bad times when they come).

I couldn’t have said it better. When the show was over, it was all I could think about. I thought it was a coincidence that I had started one and was thinking along the same lines when I did…and then I see this. Strange. And then I had to ruin the happy feeling by switching the channel to one that was showing The Sixth Sense. And of course it was just about to the end where Bruce Willis’ character discovers that he is a ghost, talks to his wife in her sleep, and is finally able to go to his “better place”. I guess I am just a sappy sad sack, but when his wife asked him in her sleep why he had left her all alone, I felt my eyes tightening and getting wet. I couldn’t help it. What I saw was a love that would last forever, even when one person was gone…the love would always be there but they would not be able to touch skin or hear words or have one more taste. What a waste.

What a pile of compost…

Feed the Flame

The cleansing tongues of fire wiped away the tangible fragments of memories that had accumulated over they years. Old bank statements; receipts from paid utility bills; defunct insurance policies; all put into the 55-gallon drum and set afire. I don’t need this stuff filling up the spaces of my filing cabinet no more than I need it filling up the empty spaces of my mind.

I meant to clean up this stuff months ago to make room for the receipts and statements that are new. No need to keep old stuff like that anyway. All it does is take up room and keep a memory alive that needs to die. I don’t think it will ever die, not really. But with the concrete remains of those old memories burned and gone, there is now room for the new things to push the memories of before to a place where they won’t be accessible, at least not easily.

I have always been fascinated with fire. I’ve said that before. I can remember taking matches from my grandmother’s old metal matchbox that hung on the wall in her kitchen and sneaking like a little arsonist outside to see what I could burn. I would pile dead grass on top of ant nests and watch them scurry to save what they could, just like anyone would do if their house was on fire. I would light the ends of hollow reeds and smoke on them like I was smoking a cigarette…not the wisest of things to do, but to a kid, it was oh, so cool. I would take my little plastic army men and watch them melt into little piles of green goo, victims of my own version of napalm. It was harmless fun. The back yard was a pyrotechnic playground. I was always careful. I never let any of the fires get away from my control.

A few days ago, I was almost home when I rounded a corner to see the road almost blocked by several fire trucks and policemen. To my left, I could see a haze of smoke and blackened earth and in some spots, flickers of flame. As fascinated as I was, I couldn’t help but wonder if my house was in danger. I was at a point where I couldn’t see my place and between me and there…there were more fire trucks. They waved me on through. I stopped long enough to ask if it was a controlled burn. A fireman told me no, that it wasn’t. Someone must have started it. Nearly 40 acres had burned. Among the vast expanse of blackened earth, I could see little evergreen trees standing. The way they stood there reminded me of a national cemetery. All those crosses in straight lines…

In The Stand, a book by one of my favorite authors, Stephen King, there was a man who loved fire. He had been teased by peers as a kid and took his frustrations out with the healing and cleansing power of fire. After a virus killed off most of the U.S. population, and left fuel storage tanks literally unattended, Trashcan Man, as he was called, was on a quest to randomly roam the county, setting fires as he went. He nearly burned himself up when he set some gasoline storage tanks on fire to watch them explode. Ultimately, his love for the flame ended his life as well most of those in Las Vegas, and unknowingly thwarted the evil plans of The Dark Man, the leader of one of the two factions that formed in the aftermath of the epidemic. I liked the part of Trashcan Man…he got that name from setting fires in trash cans (one which killed someone, from what I remember). Just talking about this book makes me want to read it all over again.

I have talked about fire before. About how it removes all the dead growth and leaves in its wake a swath of new ground where life can begin anew. Fire is all cleansing. It is indiscriminate. It can be a good thing as well as a catastrophic event. Burning things that remind me of my old life when two were one is no different than the forest fire burning away deadfalls and underbrush. It works just the same to me. While the flames erased the past, I could feel the heat on my clothes. The barrel was emanating a lot of heat; the weather was chilly, not too cold, but I couldn’t tell. I was warm. My jeans were getting hotter than I realized, for when I moved and they touched my legs, it was almost too hot. The smoke would get thick when the fire wasn’t raging. So there were side effects of the fire…smoke and heat. The smoke was swirling around and filling the air and my clothes with its smell. I smelled that smoke on me until disrobing and showering, and even after that, I swear I smelled it in the house. The heat…made me feel good, but if I stayed too close for too long, it was a bit much. I could even have gotten burned if I had gotten closer. I suppose the memories that were burning into ashes could linger too, just like the smoke…and they could burn me too if I lingered too long on them…just like the heat.

I say that I have not let any fires get out of my control. There have been close calls, but they have never gotten out of hand. I saw one get so far out of control, though, that the fire department had to come out and put it out. I used to live in a roughshod trailer in Ooltewah (I live in a trailer now, but nowhere near as bad at this one was). The landlady’s son was, how shall I say it…not very bright. He started a fire one day that got out of his control. I saw it. I watched it. I wrote about it…

Burning Light

Sitting on my back porch I see the gentle spark.
Starting small, it gains new height and intensity,
becoming a burning light.

It quickly grows, sometimes fast,
sometimes slow, but always moving.
Its path is made behind;
black,
burned,
and lifeless.

Fear escapes my conscious mind
and quickly radiates outward,
I look to my right and the field
is a sea of color:
green,
red,
then black.

Blocking the sun is a billowing haze of blue.
Sounds of emergency, sounds of anxiousness,
the silent scream of a dying field.

A quick spray and the flames are gone.
Excitement dies, sounds disappear
and I soon return to my chair
relaxing and thinking about
fire,
death,
and rebirth.

Being burned doesn’t feel too good. I have been burned many times and the pain is enormous. Never anything that left substantial scars. A touch of my leg to a motorcycle muffler, a hot piece of metal on the fingers, a coal from a campfire popping and landing on me…just small burns. I couldn’t imagine being burned so bad like burn victims in hospitals. I have heard that the pain for those people is so intense that it feels like it goes to the bones. Being burned alive is a great fear of mine. Strange, coming from someone who likes fire. But I know what it can do, so great care is taken when I burn anything.

Fire is destructive, whether you are using it for heat like from a campfire or stove, or whether you are burning up old sticks and debris. But it could also be a thing of beauty, metaphorically speaking, as what exists between two souls in love with each other. The fire already exists in each one of us; it only needs the fuel and constant tending that being in love gives it…

Hearts on Fire

Love inspires
the heart’s desires
for the never ending search
of the ancient fire
that burns within each soul.

Combustion starts
whenever two hearts
are pulled by strings,
tied together
till the rhythmic beat is one.

As time goes by
the flames grow high
to warm the heart and free the tongue
to release the words
that pour out like steam into your ear.

The fire will burn
and the heart will not yearn
for the cold, hard stone
it had been.

Instead, in it’s place
is a flame with your face
as the source of fuel to keep
our love alive.

I like fire for so many reasons. But I think I like the representation of it bringing forth new life and the metaphor of being in love the most. I feel the desire to tend to the flame, to keep adding fuel to it to keep it alive, to watch the flickering inferno do its job. To stand close and feel the warmth bring comfort to my body, my heart, my soul.

I just don’t want to be burned.

The Morton Principle

Written right there on the side of the box of salt are words that sum up what I am feeling right now. There she is, a little girl, walking in the rain, under an umbrella, with salt pouring from the box in her hand. The words read, “When it rains, it pours”. The slogan comes from an old proverb that reads, “It never rains, but it pours”. Something doesn’t happen for a long time, and then when it does, it seems to come all at once. How true that is.

It just seems that everything happens at once. It can’t be just a little sprinkle of strife and sadness. No, it has to pour down like a deluge upon us. Upon me. I’m not talking about the rip in my heart from my divorce. No, that dead horse has been flogged enough. I’m talking about life in general. There is never enough money, cars break down, and hearts get shattered. Just when everything seems to be going right, things seem to be looking up, the sun is shining and things are grand, that’s when the storm seems to race in and drop pain and misery in a cascade upon my life. It’s not enough for me to not be able to get through; it just makes it look like it is.

Bills, bills, bills and more bills. They seem to add up faster than I can send them on their way. It is even worse now that no money is coming in. Money is coming in soon, though. It never fails that the government will slow things down. If you want something that you worked for and is owed to you, be assured that if the government has to put their hands in it first, it will take forever to get to you. My unemployment checks might as well be taped to the back of a turtle that is set free on the outskirts of Memphis and told to take it to Cleveland and to “be quick about it”. I have two collection agencies on my back, several medical bills, and leftover utility bills from my previous place of residence. Of course, I take the blame in not getting my payments to the original debtors in time to keep them from going to collections, but the money was just not there at the time and I had used up all my mulligans with them. They kept saying, “You know this will negatively affect your credit.” My reply to that was to remind them of what I have gone through…bankruptcy, foreclosure, unemployment…it didn’t matter. The money was just not there.

Not having the money hits me in another area as well. My vehicles. I have been without my main mode of transportation for several months now. My ’78 bus, Oscar by name, has had his engine out because of an oil plug that blew out and causing all of the oil to pour out…more than he usually leaked, which is a big problem. I have to do some work to get the engine back in, and in the meantime, I am driving my ’79 camper. I don’t like driving her all the time. She is meant for special occasions like going camping, going to shows (and camping), Sunday drives (and camping!), and parades (but mostly camping). As much as I hate it, I might have to let her go. The money I would get from selling her would really go a long way in getting Oscar back on the road. I have owned her since ’98 and letting her go would be a huge sentimental blow to my heart. I can do it, but it is a vicious circle…I can’t sell the camper before getting Oscar fixed…I can’t get Oscar fixed without the money from the sale of Sweetpea. I’m sure to find a way, but it would be a whole lot easier if Sweetpea was gone and money lined my pockets. I am getting relief in the form of government programs that my tax dollars have been paying into for all these years. It is only temporary, but needed and appreciated all the same. That is one thing I can thank my Uncle Sam for…

And, in the immortal words of the J. Geils Band…love stinks. Well…sometimes it does. I mean, I love “love”, but nothing hurts worse than losing it. “It is better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all”. Bunk. Without having loved, you don’t know what you have missed and you don’t have to duct tape your heart back together, all in the hopes that the next love doesn’t pull the tape away and the pieces fall apart, causing you to start all over again with the taping, and the healing, and the hurting and…and…*sigh*. I’m tired of putting my heart into someone only to have it drop kicked to the curb…or even just handed back to me with slight bruising. They both hurt the same.

Dang. Where’s my umbrella? I’m getting wet. You know what? Screw it…I’m going to go for a walk. Just because it is pouring down doesn’t mean that I’m not going out in it. I want to. I have to. What’s that other saying? That it “rains upon the just and the unjust”? It doesn’t matter. It is going to rain anyway. Might as well take it in stride, just like basking in the warm sunlight. As much as it might seem to, rain doesn’t last forever. In fact, I think I can see a bit of sunlight peeking through the darkest part of the cloud cover. Sun coming in the form of a new job that can bring financial stability, a chance to get my life back in order, a way to get my vehicle back to taking me to where I want to go, and possibly even new love to warm my heart up.

I’m looking forward to that last bit of sunshine the most.

Hands All Over

I am a shy person. Really, I am. I can talk so much better with my hands than with my mouth. When talking with my hands, there are none of those palm-sweaty eyes-meeting heart-pounding vibes that tie my tongue in knots and make the words that are supposed to come out stumble and fall back to the back of my throat. My hands only have these fingers that do what my brain tells them to do, to speak in such a way that has no sound but can yell with anger, cry in sadness, laugh in love and whisper in curiosity. But there is something lost when communicating through the written word; facial features that tell what a person is really thinking when talking, inflections that give clues to those who know what to search for, such as discovering a liar or receiving a profession of love from someone. So when writing, I try to make myself as clear as possible, but still use symbolism and analogy to make a point when I want to be subtle. My hands can do that. They can do lots of things; they can do whatever I tell them to do. Someone used to tell me that I had beautiful hands. I didn’t think so, but maybe they are. Maybe they are beautiful because they are mine and I can use them to convey a message my tongue is too afraid to deliver.

This glowing box in front of me is my window to the great big outside world beyond my geographical area. It holds many methods of communication. Indirectly via the worldwide web, time delayed with email, and almost instantly with the many types of instant messaging. With a camera, you can even see the person you are talking to. The keyboard attached to this glowing box is what my hands use to talk. I don’t even have to have someone to talk to. I can talk to myself with my hands through this medium. Although most of the words I say to myself I end up saying to the whole world anyway.

There is another small glowing box in my living room that hasn’t had much use in the past 6 months or so. I haven’t really missed it. It doesn’t call to me, taunting me with its endless entertainment possibilities…not that there is much of a varied choice of entertainment. Four or five choices are all it has to offer. Some things entice me, such as seeing parts of the world that I will never get the chance to actually visit, putting myself in the shoes of a person who I will never be, or filling my belly with laughter from really funny cartoon versions of families that I can relate to. I really used to like this box, but not so much anymore. Many nights have found me plopped down in front of it, remote control cradled in my hand, huddled there like a bundled up hobo, rubbing his hands over the fire, hoping to catch warmth on a chilly winter night.

Before I moved to my new place, an electrical surge fried my giant version of this box. 42 inches of entertainment with over 100 channels to choose from were gone with a loud noise and a small wisp of smoke. It also fried my stereo that supplied sound for this giant box. So when a friend of mine said he had a little television that he was giving away, I willingly accepted it. I still had the 100 plus channels to choose from, but they were condensed in size. It was a disappointing change of pace, but I still had my box of distractions. I soon discovered that the ability to have so many channels but still only watch a select handful of them was just not worth the money I had to pay to do so. At the dismay of my kids, I cancelled my cable subscription and joined the group of people who got their entertainment the old fashioned way…over the airwaves. But I didn’t do it right away. In fact, for a while, the only thing we watched were movies on DVD or VHS. Even when I moved to where there wasn’t even an option for cable (ok, there is satellite, but I still haven’t decided to start that subscription) I still didn’t hook up an antenna for the longest time. But now I have and the limited choices still don’t reel me in for a night of vegetative slouching.

Although I have run across some PBS specials that I enjoy. One that I enjoy is GlobeTrekker. The host goes to destinations around the world and documents the stay and the focal points of interest in each place. Pretty neat. There are other shows on there that are interesting, but most are, shall I say…boring. But, PBS is the only channel that usually comes in crystal clear. And when it does, the other channels are not so clear. Remember the days of dad moving the antenna and mom yelling “CLEAR!”? I’m living them all over again…except there is no one to move the antenna while I check for clarity. I have to use my hands to move the antenna, get up on a stool and look through the kitchen window and check for myself, get down, move the antenna, get back on the stool, and check and on and on till it is right. Anyway…I was actually watching something the other night that I never used to be into. Nighttime dramas like CSI, Cold Case, Bones, etc. This one I watched was an episode of Cold Case. This team investigates years old mysteries and solves them in less than an hour. Amazing. I don’t know if they do this at the end of every show, but after everyone was happy ever after and the mystery was solved, a song played while they did a little video wrap up. This song that was playing pulled at me. I’ve heard it before and I do love it. It is called “Hands” by Jewel.

If I could tell the world just one thing
It would be that we're all OK
And not to worry 'cause worry is wasteful
And useless in times like these

I won't be made useless
I won't be idle with despair
I will gather myself around my faith
For light does the darkness most fear

My hands are small, I know
But they're not yours, they are my own
But they're not yours, they are my own
And I am never broken

Poverty stole your golden shoes
It didn't steal your laughter
And heartache came to visit me
But I knew it wasn't ever after

We'll fight, not out of spite
For someone must stand up for what's right
'Cause where there's a man who has no voice
There ours shall go singing

My hands are small I know
But they're not yours, they are my own
But they're not yours, they are my own
I am never broken

In the end only kindness matters
In the end only kindness matters
I will get down on my knees, and I will pray
I will get down on my knees, and I will pray
I will get down on my knees, and I will pray

My hands are small I know
But they're not yours, they are my own
But they're not yours, they are my own
And I am never broken

My hands are small I know
But they're not yours, they are my own
But they're not yours, they are my own
And I am never broken

We are never broken
We are God's eyes
God's hands
God's mind

We are God's eyes
God's hands
God's heart

We are God's eyes
God's hands
God's eyes

We are God's hands
We are God's hands

I just got laid off from my job. I used my hands there every day. I held onto tubes of titanium as they spun in a belt sander. I moved levers and measuring devices as I prepped those tubes to be made into bicycle frames. I carried bins of tubes to steel racks, felt the smoothness of each tube to ensure their preparedness level, and put on and removed personal protective equipment to protect my hands and eyes. I now am looking for another job to keep my hands busy. I will find one, I am sure. My hands need something to do. Maybe this new direction will give them something to do that they have never done before.

I would rather be doing something else with my hands. They love to pick up and hug my children. They love to run through long, flowing hair or tuck strands of it behind ears. They love to be pressed up against the back of a beautiful woman. They love to prepare food for others. They feel right at home nestled in the hands of a loved one. They love to be wrapped around a steering wheel and hold a camera. They like to push a pencil along a piece of paper to create works of art. They want to be a help to myself and especially a help to others. They will find something to do. But until then, and even ever after, they will continue to convey these thoughts that run through my mind into a readable format. They will be my tongue when my tongue is at rest. They will be a voice for my heart when my heart wants to cry out in joy, sadness or anger. My hands will speak for those parts of me that have no voice.

And you know what? They are mine…and they are beautiful.