Road Work

Whoa! My little Mazda didn't know what was coming. The water crossing the road was wide, but not very deep, so I didn't even see it until I was right on it. By then it was too late to slow down much and the result was a huge splash and a little hydroplane action. The car was never out of control, but it was enough to make my hands increase their grip on the wheel and my posterior increase its grip on the seat.

It's been raining forever. We've been in the grip of flood warnings for days, it seems, so the amount of water crossing to the other side was not surprising. What was surprising was how I could barely see the water crossing the road. I know they have been paving sections of road in my area, you see, and the moving water matched the black surface.

I made it through that and I continued on. It is dark on the road that leads to home. But I travel it every day so I know the turns and bear in mind that turkeys or deer or even coyotes can cross at any minute. None of that tonight, but as I rounded a corner that I know well, water was crossing and I did hit something that was loud and made my car bounce a bit. I had no idea what it was, but vowed to investigate the next day.

On my way to work, I did just that. Like I said, they have been paving sections of road near me. I don't get their method. I mean, I see no rhyme nor reason in the pave job. Patches here and there, the entire left side of the whole road, missing section in front of my driveway? Parts of the road have sections that are a good inch or so taller than the other parts. The place where I "hit something?" It was in a place where some paving had been done, and the force of water crossing the road was so great it had peeled the new pavement up, buckled parts of it, and slid most of the new layer into the ditch. You know where tectonic plates push up against each other and you get mountains? That's what I hit. The first thing that came to mind was this: the foundation had not been prepared for a new surface.

Know what else went through my mind? I was that road.

I can cover myself in any new outer persona I choose. I can put on a brand new coat of contentment, but if the surface (foundation) isn't prepared properly, that new layer will buckle and slip at the first sign of trouble, exposing the old soul underneath; one that has now been scarred by the force that removed the outer layer of the "new" me.

I am me. I don't try to make myself out to be someone I'm not and I surely don't want to be someone else. I won't be shaving my beard off anytime soon (sorry!). I love my children. I like going out, but love being at home even more. I love my job, I hate doing laundry, and I think I have an ingrown toenail. I'm addicted to Facebook. I sleep through 5 alarms in the mornings and can drink coffee at midnight. I am a bad liar...I just can't get away with it. I believe in God and I love love. And I don't want my feelings to show, but they have flashing lights and ringing bells and their own Master of Ceremonies. It is who I am. But sometimes, if I am fighting an internal battle, I put on a covering to strengthen my soul and conceal any hurt. I usually don't fool anyone, even though I say, "All is well." Unless you're looking for attention, I would bet that just about anyone would not want to wear their battles on their chest for the world to see.

I'm wandering here...

Whether it's through a renewed faith in God, the mountain guru's take on the meaning of life, or a smoke induced vision in a teepee, we're all looking for answers and a way to help ourselves when things go wrong. No matter which route you take to try to achieve these things, nothing will hold up under trials unless you prepare your foundation. Just like the new pavement buckling under trial by water, we can buckle under the stresses of our trials by life itself and that whole layer of improvement will be for nothing.

I've always had a foundation rooted in Christianity. It's what I was raised to believe and even though that belief has wavered over the years, it never really left me. I'll be the first to admit that I haven't been the best example of a Christian, not by a far cry. An "in your face bible-thumper" I'll never be.

So...it was nearly six years ago. I was hurting like I'd never hurt before and looking for answers. I had my close friends to help me, and I turned to them for assurance and love. But also, like any good Christian, I turned to the Bible, that Great Handbook on Life and After Life, for answers to my questions. Oh, it helped me, for sure. I went back to church and even joined a group therapy class where other Christians were dealing with loss too. It was good for me to have someone to talk to that was removed from the situation. It was good for my healing, but when the wounds were healed, I slid back into a scaled-down version of my former self. I masked the scars with a thin layer of happiness, and that happiness was real, just not laid on my shell properly.

I've had a more recent hurt. This one hurt just as bad as the first one. I have taken a step back and once again, re-examined my faith. I know that these earthly things will not last, whether it be a love that professes to live forever or a bank account that is rich but dwindles down faster than you expect...nothing lasts. I like to think that my love lasts a lifetime, and I know it will, but that's just it. I only have this one lifetime. The only thing that lasts is a loving soul. The temporary layer of improvement that I put on myself will always buckle under the stress of disappointment of my own expectations and my expectations of others.

I know I'm a good man. I know that I never intentionally hurt people. That's just not me. I don't "piss" on those I love or even those I don't. If I ever have, I am not aware of it. But is being good enough? Will going back to a church that I love going to be the thing that changes me? It can surely help, but it isn't what makes the soul strong, the foundation solid.

I'm working on my foundation so that the new layer of happiness has a firm grip to hold on no matter what happens. I am still me, but with a renewed hope and faith in love.

And love? Well, it's always the answer.

Going Home

I believe the year was 1991. I know it was before 1992 because I was still living in a run-down trailer in front of the old horse show grounds in Ooltewah and I hadn’t yet fallen in love and married. I don’t know what day or what time it was, but it was dark and the music in my newly acquired 1980 Honda Civic Station Wagon was pumping out some pretty sweet tunes. Who the passenger was, I’m quite fuzzy on, but I know there was someone in the seat to my right. We had just left ____’s house where we had picked up a nice quantity of something that naturally grows out of God’s green earth, something that ought not to have been transported in a car with Grateful Dead stickers running across the bumper and rear window.

The place was downtown Ooltewah. I believe the Racetrac was brand new and gas was still under the $1.50 mark. Red Food was still the grocery store of choice and Wal Mart could only dream of owning the prime piece of real estate where it now lures the feeble willed (hear, hear!) to come and shuffle through the aisles and save, save, save! George H. Bush was President of these here United States and I was sitting on the side of Ooltewah-Georgetown Road with blue lights in the rear view and jail time in the future. The “stuff” had already been placed under the rear seat which folded up and folded down with ease and the idea was “out of sight, out of mind.” Hearts racing sweat trickling, alibis being created on the spot…

Why in the name of Marcus Mosiah Garvey was I even being pulled over? Lights were on, speed laws were being observed (perhaps a little too observant), and the plates were…fine, I thought. After “Driver’s license, registration and proof of insurance, please” came the looooooong pause between boots clomping back to the cruiser and the arrival of the second cruiser. Backup, if you please. Got a couple of hippies in a hippie mobile. Dangerous. Outlaws.

Now I was young. I was still in college, living off campus in the aforementioned trailer with three other people. Not going to name them here, but they know who they are. I was less than two miles from home! Less than 3 minutes to smoky freedom! All kinds of jailhouse scenarios were going through my mind, not to mention seeing myself being possibly kicked out of school.

The first officer came back up to my window and I was already hearing the whole “step out of the vehicle, sir” being spoken in my mind. I was spread legged, palms on the hood, patted down and cuffed when the officer spoke and brought me back to sitting in the driver’s seat with my hands at 11 and 2.

“Do you know why I pulled you over?”

“No sir.”

“These plates don’t match this vehicle.”

Now I had just recently transferred the plates from my dark-tinted windowed, dancing bear sticker covered, first car ever owned, jacked-up 1980 Pontiac Phoenix, complete with Yosemite Sam mud flaps telling whoever was behind me to “Back Off!” I knew the plates were legal. I had the paperwork to prove it. Why those in authority didn’t have the correct information was beyond me. And that’s what I told him. At that point, the other officer must have called him back because he told me to hold on and he walked to the rear of my car. A minute later, the other officer came up to my window, and even though he was an officer of the law, with gleaming badge, shiny belt buckle and Johnny Law hat, I felt relief. He was somebody I knew. He was “family.”

“What’s going on?”

“Um…that’s what I’d like to know.”

I told him exactly what I had told the other officer; that the plates had been transferred from one vehicle to another and surely it should be in the system by now. A few exchanges of words between us and my license and other papers were being handed back to me.

“Go on home. And be safe.”

“Yes sir.”

The relief that filled the cabin of my car was as thick as billowing smoke from Cheech and Chong’s upholstery van. The last few miles to home were spent in almost complete silence as perhaps many prayers were given in thanks that the next decade or so would not be spent in a 6’ X 8’ room with bars on the window and bars for a door. Did I learn a lesson that night? Perhaps not. Business went on as usual for quite some time after that. But there was a lesson to be learned, filed away for when I was able to understand and comprehend and see just how much my life would have been different if someone hadn’t stepped in and told me to “Go on home.”

I would see this officer many times on the road and at family gatherings. On the road, he would pass and there would be a finger pointing and shaking at me. I think perhaps he knew more than I thought he knew. Even after he was no longer employed by the City of Collegedale, that finger would be pointing and shaking. Nothing was ever said to me more than “Behave yourself,” but I knew that he knew that I knew that he knew that I…

Today…today I stood in a room as a group of bluegrass musicians played gospel music to this man. This man was laying in a hospital bed in his living room; a man who had once been a giant in my eyes was laying there, eyes closed, seemingly unresponsive to those around him. He had been sent home from the hospital to hospice care. There isn’t much time left for him. His wife was holding his hand and other family members and friends were gathered together and the sound of guitar, upright bass and mandolin reverberated through the small room…and that trademark bluegrass voice that all good bluegrass musicians have was sweetly singing backwoods gospel. You know what I’m talking about.

As the tears that I so desperately tried to hold back started breaking free and streaming down my face, his wife came up to me and I just held her. I told her that I had no words to say, but I would hold her. She told me that it was okay, that she knew that I had dealt with pain before and that I knew exactly what it felt like. What she said was true. I have dealt with pain, but not the pain of losing a spouse to death’s cold grip. I’ve lost family members and friends that way; I’ve lost love more times than I care to count. I’ve lost hope and faith and desire and will…but not this.

I don’t know how much more time he has. I do know it won’t be long. And I’m pretty sure he doesn’t know that this guy right here is not the same guy from that night in Ooltewah circa 1991.

Look around you. Is there someone you love that you haven’t told? Is there distance between you and a loved one, perhaps a distance created by mistrust or jealousy or some other stupid humanistic defect in the perfect plan of life? Is there someone out there shaking their finger in your face telling you to “behave” and your pride is keeping you from acknowledging your misdeeds?

You and you and you and you and you…ad infinitum. “I love you. I’m sorry. Let’s get together sometime. Keep in touch.”

You know the drill.

I’m going to miss that finger in my face.

A Cracked Pot

“I’m not a perfect person. There are many things I wish I didn’t do.” –Hoobastank

What is perfection? Perfection is the state or quality of being perfect.

So what is perfect? One definition says “To be entirely without any flaws, defects or shortcomings.” Another says, “Conforming absolutely to the description or definition of an ideal type.” Perhaps the most fitting definition for me is “Exactly fitting the need in a certain situation or for a certain purpose.” Those definitions are using the word as an adjective. As a verb, it means “to bring to completion, to improve, to bring nearer to perfection, to finish.”

You can have a perfect storm, a perfect sphere, and a perfect crime. You can be the perfect gentleman, have perfect teeth, or be a perfect example. But is anything or anyone truly perfect?

No…and yes.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the dumb, stupid and idiotic things I’ve done in my life. Not all of them were done on purpose; in fact I’d say that most of them were done without any thinking ahead of time on my part. I’ve taken people and my position in a relationship for granted. I’ve spent a great deal of time hearing only what I want to hear. I’ve been consumed with the sin of green jealous envy. I’ve made choices that only make me more flawed. And that’s just the top tier of the list of flaws and faults and stupidity that come to mind. I’m just a child in God’s eyes and sometimes children do stupid things.

I am flawed. I have faults aplenty. I have cracks in my exterior that can make me unsuitable for sale or to put on display. If I was an LP, I would warble and skip. I am not permanent press; I have many wrinkles in my exterior. I fail time and time again; get right back up and fail again. I am the 404 error; the blue screen of death. I’m a faulty, flawed failure. I am a cracked pot.

I have not been the perfect Christian for a long time. Perhaps I never have been. That doesn’t mean that I am a bad person. I try to do well and I believe that I am good. I am not in-your-face religious and will not be pushing anything upon anyone. But I do believe as a Christian believes. Bear with me…I’m about to get all religious up in here. I have some questions: Does God use our flaws to create perfection? And does he use our faults to His glory? There is a story about a cracked pot…

A water bearer in India had two large pots, each hung on each end of a pole
which he carried across his neck. One of the pots had a crack in it, and
while the other pot was perfect and always delivered a full portion of water
at the end of the long walk from the stream to the master's house, the
cracked pot arrived only half full. For a full two years this went on
daily, with the bearer delivering only one and a half pots full of water in
his master's house. Of course, the perfect pot was proud of its
accomplishments, perfect to the end for which it was made. But the poor
cracked pot was ashamed of its own imperfection, and miserable that it was
able to accomplish only half of what it had been made to do.

After two years of what it perceived to be a bitter failure, it spoke to the
water bearer one day by the stream.

"I am ashamed of myself, and I want to apologize to you."

"Why?" asked the bearer. "What are you ashamed of?"

"I have been able, for these past two years, to deliver only half my load
because this crack in my side causes water to leak out all the way back to
your master's house. Because of my flaws, you have to do all of this work,
and you don't get full value from your efforts," the pot said.

The water bearer felt sorry for the old cracked pot, and in his compassion
he said,

"As we return to the master's house, I want you to notice the beautiful
flowers along the path."

Indeed, as they went up the hill, the old cracked pot took notice of the sun
warming the beautiful wild flowers on the side of the path, and this cheered
it some. But at the end of the trail, it still felt bad because it had
leaked out half its load, and so again it apologized to the bearer for its
failure.

The bearer said to the pot,

"Did you notice that there were flowers only on your side of your path, but
not on the other pot's side? That's because I have always known about your
flaw, and I took advantage of it. I planted flower seeds on your side of the
path, and every day while we walk back from the stream, you've watered them.
For two years I have been able to pick these beautiful flowers to decorate
my master's table. Without you being just the way you are, he would not have
this beauty to grace his house."

Are our failures a part of God’s plan? Does he use our flaws and faults to put us where he knows we should be? I believe so. Perhaps the stupid things I do are the hands on my shoulders, turning me around, placing me into a position where He is pushing me in the direction I should head; a direction I should have been going all along; a direction I probably wouldn’t have gone all by myself; a direction where I am poised to let go and give it up to Him.

Back to one definition of perfect…“Exactly fitting the need in a certain situation or for a certain purpose.” If God does use our flaws to bring glory to Him, then those flaws are fitting the need for a certain purpose. In that case, believe it or not, we are perfect. That is what I believe.

Is there anything we can do as humans to achieve perfection? I don’t think so. Just as a cracked pot cannot fix the cracks all by itself, neither can we. But we shouldn’t let the cracks get worse. In the story, why didn’t the water bearer patch the cracks in the pot? “There’s a hole in the bucket, dear Liza, dear Liza.” Right? We find out later that he was using the cracks in the pot to water flowers for the master’s table; and all the while the pot was thinking its value was diminished.

Questions…questions…questions. Take recognizing a sign to act…how can you recognize an answer to prayer, or know what a sign to act looks like? I’ve been told, “You’ll know when it happens.” It has happened to me in the past. I take all major decisions to God when I know I can’t make the decision on my own. There have been times when I swear that I am told to “go for it” and later on, it ends in disaster. Did I just think I was told to act, or was it an actual sign to act, to be used later to open my eyes? And after perceiving a sign to act or an answer to prayer, are we to sit idly by and just “leave it to His will” without getting involved?

Another thing that I have noticed recently; out of diversity goodness arises. Are my efforts to make my life right, to take heed to the “still, small voice” that calls, to live as I ought to live bringing goodness into my life? Miraculous thing are happening that I can’t explain. Family and friends are giving much more than I can ever repay. I am changed. I’m still flawed, still imperfect, and still failing every day.

Some may say “Hypocrite!” Let them say it. They don’t know who I am. Not now. Not any more. The mere fact that it may be said confirms to me that they do notice a change in my life. It shows me that it is apparent outwardly, because I know there is an inner change as well.

There are so many questions that I don’t have answers to. Maybe somebody does and can shine a little light on me. But in the meantime, I know that I am flawed. I know that I have faults and blemishes and cracks. I know that I am not the perfect Christian and never will be. But you know what? God will use me to His glory, He will never leave me, and He will love me through it all, regardless of my impediments, seen or unseen.

And to know that puts me closer to perfection.

Go

Nudge.
A literal poke or just a dream?
Nudge.
Ok, ok…it’s the alarm clock.
Snooze.
Nudge. Something says to get up. I grudgingly turn off the alarm clock and slip out of bed. My dreams have not been so good as of late. Heartbreak can create dreams that cause sleepless nights.

If you know me, you know that life has taken a dramatic turn. The one I consider being the one true one; the love of my life; my soul mate, lover and future partner has left me. I’m not going into detail, but mistakes were made and it is over. When your heart is hurting, life’s everyday nuisances become dramatic interludes into despair. When you can’t think of anything else but how much you miss her; how much you long for those 3-word texts; imagining that you smell her essence in the next room, every day lingers and every night there is longing.

Hope? Nope. I don’t have that. The only thing I have is a pain that rises and ebbs in a cyclic pattern.

I’m dealing with it. That I can do. I don’t know how long it will take to get over her. I compare it to the pain of losing my first love. That one took years for the hurt to subside totally. Really, it was gone before then, but would surface every now and again in memory.

Several Stuart Smalley moments of standing in front of a mirror put a thought into my mind and this past week, I decided that perhaps a visit to my church of choice would do some good. That is, if I could wake up in time to make it. If, when I did get up I felt like it. If the weather permitted it. If something told me to go…

“Wake up. Get ready. Get in your car and go.”
Not audible words, but words in my head. Did I say them? Were they even said at all?
But I need to make the coffee…
Oh, I prepared it last night.
But I don’t have anything to wear…
“They don’t care.”
But I haven’t been in so long…
“They don’t care.”
“Go.”

I drive.
I arrive.

I’m meeted and greeted and pointed to snacks, juice and coffee. I’m told that the regular preacher won’t be preaching today, but that there is a special guest speaker. Roger Hernandez is his name; speaking to your soul is his game. One day only, all the way from a city nowhere near you!

I chose this church because years ago, when I was at what I felt was my lowest, when I felt that love had slapped me in the face and turned its back on me; when I thought that I could never love again…something told me to go. I could have chosen anywhere, but I chose there. Having friends who attended there helped out a lot in my choice too.

I ran into one of them almost immediately. I’m not a person who can hide my feelings with ease. You ask me how I’m doing and if I’m in a bad mood, you can tell I’m lying when I tell you I’m just fine. I opened my heart out to him. Even though he had no profound words of wisdom or insightful quotes, it felt good to let it out. He had to run the video for the sermon, so he didn’t have much time, but pointed me to a friend of his whom I could sit with so I wouldn’t feel alone.

One tear jerking video about Mother’s Day and several songs later, he speaks and I can’t believe what I’m hearing. He is speaking of how David was given much and how he LOSES it all.

He loses his wife.
He loses his job.
He loses his house.
He loses his spiritual adviser.
He loses his best friend.
He loses his dignity.

And through it all, he had already been promised that he will become the next king of Israel. How can this come to fruition when he has lost so much? He ends up in a cave, the leader of a rag-tag group of losers like himself. He is King of the Losers. After much prayer and soul searching, he comes to understand that his circumstances do not control his outcome. He was already promised what he was promised. He comes to understand that even though he doesn’t have his wife, his job, his house, his spiritual adviser, his best friend nor his dignity, he does have God. And God is enough.

Tears stream down my face. I’m a grown man surrounded by people I don’t know listening to a man that I had never even heard of and I feel he is talking directly to me. He tells me that I was not brought to this place to be left here. In the midst of the storm and pain of my life, there is a plan.

You know, I prayed going into this relationship that it was right. I felt that it was. For nearly two years it was right. It was part of the plan. I don’t blame her for this…I don’t blame myself for this. Perhaps I blame us. What could have been done or what in the world went wrong or the who’s, the how’s, the when’s where’s or why’s are unsure to me. I do love her, (and I do mean I love her with all of my heart) and I wish only the best for her. I prayed after she left, begging God to bring back my love. I don’t want to be lonely. I don’t want to go through life, one failed relationship after another. I even got to the point of questioning myself; questioning my own worth. What is wrong with me that this keeps happening to me? Why can’t I keep someone to love?

It took several reassurances from multiple sources, telling me that there is nothing wrong with me and a stranger on a stage to remind me that I am not the one in charge. I can make all the right (wrong) decisions on my own, but they will never be the right ones as long as I try to make them on my own.

The service was over. I walked up to this speaker, this man that I never heard of nor seen before in my life and I tell him that I had no idea why I came to this place today, but that the man that he was talking about was not David; it was not Old Testament times…it was me and it was 2013 and that surely he was the reason that I was told to “Go!” He shakes my hand and tells me to listen and to remember there is a promise, a purpose, and a plan.

I have no idea of what that plan is. Only time will tell.

Phases

I’ve been trying to get my kids to enjoy Pink Floyd. Of course, it’s not going too well. Perhaps Ummagumma and Meddle are a bit too much for beginners. Ya think? Maybe I should save that for later on and start with the gateway Pink Floyd, such as The Wall, or Wish You Were Here. Something they could dance to…Animals.

Or perhaps expose them to more Phish.

I told them, right in the middle of “Several Species of Small Furry Animals Gathered Together in a Cave and Grooving with a Pict” that this was the music I was listening to while my fellow teens were grooving to the sweet sounds of New Kids on the Block, Tiffany, or Milli Vanilli. I was also experimenting with The Doors, The Sex Pistols, The Dead Milkmen, and The Beatles, just to name a few. Yeah kids, your dad was cool.

They try to get me to tune into the local Remixed Hits and Latest Crap station, and I balk, but eventually let them subject me to what they like. And I do it. I do it and like it. Not the music…but the way it makes them happy. But I still don’t get some of it. Bland, forced talented performers pleasing the populace is what I hear. No “speaking right to the core of my very soul” music or lyrics. Or at least none that I can hear or understand, no matter how loud they want it played.

Listen to me. I sound like I assume my dad would sound like, if he were here. (No, he’s still around, just not here.)

Ok, no lying here, but I liked some pretty crappy music myself when I was like, 12 and stuff. Ok, so maybe into the teens as well. But it was right before going to academy (that’s middle and high school for you heatherns) when I discovered real music. Even when I had headphones on, my grandma had a way of telling if I was listening to Mother Approved Country or if it was Taboo Rock and/or Roll. Speaking of headphones…I remember having a set of bright yellow radio headphones. You know…DJ style with the black insulating-yet-not-so-soundproof padding, complete with AM/FM and a telescoping antenna. She could tell the difference between my head bopping to Eddie Rabbitt’s “Drivin’ My Life Away” and Kiss’ “Lick It Up.” Frankie Goes to Hollywood, Culture Club, Yes, Blue Oyster Cult, The Cars and many, many more bands were added to my list of music that I had been missing for so long. I’d been missing them and never even realized it.

And music wasn’t the only media that was due for a change. It was around the same time that I stared expanding my reading beyond textbooks, Mad Magazine and the Time-Life Real Crime and Criminals Encyclopedia and started reading fiction, such as Stephen King. My grandma would ask me why in the world I wanted to read that kind of stuff. I think she was more appalled by the language than the horror that lay within. You know, I was already reading everything that I could get my hands on. I noticed that I couldn’t even ride by a sign without knowing what it said and reading it (aloud, sometimes). I also noticed that I couldn’t “not” read any words I saw. That’s why I was reading that kind of stuff. I kind of had no choice. I think that I had always liked reading. I was told that I went into 1^st grade already reading some. I do remember reading a Scooby Doo reader and blabbering gibberish when I didn’t know what a word was. But there were lots of words that I did know. That is what I think shocked some folks.

And now for a real shocker: I like PBS’ Downton Abbey. I know it is just a British nighttime drama, close to being a full-blown soap opera. I can’t help it. It draws me in. Sometime this past year, I was on the phone with my grandma and I told her about the show and how much I followed the last season and that I thought it was really great. She said she knew what it was and had seen a few episodes of it herself. Then she said she was surprised to hear me say that I liked it. “I thought you liked horror and action or science fiction movies and books. That’s what you always liked growing up.”

Well, Mom, I still do.

My horizons were, shall we say, “expanded” during the early 90’s. And during the mid 90’s too. All the way up to the late 90’s if the truth be known. The expansion really started before that, but it was during that entire decade where I was able to open the doors and explore beyond the boundaries of anywhere I had ever been. I discovered who I was, what I liked beyond a doubt, and discovered artistic abilities I never knew I had.

Then I sobered up.

Just kidding. No, not really.

It is absolutely normal for people to change. It is also absolutely normal for people to stay the same. To me, and way up on the surface, I sure do feel like I hadn’t changed at all in such a long time. There are so many things that enjoyed as a teenager that I never really lost interest in. I love reading for the sake of reading, and it really doesn’t matter what it is. I love all sorts of music. And last time I checked, I still found women attractive. But of course there have been changes, different phases of my life. What I have become, what I am, what I will become…all culminate from the “me” of the past and pieced together with great big chunks from each phase of life. And I’m talking about all phases; the good along with the bad.

I wouldn’t trade any part of my past for anything.

I only wish I’d discovered Phish before I did…

A Day’s Randomness

I learned that “morgenmuffel” is a German phrase for a person who is grumpy in the mornings. I also learned that that condition reverses into “guten morgen” after a few cups of coffee.

Today was the 2^nd day of school for my kids. They knew they had to get up early, I knew we had to get up early. I did. They did. Shoot…they were ready to leave 20 minutes before we had to leave. I’m good with it, cause there will be days where we will be rushing out the door and barely make it on time. So, I took advantage of it and got there 15 minutes before they opened the doors. We sat in the car, listened to music, and spent time together before being separated for the next 7 hours.

While in the car, the radio is always on. Most of the time, as it was also this morning, the radio is set to 107.9 Big FM. Hits from the 60’-80’s. My kids can recognize certain artists like Elvis, The Beatles, and a whole lot of newer artists. This morning, an Elvis song was playing. I said, “Ooh, Elvis!” My daughter reminded me that he was the “King of Rock.” She then said, “Michael Jackson was the King of Pop. What if Elvis and MJ had a kid? Would he be the King of Pop Rock?” Hmm…she then said that MJ would have to be a woman. She thought about it for a moment, and then said, “Well…”

At work, two other crew members and I were working on refinishing the gymnasium floor. It had already been stripped and it was time to put wax down. Someone had gotten on the floor between the time it had been stripped and the time to put wax down. So, we were in there using a bit of stripper and a scratch pad to take up the scuff marks. We’d spray a little stripper from a spray bottle on the marks and then buff it with the scratch pad. Every time we’d spray, it would make splatter spots all around the area we were working on. “Be careful of the stripper splatter,” I said. The more I thought of it, the more it sounded like a line from a really bad porno, or something that would be said in a Quentin Tarantino movie…

Before we started working on the floor, I had opened the back doors for a little “fresh air.” As soon as I did, I saw a ladies wallet on the steps. It was opened and I knew right away that it had been stolen. Some photos were water damaged, there were receipts sticking out of the wallet, and several credit cards and even a driver’s license. I searched through it to see if there was some sort of contact information so that I could call the woman and get her wallet back to her. Sure enough, there was a business card with her name and phone number. She worked at UTC, which is right there by where I work. I called and told her that I found her wallet. She was ecstatic! Turns out, the building where she worked was on the same corner of the church. She said to meet her out on the sidewalk at the corner of Douglas and McCallie. When we met up, she immediately hugged my neck and kept thanking me over and over. She looked in the wallet and said that all her credit cards were still in there. She was glad her driver’s license was still there, because she had already made an appointment to get another one. She told me that if there was anything I needed, to find her in the building on the opposite corner of the church. I’ll keep that in mind. I might need something someday.

Oh yeah…there was also a pile of human feces and a tank top shirt on the back steps. :-)

Another thing...thanks for the 4G of music. You know who you are (maybe). I'll be back for more.

Double Paned Prophetic

The streaks are there before I even spray on the window cleaner. The slightly moist rag takes the streaks away, but leave even more that dissipate as the window dries. Small pieces of lint dance on the glass after all the streaks are gone. A quick wipe with a dry rag and the window is a crystal clear screen for the never-ending movie of the outside world that plays on in the most vividly realistic 3-D. There’s a lot going on out there. The horizon is miles away, and in the space of those miles there are cars taking people on journeys long and jaunts short. There are people without means of transportation either hopping on busses that come through like clockwork, riding bicycles, or using their own two feet to get to wherever they need to go. There are buildings with facades that are worn and cracked and buildings that are so new that they still have the price tags on them. All around the edge of the horizon, mountains line up and act as still sentries, guarding the perimeter of the bustling city from the unseen forces that are imagined as mounting the advance. Among the sounds from these sights are sirens and alarms, horns and shouts, laughter and crying. It is a view that changes from window to window, from floor to floor of this multi-storied building. Different windows; different views in perhaps different times from a life story…

First floor: There is a small boy sitting in the dirt with a dirty cast on a dirty leg. He’s pushing a toy car around in his imagined metropolis of mud buildings, Popsicle stick bridges and paper towel tube tunnels. He winces with a bit of pain as he moves his broken leg in order to swing around to push the car further down the road that continues on behind him. A horrible thing has happened, something this little boy doesn’t quite understand. He looks up in anticipation as he hears a female’s voice come through the open window of the house. Is that mama? Did she come back from that big white building filled with the nice people that put this heavy thing on his still aching leg? Daddy, brother and sister are home, as well as aunts and uncles and grandmas and grandpas, but mama isn’t here. That voice was just one of the other mamas that come and go with sad looks on their faces. Not mama’s voice…and the toy car continues on its journey to the cardboard box school near the end of the dirt and by the edge of the grass.

Second floor: Palm trees and moss covered oaks. Hmm…new things to the boy in the passenger seat. Not much is remembered of the trip from Tennessee to the Sunshine state, but things never seen before leave an impression. A strange noise, later to be found out as a peacock cry, at first scares the boy, and then when the source is found, amazement takes the place of fear. This is his first remembered trip to Florida where his grandmother lives. He gets a little shy when he sees a young couple kissing (the guy who took him down had met his girlfriend there and had no qualms about kissing her in front of the boy). But embarrassment turns to joy when his grandmother greets him and takes him home. Little did he know, but this was to be his home through his first years of college.

Third floor: The sounds of children laughing and playing carry over the playground outside a two-room schoolhouse. Double-dutch jump rope, high-in-the-sky swings, Red Rover, kickball, tether ball, and monkey bars; part of the regimen of exercise called “recess”. This is the place where first friends are made, first crushes are experienced, and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches are traded “up” for cheese and mayo sandwiches (and maybe a banana to boot). The innocence of childhood is slowly ebbing away, being replaced by just a touch of knowledge of the real world and the pain and the wonder it brings.

Fourth floor: He’s too young to be called a man and too old to be called a boy. He lugs his suitcase up to the room assigned to him for his first year at academy, mere hours away from home. The room is no bigger than his old room at home, but split down the middle in a mirror image of beds, dressers and closets. Yet this one holds two people and their possessions. The previous year, he and his best friend were the whole of the ninth grade class. Now he is just one of about a hundred sophomores. This is where even more friends are made, the knowledge that some people are just not nice at all, and others would give you their all for just the asking. In this time period there is the “never to be forgotten” first kiss, the realization that sports are just not his “thing”, and some decisions are made that just might not be the smartest ones to make. More lessons learned.

Fifth floor: More lugging of suitcases up stairs, this time in a college more than 500 miles from home, yet in the same area where home was before going to Florida. He really doesn’t know what he is doing here. Yes, it was his decision to come here, but deep down, he knows he is only here because it is what is expected of him. Might as well make the best of it and see what there is to do, because people are depending on him. He doesn’t really know what he wants to do in life, and this place is where he is supposed to be made ready for it through books and tests, on paper and in reality. Leave first crushes and kisses behind…this place is full of the real thing! But who has time for that when your education is at stake? Well, at least for the first few years anyway. More bad decisions and the real crusher of dreams called “complacency” take precedence over any original good intentions of the freshman of yesterday. He wonders who he is and where he is supposed to be…the answer is that he is who he is and right here is where he is supposed to be…

Sixth floor: Nothing else matters. There she is. He can’t believe that she is here after many seemingly failed attempts at showing how much he cared, all the notes and letters unanswered, a simple phone call from far away that felt so good…he returns, and here she is. He remembers a few short months ago, a night spent dancing and singing karaoke, and a “few too many” to drive home. Those few extra had nothing to do with the way he felt that night. It was a feeling that he had never really felt until then. That feeling never went away from that day forward. He knew that what he felt was coming back to him; love for someone else that surpassed the love for self many times over. He keeps telling himself that it is too good to be true, but it isn’t. It isn’t even about the prospect of sex. It isn’t even a goal. That doesn’t even happen for several months, and that is just all right for him. Trips to blue holes, vacations many states away and in the backyard of the near foothills, nights around a campfire; those things hold more places in his heart than any heated moment of passion. What is to be is coming to be…

Seventh floor: Rose petal lined path, sweet music, friends and family eagerly waiting, hand in hand they walk. Tears, laughter and “I do.” Running away to beautiful beaches, true alone time and enough pictures, printed and engrained…true honeymoon material. Love…

Eighth floor: A young child cries as another one runs laughing through the house. Six years from wedded bliss, he still feels the same love. Love increased by the same cries and laughter…love times three. He still thinks about how he got to this place from where he was. He never got what he came up to this state to do. But what he does have, he wouldn’t trade it for the world. When he didn’t know what he wanted to do, he believes that it has culminated into this moment in time. Husband, father, mentor, caregiver, lover; is it what he set out to be? It could be true. Being a firm believer in “where you are is where you are supposed to be”, it never occurs to him that there just might be something wrong. Life is good, life is strained, life is love…but what is hidden underneath; what is it that he just can’t see and isn’t even aware that it is to be seen?

Ninth floor: Love times three, minus one. “I want a divorce.” The view from here is a bit smeared…

Tenth floor: Looking around at the clutter he thinks, “Wow…that was a lot of living and learning; healing and hoping; blunders and corrections.” He has come through a rough time, perhaps still in it, but coping and making it. He found out just how many true friends he has, who to trust and who not to whisper any secrets to. He still wonders who he is and where he is supposed to be, but the answers don’t seem to change. He looks out the window and into the past. That’s where he was. The vivid and crystal clear image of a child grown to man and the story that fills the empty spaces between the starting point and the point of now is just that; a story. But it is a story that is his. It isn’t one that he would trade for any story that has a perfect ending or one that he could change if he could. It is where he is supposed to be, for whatever reason. He still has love. He still has things to learn. He still has two young minds to direct in the paths of their lives, to create their own stories. He gives them pointers and tips on how to make a great story. But it is not his to make…it is theirs. He can only fill it with his love and his experience.

This last window needs a lot of cleaning. Two panes of glass that keep out the wind and the rain and allow light in and sight out. How many years of neglect from the city air and dust has it seen? What will it take to make the scene outside of it into one that isn’t hazy or blurred? Squirt, wipe, smear, wipe dry…

It’s looking better already.

Blue Tarp Community

It was just past dawn on the morning after the worst storms I’d ever seen in this area of the country. I was on my way to work, taking the same route that I take every day. The scenery was as it is every day. Landmarks unknowingly placed along the known route tell me just where I am. I know my way around this area mostly because of these landmarks. The storms that blew through the night before were terrible. According to those who know, there have been storms not unlike this in the past, but this was long before I lived here. This morning, I was totally unaware of what lay ahead on the road. What was familiar had turned into a stranger.

The first sign of what had happened the night before was an overturned horse trailer. I thought to myself that the winds had to have been strong to turn that thing over. It was a nonchalant thought, just an innocent observation that I naively found a little amusing. I even chuckled a little. But the chuckle quickly turned into stoic silence and shock. Up ahead, trees laid across the road from both sides. Someone had already gone through and cut the trunks, first on one side of the road, then the other so that I had to zigzag my way up Apison Pike. What I saw was just utter destruction. Houses leveled. Utility poles lying with downed trees. Cars and trucks flipped over and crushed, even wrapped around trees. It was more than I could understand.

As I made my way through the mess, one thing popped in my mind; I didn’t know where I was. Nothing was familiar. It was like my car had been picked up and dropped in a foreign war-torn country. I actually said, “Where am I?” out loud to no one at all. Tears came to my eyes as a tinge of fear crept up on me. Something terrible had happened here. As I drove slowly through the thin layer of fog that added to the confusion, something else popped into my mind…a scene from a story I had read, “The Mist”, by Stephen King. Near the end of the story, the small group of survivors from the small town in Maine (of course!) made their way through an impenetrable fog in a truck along a road, hoping to reach a place where the fog was not. Unfamiliar plants and creatures crossed the path. It was unfamiliar to them. That was how I felt; in unfamiliar territories and lost.

I came to my senses and realized that a tornado had obviously come through here. I was still talking out loud and had tears in my eyes when I thought of my aunt and uncle, who lived a few hundred feet from where I was. When I could finally see their house, it was a relief to see it still standing. With just that little hint, I figured that if they had been inside of it, then they were OK. With that fear somewhat sated, I stopped by their driveway. There was no way I was getting up it. Trees and utility poles lay across it. I saw a woman on the side of the road across from their driveway, a woman I recognized from my days of working at McKee Foods. I rolled down my window and talked to her. I asked if she knew if my aunt and uncle were OK. She didn’t know, but she thought that they were, because some people had been going from house to house to see if people were alive or trapped or needing assistance of any kind. She pointed to a truck on the side of the road and said, “That person died.” She went on to say that her mother, who is wheelchair-bound, was up in her house and had no way of getting out. I told her, without even knowing, that help would be on the way. I left that area and went on towards E. Brainerd Rd. A policeman was sitting at the intersection, talking to the person who was ahead of me. I pulled up beside and heard the man telling the policeman about this woman, so I knew that help really would be on the way.

I headed on to work. I didn’t know what else to do. I suppose I could have skipped work and did all I could to help those who had lost everything. I didn’t. I know that there wasn’t much of anything that I could have done to help those that others weren’t already helping. I had to go to work. Since my power had gone off the night before, I didn’t even know that tornadoes had hit as many places as they did. I had no way of charging my phone, and it had gone dead. The first thing I did when I got to work was to plug it in and try to call my family in Apison. I tried the first person I could think of, especially since I figured all the land lines were down. I called my cousin, Shane. His parents are the members of my family that live right there by the destruction. I got him on the phone after several attempts and found out that yes, they were fine, but that his friend and most of his family had died in the storm. I just couldn’t believe the tragedy. I called my friend Michelle and in talking to her, found out that the storm had come close to where my kids were with their mother. I hung up and called my ex-wife. I couldn’t get an answer when I called. Do you know panic? I felt panic at that moment. Tears came as my mind imagined never seeing my kids again. I called her new husband and he told me everyone was fine. More tears came in the form of relief.

In the days and even weeks since that morning, people in the affected communities have banded together to clean up and try to piece back together portions of lives lost. The places where houses used to stand are now bare patches of earth, mounds of trees and debris burning away, taking memories up in the air with the smoke rising from the pyres. This place will never be the same. The whole landscape and horizon has changed. It will take time for nature to heal from the monster that raged through that day. It will take time for the people to heal, to rebuild from what they have left. Every day, I pass homes that still stand, their roofs covered with blue tarps to protect the roofs that they were fortunate to escape the storm with. People live in those houses with blue tarps; people who still have hope; still have their possessions and their lives.

While the EF4 tornado was ripping through Apison, and on its way to Cleveland, I was at home. The sky here was partly cloudy, even though I could tell that storms were north of me. The wind would pick up, and then taper off. The rain would come, and then let up. I guess I was blissfully unaware and lucky. I still had the ones I love.

My home is a PBS home. If the TV is on, chances are it is on PBS Kids. There is a show on there called “Peep and The Great Wide World.” The main characters are a chick named “Peep,” a baby bird named “Chirp,” and a baby duck named “Quack.” Even when my kids are not here, the TV is left on, mainly for company and entertainment for my bird. I can’t lie and say that I don’t eavesdrop on the programming, cause, well…I do. Just a few days ago, the story of “Peep” involved the coming of a storm. They had never seen a storm before. They grey clouds covered the sky and they didn’t move on, so they thought they would never go away. The rain started coming down, and they thought it would always rain. The only thing they saw that they could do was to get up and move from their homes; to try and find a place where there were no storms, no rain, no dark clouds. They decided to leave home, but before going, they wanted to visit their friend, a dog. The dog explained that storms never last forever. They move on and leave their mark on where they’ve been. The rains supply life to the trees and grasses that they lived in and played on. The ponds fill back up for swimming pleasure. The sun does come back out. And if you’re lucky, a rainbow supplies the background for a fade-to-black ending…

These storms are gone. They will leave a lasting impression upon the land and our memories. Those who perished have been buried and those who survived still live on. The cleanup continues and the people still work together. It is said that time heals all wounds. I believe it to be so. Time will heal the wounds in all areas; in nature, by replenishing the trees that were torn apart; in hearts, with the love shown for each other not only now, but for all time to come; in our minds by the wonderful phenomenon of filing and forgetting. One thing that I do hope for is that the camaraderie shown during this trying time doesn’t just disappear in an instant. After all, the blue tarps will eventually come down and hopefully, when they do, people will still be there for each other like they should be every day.

Remember, I’ve said it before and I’m saying it again. “In case we never meet again, I love you.”

Sproing!

I know I’ve noticed it slowly edging its way into my peripherals for a few weeks, but within the past few days, my brain finally caught up with my eyes and showed me what I hadn’t been paying attention to. I see it in my yard, in my neighbors’ yards, on my drive to and from work, just about everywhere. The pinks and the whites and the purples and the yellows and the dull reds told me that spring was coming.

The way I saw it, it was already here. The nodding yellow daffodils are just outside my fence, a group of them standing there like a gathering crowd at the scene of an accident, hint that spring is here. The white Bradford Pear trees that look so pretty, yet smell so bad, and seem to be everywhere, tell me that spring is here. The warmer temperatures, the ever-thickening tufts of grass popping up in my yard, and the certain shorts-and-sandals wearing students at UTC, all tell me that spring is here. Even before the calendar stated that it was spring, I knew it was here. And pretty soon, the sounds of “Play Ball!” will definitely indicate that, yes indeed, spring is here.

Dormancy wakes up to activity. The sleep of winter turns into the budding awakening of spring. What seemed to have been dead is thrust into the world anew. The bulbs planted in my “serenity spot” (which is really just a place I planted flowers under some trees, nothing really serene about it, except it is in the shade) have already pushed aside the layer of detritus that cushioned them from freezing temperatures and are stretching up toward the warming sun. Lawnmowers are waking from their winter’s sleep ready to chop and maim and fill the air with the aroma of their presence…mmm…cut grass and gasoline. The trees that have stood silently naked during the bleakness of winter are slowly adorning their latest spring fashions in pastel colors that change to their final greens. Spring is springing forth to make way for summer…sweet, sweet summer.

I am a child of summer. Spring and autumn are my godparents. Winter is an ex in-law that I never seemed to get along with. Spring is really cool. You see, what it does is lay the groundwork for the fun of summer. It is a stepping stone to summer, a gateway season to wean us from the stupor of cold and build up our tolerance to the coming heat. Trees fill out to create shade from the sun; grass thickens to tickle the toes and pad the feet; lakes and rivers become places to float and frolic and swim in. But that is jumping ahead too far…patience, I must have.

Spring is normally the start of something new. Not all things are new. The bulbs under the ground are the same bulbs; the trees are the same trees; the grass is the same grass. The only newness of these things is the life reawakening in them. I guess you can say that nothing is really new. It’s all been done before. Maybe not in your yard or in your life, but somewhere it has happened already. I have a very small patch of monkey grass that I am trying to spread. I brought this patch with me from my old house, where the growth of monkey grass was thick and easy to propagate. Mostly all of it came from a patch from my neighbor’s property. It took years, but eventually, all my large trees had rings around them, and the flower gardens were bordered too. I had to start all over again over here. In the nearly three years that I have lived in my new place, my small patch has only grown maybe twice its size. But I am being patient. My bulbs that I transplanted have not failed me. They have spread more than I had imagined! The monkey grass and the bulbs are a little piece of my old place and life that hopefully will live on for a long time.

Some things don’t emerge anew when the season changed. My cactus (God rest its soul!) didn’t make it through the winter. I had 3 Hostas that I had transplanted from pots from my old house. Only 2 survived the transplant. It looks like only one is left now. Could be that the other one just hasn’t poked out of the ground yet? We will see.

Also, some things don’t even make it to spring. When the March Lion roared its way through a few weeks ago, I lost a tree. It fell and crunched a fence, but no other damage was done. I’m still trying to clean up after that mess. There are limbs all over the yard, not just from that tree, but from others that were blown down in that same storm’s display of aggression. There’s a lot to do before I can mow my yard. But I know that it will look so good when it is cleaned and mowed. Nothing beats a pretty yard!

Something that is new has to do with where I work. An opportunity is before me. More responsibility and growth is before me. I’m not going to talk about what it is just yet, but it is something I’ve wanted for a while and it is a good thing. Much thought and many hours dissecting the pros and cons have been spent in this decision. Soon!

Here’s to hoping that this spring brings happiness and growth to many. I need it, and I know lots of others who need it. We need the hope. We need the blessing of a rebirth and emergence as a new plant, ready for blossoming and the blessed beauty of its flower and the nourishment of any fruit that grows.

Hmm…Fruit. That reminds me. I want a garden this year…

Along for the Ride

I wrote this a few years ago as an entry into a Christmas writing contest. I wasn't happy with it (and am still not) when I turned it in, but deadlines are deadlines...but I still got 1st place.

The coffee in the cup in front of me is a creamy, caramel-colored lifesaver. A waitress, (Jan, by the name printed on her tag) tilted the carafe towards my cup as if to ask if I needed a refill. I covered my cup with my hand. I had it just the way I liked it and topping it off would make the combination of coffee, creamer, and sugar off balance. I don’t know about the other diners in this mellow, out-of-the way coffee shop, but I don’t like coffee straight out of the pot, a bitter black concoction more apt to strip paint than provide warmth and that little jolt of energy, a jolt that I so desperately needed this morning. Last night had been the longest night of my life…but strangely enough, it was possibly the best night of my life.

I work for a package delivery service. It doesn’t pay much and the work sometimes is harder than what the pay is worth. It gets especially busy this time of year, with all our clients almost tripling their demand for on-time shipping. Why must they wait until December to finally get their act together? It really would help if we knew ahead of time what we were shipping and where we were delivering it to. It would really help if we had the shipping order in our hands at least by October, but because of others’ procrastinations, our boss doesn’t give us our orders until it is almost too late. And it would really help if we didn’t try to ship all our orders in one night.

At the root of it all, we like to blame it on the list of customers itself. I can always depend on having a job to do, but you can never tell how the list is going to change. There are always some clients who, for one reason or another, choose not to ship this year. Some are taken off of the list for non-compliance with the shipping agent’s stringent rules. Yet, others are put on the list when they make an order for the first time. Our boss, who is the main person in charge of the list, has a team of helpers who help with the ongoing task of maintaining the list, gleaning information from customers’ wishes in order to fulfill their shipping requests in a timely manner. Even with that team, the upkeep is overwhelming.

The end of this year was particularly hard for me. I have worked for the same company for… let’s see…well, as long as I can remember I’ve held the same job. My parents worked for this same company until their retirement. I was still a few years away from employment at the time, but I was already being taught the tricks of the trade for the day I too joined the ranks of the greatest shipping company in the world. They both taught me the ropes, like how each customer is unique and how their orders were tied to them in a special way; and the proper way to package the products to be shipped so as to protect them from the slightest damage. All of this and more were important to keep the company going from year to year. But even having been taught all of the secrets of proper shipping, that’s not where I started.

My first job with the company was in the Department of Transport Maintenance. Some of the others on my team inspected the vehicle, going through a pre-flight checklist, mainly for safety and proper operation of the transport. It was my job to make sure that the delivery transport was cleaned, stocked with all the necessary in-flight accessories needed for the pilot to make the delivery, and lastly, to ensure the pilot’s cabin was free from clutter that could obstruct his view. Also, the cargo hold had to be emptied out and cleaned to make room for the new order of packages. That’s what I did. It wasn’t a menial job...it was important for the pilot’s comfort and convenience, but it still wasn’t what I wanted to do. I had to work my way up, just like in any other job.

I quickly rose up the ranks, moving to Pre-flight Inspector, on to Transport Propulsion Manager, on and on up to my current job: Manager of the Packaging Department. It was what my father did before he retired, overseeing the entire preparation, labeling, and sorting of packages to be delivered. This is where I was meant to be. Every male in my family, from generation to generation was destined to be Packaging Manager, some whether they wanted to or not. For me, though, it is exactly where I wanted to be.

I guess I’ve drifted…I was thinking about this past year and especially last night, wasn’t I? Yeah, that’s it. Let me get a sip of my coffee and I’ll go on. Mmm…that’s good. OK.

I guess it was back in October, and everyone was on edge, waiting and knowing that soon we would all be tested to the utmost of our abilities; tested by only doing what each of us were trained and ready to do. I was going over our inventory of packing supplies (boxes, paper, shipping labels, tape, etc.). Come the end of the year and we don’t have enough…boy, would I look stupid. Since our warehouse and packing plants are several days travel from the nearest city, we needed to place our orders in enough time to get here to enable us to cover our bases for the busiest time of the year. It was close to quitting time and I was closing the inventory program on my desktop, the newest addition to our never ending quest for the newest technology to keep us on the “cutting edge”. Elroy Snowden, the Warehouse Manager for our entire operation poked his head into my office.

“All set?” he asked. I didn’t have the fondest liking for Elroy. He was only a few years older than me, and even though our jobs were on the same pay scale, he acted like he was the List Maintenance Manager, who in turn was only second in command, just under the boss himself. He had his nose so far up in upper management’s “business area” that I wondered how he ate food with that smell lingering just above his mouth.

“Yeah, just let me finalize a few things here and I’ll be out of here.”

“Well, before you go let me give you a heads up on something…something that’s going to seem real important in a few weeks,” he said. I didn’t look up from my computer, but I could just sense the smug look of self-importance on his face. “I hear that the list is going to be big this year. It seems that we have had less people dropped this year than ever before, and that’s going to affect everyone, especially your department.” That was something I didn’t want to hear.

“OK, Elroy. I suppose I’ll hear all about it in a meeting, right?”

“Yeah, I suppose. You’ll be the first to know as soon as I find out something, OK?” He said that in a manner that reminded me of just why I didn’t like him…or any of his kind, for that matter. He faked compassion, he tried to conceal it, but I knew what he was…he was condescending.

Just go away. Leave and never come back. I thought this as I grinned and said, “Well, I’m ready. Let’s get out of here. Tomorrow is just another day that is going to come too soon.”

2

The next day, I arrived at work to a buzz of activity. Workers were huddling together in groups, with some looking harried and worried, others sitting around with their heads in their hands, while others just sat with blank looks of confusion on their faces. I pulled the first worker I could find and called him into my office.

“What’s going on out there?” I asked him. I had my feelings; the news had gotten out…of that I was sure.

“It’s the list! It’s the list! Oh, we are so screwed!”

“What about the list?” I demanded to know.

“You won’t believe this, but they say that the list is going to be at an unprecedented level this year. While only 65 million have been dropped from the list, at least 75 million more have been placed on the list since last year. That brings our total number of those on the list to over 6 billion! That’s the highest it has ever been!” His eyes looked like they were going to pop out of his skull at any moment.

“Calm down now, just calm down. This is not something that we can’t handle. We’ve had increases almost as much as this in the past. I wouldn’t get so worked up about it.” I said this almost not believing it myself. This was the biggest increase, or at least the biggest increase that I could remember. As much as I didn’t want to admit it, it looked like Elroy was right.

“Top you off, honey?” I looked up and Jan was trying to give me more coffee.

“Not yet. I’m not ready.” I almost forgot that I was not in the office at that moment. I’m still sitting at the end of this counter, a counter filled with people; some with their own cups of coffee and their own stories to tell. But I’m telling mine, so now back to it.

Elroy was right. After attending the meeting, complete with every project and warehouse manager available, including the boss (the main man, the head honcho, the big cheese) I determined that even though the news was not good, the results could be. I set out to prove that what my father had taught me long ago was going to keep me in the best light possible, even maybe shine brighter on me and my department. I was given a secondary crew to support the crew that I already had. It was wonderful! It looked like things were going to be alright after all. And they were.

The tale of how everything came down to the wire up to just a few days before shipping day is pretty boring, I must say. But let me just sum it up a little. With the extra help that the boss had granted my department (well, not really just my department, but the whole process had extra help), things went smoothly. Not that I was looking for a promotion or anything, but maybe there was this little notion in the depths of my thinking, not whacking me over the head with a stick, but more like tickling me with a feather, making me wonder if one was in store for me if things went like I planned. Maybe that feather was all I needed. And maybe I, in turn, used that same feather to tickle a little enthusiasm into my workers. Something worked…because we were ready for shipping two days before the deadline. More than 6 billion packages were sitting in the warehouse, ready to be distributed to each and every client who had requested them. It was pretty amazing, but what really was better than that, was the fact that the number of orders increased from last year (over 10 million!) and we had done it! The boss was going to be pleased.

3

Now, right there in the middle of my outright joy and self-satisfaction of a job well done, I almost forgot one thing that could have distracted me from the task that needed to be done. I was professional enough, but when personal matters invade into your professionalism, you never know what will happen. I had found out, somewhere in the last days of pushing my workers to finish the job, that my parents were getting a divorce. A divorce! They had been married for what seemed like centuries and now, for whatever reason, they were giving up. If I had still been a child, this news would have been a whole lot worse than what it was. It was still bad enough, though. I was their only child, a likeness of my father. I was who he was, and I am who he is. Without the help of both of them working as a team, I never would have stepped into my father’s shoes; that I am sure of. News of this spread among the warehouse and even though my workers didn’t come up to me, offering hollow or sincere regrets, I felt they all knew.

I was sitting at my desk, on the eve of delivery, when a knock came on my office door. I expected it to be Elroy coming to offer his counterfeit condolences. I looked up, and to my utter surprise, there was the boss himself. I thought I hid my amazement pretty well as I stood up to welcome him in.

“Sit down, sit. No need to stand,” he said as he stepped just inside my office door and closed it. “I heard some things and wanted to stop by to say that if there is anything that I can do, just let me know.”

I was still in shock of him coming to my office. He rarely even left his own while at work, much less visited his underlings with condolences. “Thank you. I think I will be all right.” I knew I would be. After all, I wasn’t a kid. I could take a little disappointment without letting it defeat me.

“I also wanted to tell you that you have done a heck of a job getting the packages ready for this delivery. In spite of your personal matters trying to let you down, I think that you stepped up and rose above it all. I’m sure that all of our customers will be very happy, don’t you? I know I am.” He said this with an honest, yet sly grin on his face. What was he up to? Where was he going with this?

“I remember your father. He was a great worker. And I’m sure an even greater Dad,” he said, closing his eyes as if to draw up a picture of my father at work.

“Thank you. He was and is.”

“Enough about that…let me ask you something,” he said. “You know that as well as being the one in charge of everything that goes on here, I am also the one who pilots these packages to their destinations.” I knew that. He was pilot, co-pilot, and delivery person wrapped up in one package. He worked alone.

“Yes, sir, I do know that.”

“In light of the excellent job that you have done this year, and also as a deterrent from your personal matters, I would like to invite you to join me on my flight. You don’t have to lift a finger to help; I can take care of everything. I just feel like it would be nice if you could get away from here, don’t you?”

“It would be nice,” I said. Who was I, that he would single me out of all these other managers to go out on the only flight of the year that he himself directed like a long running Broadway play? No one, I thought to myself.

“Well then, be ready. We leave at midnight.” Without another word, he turned and walked out through the now-empty warehouse that only hours ago, still held most of the packages destined for their respective destinations all over the globe. I was still reeling from it all. No, not the news of my parents impending divorce…that was small change compared to what lay ahead of me now. I couldn’t believe what was happening to me. Did Elroy know? I don’t think so, for if he did, he would already be standing in my office doorway, congratulating me but secretly hating me. Deep down, I hope he did know. I really did.

4

So now, here I am. The darkness outside is slowly creeping away, making room for the light that will soon wake up the world to a brand new day. Not just any day, though. It is Christmas day. I spent the entire night, globetrotting with the best deliveryman in the world. We had delivered all 6 billion packages with me hardly even noticing it. Time seemed to have just flown and stood still all at the same time. I could only imagine all the people finding their packages, ripping them open to find that they got exactly what they ordered. I knew this happened each year, but this time was very different. Instead of just checking the list of deliveries that went into the cargo hold of the transport and sending them on their way to be delivered, I was able to take a peek first-hand of what happens when they leave my warehouse. Promotion or no promotion…I didn’t care. I was able to see a little bit of what every manager, employee, and customer would never dream of seeing. I saw the master deliveryman at work. I saw a little bit of what he does when he leaves his post for that one day of the year, that one day that the rest of the world holds so dear. This was one experience that I would hold dear, one that I would be telling my children about many years from now. Yes children, Daddy rode along…and what a ride!

The bell on the diner door jingled a little, telling those who would listen that someone was coming in for a little coffee, maybe one of those glistening cheese danishes or a doughnut even. I sensed the other customers looking up as they do every time that bell chimed. I didn’t need to look to see who it was. I could feel who it was. It was him, with his bushy white beard, that ridiculous yet all-too-cool red uniform covering a larger-than-life body. I knew there was snow on his black boots and a red and white cap on his head. I felt a hand on my shoulder. Yep, white gloves.

“You ready?” he asked.

“Yes sir, I’m ready.” Jan came over and asked if I needed a refill yet. Gathering up what sugar and creamer lay in front of me, I allowed her do it this time. “Just make it to go. We’ve got a long trip ahead of us. A long trip indeed.”