Trigger

I was pushing a shopping cart through the dog food section of Tractor Supply, the right front wheel wobbling as it rolled. The wobbly wheel vibrated the whole cart, wibbly-wobbly with an occasional scratch. It reminded me of a wobbly wheel on a hospital gurney rolling down a darkened hospital hallway full of masked figures in a horror movie I had seen. As I was reaching for the 20 lb. bag of High Protein dog food, I thought to myself, "This is the last place I expected to have a flashback."

It wasn't a loud noise sounding like gunfire to make me duck for cover behind the aisles that had become undergrowth in the jungles of 'Nam kind of flashback. Nor was it a face melting, dragons in the kitchen, hearing colors kind of flashback. It was merely a scent that took me back over 30 years to middle school and the memories associated with that scent.

When I was young, my grandmother had this object that I can only refer to as a sachet. It wasn't a bag or pouch with scented powders or salts, but it was a hard plastic parasol about 6 inches long. It was solid and made to look like the parasol was partially open. Underneath, in the space around the handle, there were holes drilled out for the scent of the salts or crystals to escape. I know it wasn't powder because when I would shake it, it made a sound much like maracas. I thought it smelled like roses. I don't know why I associated that smell with roses, because my grandmother had roses and it didn't at all smell like the ones in her garden did. That smell somehow got stored in my brain, perhaps because of another association...

I was a teenager thinking teenager thoughts and doing teenager things. The school I was attending was a little 2-room schoolhouse with a teacher and a principal who doubled as a second teacher. As a kid, seeing with a kid's eyes, the world was no bigger than what I had seen and where I had been, and that made the world very small indeed. We didn't go anywhere or do anything more than school, church, and the occasional trip to the mall. Through those eyes, we didn't have anything. As I now see it, I truly wasn't aware of just how good I had it. We were not dirt-poor and we were far from rich, but we had what we needed. This school was a private church school with tuition that was mostly paid from someone else's pocket. I didn't know or care to know. I thought cleaning the church every week paid for it. Looking back, I was truly lucky to be there at all. And I'm glad I was able to be there, because teenage thoughts and teenage things included less and less attention to toys and more attention to things that mattered, mainly noticing that girls really weren't that icky after all.

Her name was Tamara. She had an older sister named Tonya that other boys thought was pretty, and she was, but my attention was on Tamara. She had the allure of tan-skin, dark hair, and dark almond eyes. Perhaps I was intrigued by the way she would talk to me like no other girl had. Her father was a sprint car racer and she would tell me about weekends at the dirt track and the thrill of the roaring engines of the cars as they slid around the corners and sprinted down the straightaways. I was into cars at the time and I would buy this magazine called "CARtoons" that we would sometimes look at together in the classroom during lunchtime. I think she was my first real "friend-that-was-a-girl" that I would do stuff with that didn't involve getting cootie shots afterwards.

She smelled like my grandmother's sachet. To borrow a quote from the movie 'Sin City,' "She smelled like angels ought to smell."

I stood there in the dog food section with the scent of memory lingering in the air. Instantly, everything it reminded me of hit me: My grandmother's sachet, a rose-but-not-a-rose aroma, an elementary crush. I was time traveling with a scent that my nose recognized as something my brain had stored in an easily accessible place. Every time I smell that scent; every time...these things always come to mind and to heart.

I looked around me, not knowing which woman was unknowingly transporting me to this other time. It could have been any one of the ladies purchasing horse feed, ugly sweaters for coddled canines, live chicks, or bales of hay. It really didn't matter who it was. I know it was a woman; it was always a woman, because it was a womanly smell. I associate it as such. It is grandma. It is a flower. It is pubescent puppy love.

It's a wondrous thing, this memory machine of ours. These little snippets of times remembered are triggered by the smallest thing; an object, a scent, a song, a certain place. There was a time that I couldn't listen to music I loved because it invoked the memory of someone who introduced me to all sorts of new music. There was a time I couldn't listen to a certain band because of the memory of seeing them live so many times together. There's a little restaurant/bar that I could go the rest of my life and not step foot into again because it reminds me of the beginning of an end. Images of cats and boxes and bookshelves equals overwhelming thoughts of regret and guilt. There's a booth at a restaurant that will forever be the place where I first met someone. There's another booth in another restaurant that still echoes the words spoken in love by a shaky voice from a man down on one knee.

These memories are mostly good ones, but in a melancholy way, for the situations preceding and following them are done. They're over, never to be lived again. I don't begrudge these memories. They are a part of me, just like my deformed toe from a broken bone, the scars hidden under my beard, my well-worn toboggan or the age-old Birkenstock clogs that get repaired instead of replaced. I'd rather have them than not. But new ones are being made every day, for good or bad. And just like the old ones, these new ones will be stored in a place of quick and easy access. It may not be the best place to store them. Some will say to put them deep down, to not think about them.

But you know what?  I put them near the surface because that's where I want them. And perhaps that's the best place of all

Mudman

Most of our fears come not from outside sources, but from within ourselves. When we come to the realization that we've created the things that scare us most, we should be able to conquer those fears with ease. Sometimes, though, that realization comes to us too late to change the results from fearing our own creations. I have fears and I'm scared to death that it's already too late.

Love...no, fear AND love; you are as a hideous golem, made from the ruddy nothingness of my own desires, created with truth in your mouth for a purpose; to serve your creator. This service can exact a great and terrible price. And so, as the golem, when the truth is extracted, you return to dust; and even as you fall apart, you inflict great harm and even scar the one who made you; your creator and destroyer of life.

I've always hated fear. I've always loved love. But right now, in this dark and ocherous moment, you are equally despised. My back is turned. I haven't the desire to speak to either one of you.

Hush

I stood in the falling snow, hearing the hushed roar of innumerable flakes swishing past my ears in their random plummet; their collective crash as they slammed into earth. It's a quiet roar. It's a loud whisper. It's a cacophony of crystalline chaos, beautiful in its silent symphony. As the flakes hit the layer of unraked leaves of Fall, with a pit-pat, pit-pat, browns turned to white. They covered the dormant grasses, asleep until Spring, turning yellows to softening ivory. The song switched as the snow piled layer upon layer on this sleepy land, the tune turning from the tinny clatter of clear crystal to a muffled sound of falling cotton.

I stood in this snowfall beyond my threshold of tolerance. Snow is beautiful, but cold and wet, and yet I remained, through the wind chilling my bones. I remained, through the melting snow that found its way under the collar of my coat and over the rim of my shoes. I shivered as I stood and as I stood, I listened. I shushed my inner battles and listened for inner peace. I quieted myself and listened to the world outside. Aside from its song, I listened for clarity.

I listened for answers to questions unasked.
I listened for voices from faces unmasked.
I heard but a whimper, as the snow turned to slush.
I heard my soul speaking, whispering, "Hush."

"Quiet the world for just a moment in time. Quiet the worries that do nothing but cause grief. Look into silence and hear your reflection."

I stood there. I stood and listened and looked. Snow covered the trees and the road that was recently clear was now blanketed as well. No cars, just building layers of Nature's cold majesty making thoughts of getting to work in the morning just that; merely thoughts. And just like the grey of the sky, nothing was clear. Just lovely white noise...

And even now, in a bed of blankets, I know
Outside, there's still falling snow.
And as I saw before the darkness of my room,
The window showed a brightness in the night's gloom.
The whole of the land is luminous white,
Snow still falling,
Song still calling,
A song that still plays into the night.

And a hush as I turn out the light...

If

If

"…the object of the world of ideas as a whole is not the portrayal of reality - this would be an utterly impossible task - but rather to provide us with an instrument for finding our way about more easily in the world." -Hans Vaihinger

I think I overdid it on the sweet tea. When your teeth go into shock with each sip, you might have mixed too much sugar into it. Well, don't blame me. I mean, I did make it, but I'm used to making 5 gallons at a time. I know exactly how much to put into that much in order to satisfy these Southern palates. I  only made 2 gallons and that calls for mathematics and long division and pi...Mmm...pie. Anyway, somebody just said the tea was perfect. So go ahead and blame me.

I'm waiting for these ladies to finish up and go upstairs to their Bible study so I can put away their leftover food, clean up, and go home. I'm sitting here sipping on sickeningly sweet tea, and thinking. Sipping and thinking...

If.

If can be negatively presumptuous. If can be a bearer of hope. If encompasses daydreams and is a harbinger of nightmares. If can create whole new worlds for you to enjoy and explore or entrap you in the comfort of the only one you've ever known. If can keep you wondering, wandering, and pondering.

Ifs abound. If only I'd spent more time showing how much I cared and less on caring for shows. If I'd kept my head more in school books and less in the clouds. If I'd spent as much time on repairing scars as I did repairing cars. If only I'd saved more money and spent more time. If only I'd talked more and assumed less. If money wasn't an object, I wouldn't try to hold on to it so much. If only I'd paid more attention to the health status of the love I had, I wouldn't be stumbling around in this loser suit stitched together with mismatched patches of doomed relationships. If I were a better man...

Those ifs aren't necessarily current ifs. But I have no doubt that they have crossed my mind over these years. And there's no doubt that they will come into my head again, sooner or later. I'm human and humans are prone to imagination; they create scenarios to fulfill needs, wants, even fictitious views of reality, views that fit the way they want things to be.

If I were a swan, I'd be gone.
If I were a train, I'd be late.
And if I were a good man, I'd talk with you more often than I do.
If I were to sleep, I could dream.
If I were afraid, I could hide.
If I go insane, please don't put your wires in my brain.
If I were the moon, I'd be cool.
If I were a rule, I would bend.
If I were a good man, I'd understand the spaces between friends.
If I were alone, I would cry.
And if I were with you, I'd be home and dry.
And if I go insane, will you still let me join in with the game?
If I were a swan, I'd be gone.
If I were a train, I'd be late again.
If I were a good man, I'd talk to you more often than I do.
  -If, Pink Floyd

As if.

More often than not, I find "if" to be full of doubt. In fact, I'm impressed to believe that "if" weighs in more on the negative side of skepticism. Most of my ifs are looking at what might have been; looking backward first, before looking forward. Looking forward is almost always positive. Both visions are creating a fictional scene, but I think only in the forward can you live "as if."

In "Philosophie des Als Ob" (Philosophy of As If) , philosopher Hans Vaihinger argued that human beings can never really know the underlying reality of the world, and that as a result we construct systems of thought and then assume that these match reality: we behave "as if" the world matches our models. In other words, we have no idea what's going to happen, so we believe what will happen and live as if it is already so. There is no guarantee that the sun will rise in the morning, we just assume that it will. We can't be sure the world still be here at sunrise, we merely believe it will be. And it's gonna snow tomorrow because we cleared the stores of milkbread...wait, that isn't a good example.

I don't believe wholeheartedly in the as if. I do believe that positive thinking and positive living are grand things and most certainly would have an impact on how you live your life. It's no guarantee that life will go as you plan in the as if. If you live as if everything you love could be gone in time, especially if sooner than later, you'll live (insert euphemism here) like there's no tomorrow.

"As If" isn't a science. It isn't something that can be proven in a lab. It's just a theoretical look on life. It's a view that life can be better if you live as if it already is. So many times I'm tempted to consume time and energy, most often to the detriment of happiness and well being, of thinking of my ifs. Maybe there's something in living as if; as if I'm already living life to it's fullest; as if success is already attained; as if happiness has and always will be; as if life is love.

Because it is, ya know?

We've Got to Stop Meeting Like This

Quite the crazy last few days, huh?

I'm sitting here eating my microwaved leftovers from Tuesday's supper of Choplets, lima beans, mac-n-cheese, and garlic cheddar rolls. I came into work today even though we are officially closed. People say it's quieter when you're at work on an off day. Don't let 'em fool ya. That heating unit fan above my head in the kitchen is just as loud as it would be any other day. It may be quiet elsewhere in this building, but not right here. Nor in my head.

The stress level is never as high as it is when you're in a situation where you're not completely in control. Tuesday, here at work, we had barely started a staff meeting before we got the call that the schools were closing and to come get your kids. We quickly finished the meeting and I left as soon as I could, which wasn't soon enough. After waiting 45 minutes to get from McCallie Avenue to 3rd. Street to get onto Amnicola Highway, I finally decided to just go down 3rd. Street to Holtzclaw Avenue. There wasn't nearly as much traffic. And as if by miracle, when I turned onto Holtzclaw, I ended up being a few vehicles behind a truck spreading sand. I followed that truck up Wilcox to Chamberlain, onto Glass Street, and eventually all the way to Hwy. 153, where traffic was moving along at 45 mph. Aside from snail's pace traffic at the Lee Highway exit, I made it to my kids' school without any major problems. Time elapsed: 2 hours.

I parked to go in to get my kids. I wasn't about to brave another 2 or more hours in the car without first...umm...visiting the facilities. I did that, gathered my kids, and headed home. Once again, besides the snarl at Vance and Lee Highway intersection, the rest of the trip home was uneventful. That's not to say it wasn't stressful. I'm pretty confident in my driving skills. But when the roads are covered with ice and idiots, the stress levels tend to rise. My kids noticed this. At one point, when my son asked me about something that was said on the radio, I patted his leg and said, "I know the radio is saying stuff, but I'm not hearing it." The road and how to get home preoccupied my mind enough to make me deaf to that noise.

I decided to get on I-75 North at Bonny Oaks and go up to the first Cleveland exit to get home. Honestly, it wasn't that bad. The interstate had snow on it, but there were clear tracks, not unlike a slot track, that I followed all the way to that exit. They even continued all the way down APD40 to Dalton Pike to where I turn off at Johnson Road. Johnson Road was white with snow. I took it easy and drove the final 2 miles to home. The road, in places, looked like someone had been scraping it with a plow. Sure enough, I came upon a tractor with a scrape blade that was making sure the road was clear from the chicken houses that are about 1/2 mile before my house, to the main road. Beyond that, the road looked like it had not even been touched. It was actually beautiful. That last 1/2 mile was the best part of that trip. No slipping, no sliding...just the crunch of snow under my tires and the sight of my house coming into view. I felt the weight of stress leave my body through my now unclenched fists as I put the car into "Park." We were home. Elapsed time since leaving work: 4 hours.

All that was left to do was to enjoy the snow. I like snow like I like green olives, swiss cheese, or moonshine; a little dab'll do me. The snow is pretty, it sounds musical under tires as you drive or your feet as you walk, but once I start getting wet I start getting cold and I start getting done with it. I reached that point in 10 minutes flat. My daughter lasted longer; my son even longer than that. But, man it sure was pretty seen from the kitchen window and over the rim of a hot cuppa joe.

It's taken 729 words to get to the point. I ramble, I know, and this is more than just a boring re-cap of "Blizzard '14, or How I Survived the Drive Home." It isn't even about me. I made it home. I got my kids home. There were so many others who wrecked or were otherwise stranded in places other than their own driveways. We were safe. We were home. We were alive. We were together.

It was a simple scroll down the numerous status updates that fill my Facebook news feed. It was a simple status update that made me stop the scrolling and allow what I was reading to soak in. It took only a few seconds, but those seconds were a slow transition from bewilderment to realization to acceptance. Another family member had passed away. You know, you really are never prepared when a loved one dies. I am sure nobody was expecting this. I surely wasn't. And I know his wife and kids certainly weren't.

I probably wasn't as close to Lewis Scoggins as I could have been. I don't have too many memories to speak of. I do remember that he was most likely the first person I knew that made his own venison jerky. I remember when he and his family lived near the intersection of Wesleyan and Weatherly Switch Roads. I thought, just by looking at the home and property that these were some of the most down to earth earthy people on the Earth. I was somewhat envious. I know even more recently, I was envious of his awesome beard. Weird.

You know what sucks? Funerals. The only good I see in them is perhaps seeing family members that you haven't seen in a while. Funerals are unplanned family reunions where things are supposed to be said from the heart. Whether they're heartfelt or surface sayings, we all make words a part of the pleasantries, inserting them into the grieving process; things are said to make things better. Many things were said at the last funeral I attended. Things that were meant at the time and are still meant. I said them; others said them too. Of course we all meant to follow through on our words with actions. Saying and doing are like red and violet; opposite ends of a spectrum wrought with intent and regret. A rainbow isn't a rainbow without the oranges, yellows, greens, blues, and indigos in the middle. What usually ends up missing are those colors in between the ends. What's missing are the steps between saying and doing.

I'm guilty of not completing the rainbow. I know that saying is not doing. What is it that gets in the way? Perhaps it's life itself that gets in the way. Work demands my attendance. Kids gotta get their homework done. The animals aren't going to feed themselves, ya know. All I wanna do is just get home. There's too much going on in my life to worry about someone else. But you know what? Here's what: none of this is good enough. Nothing is more important than being with loved ones. If life is what gets in the way, life is also the thing that removes these barriers; these excuses that we make. Life is important and we should make good on all the words we say. Fill in the gap between saying and doing with reasons to actually *do*.

We need to make ourselves the reasons. We need to do it before we gather together at another unplanned family reunion. It's said that family is not just a group of people related by blood. Family is a group of people related by love.

Family? I'll see you Sunday. Lewis? I'll see you someday, after we're all done meeting like this...

Coincidentally

You just gotta love people who are real. You also gotta wonder about when coincidences happen if that's what they really are.

I had to work today. Not a big deal, but I normally don't work on a Saturday. Lifelong childhood instilled religious reasons aside, it's also the weekend, and well, that's my time. They have me Monday-Friday. But a patriarch member of the church had died and the funeral was today and a member of staff needed to be on hand for coffee, lights, locks, and faithful servitude with a smile. And since the funeral arrangements were made almost last-minute and there was no one else to do it, I was their man.

A few days before this; before knowing I would have to work today, I was talking to the woman who heads up the flower ministry. They take the flower arrangements from the church services and rearrange them into vases to give to sick members or to those in hospitals and can't come to church. I was telling her that this was my week with my kids and I was ready for the weekend off with them. Not that we were going to do anything special. It was merely time spent together. So she must have remembered this conversation today when I saw her.

After the funeral service, the benevolence committee was going to serve the family of the deceased some dinner. I made the coffee and put out a bowl of chilled bottled water to go with that dinner. You see, the room where the family was being served supper is the same room that the flower lady uses to make the vases to be delivered. That meant that after the dinner, I had to tear that setup down and set up her tables. It's no big deal. I do it every week. I usually have it done on Friday for her to have her decorations and accessories on the tables ready to go to work on Sunday. But with this funeral and all, it couldn't be done until after the family had eaten today.

And speaking of food, one of the thoughts in my head was of supper for my kids. I was thinking of what I had to cook when I got home. I still need to go food shopping, so there wasn't much that came to mind to cook. I was thinking of how easy it would be to just stop and pick up pizza on the way home. I consulted my checkbook and it said, "Not if you want gas for the rest of the week." I resigned myself to cooking.

The family was finishing up, so I texted this woman to let her know that she could come in and start her setup. By the time she got there, I had rolled away the extra tables and had put the chairs away. All she had to do was set her stuff up.

What I did today is part of my job. Granted, it was my off day, and there was the incentive of overtime pay, but still, it is part of what I do there. It was nothing that I wouldn't normally do for anyone.

I deal with members of this church every day. There are those that I enjoy interacting with and there are those that, whenever I see them coming in, I suddenly remember that there's something I have to do on the other side of the building. After nearly 5 years there, I think I can sense who's genuine and who's fake. This sense isn't just work specific either. I tend to think I have that knack naturally in any circumstance. Specifically, at work, there are those who compliment my work and say I'm appreciated and truly mean it. Then there are those who say the same thing, then say things contrary to other people, some of who aren't so secretive and conniving and let what they hear be known to me. It's these contrary people that I try to avoid. This flower lady is not one of those people.

As we were both finishing up about the same time, I heard her call my name. She was walking towards me, hand stretched out, palming what obviously a folded up bill. She quickly gave it to me and said, "Get your kids some pizza on your way home." I looked at the bill she had given me. It was $20. I had not mentioned anything about what I had been thinking about earlier. She had no clue that I was not looking forward to cooking after being at work all day. She didn't know about my thoughts of pizza nor of my earlier conversation with my checkbook.

I asked her if she was reading my mind. She just shook her head "no" while I told her about wanting to get pizza for mine and my kids' supper. Was this a mere coincidence that a genuine person was connected with my thoughts of the lack of money and of wanting pizza pies? Why did she specifically mention pizza? It could be that she remembered that I had my kids. She could have just thought I might not want to cook after being at work for the day. Deductive reasoning would say that getting a pizza would alleviate the undesirable act of cooking and cleanup at home.

Coincidence? Could be. What isn't a coincidence is the acquisition of genuine people in my life. Kindness begets likewise. More than once I was told by the flower lady that the sweet little old lady left behind by her husband's passing appreciated me being there today. I was told that the family appreciated me being there.

Coincidentally, I was merely doing my job.

That's the Spirit

I don't know how much longer I can stay awake. I started this evening with the determined resolve to catch the Big Guy in the act. All the stories said he would come, usually down the chimney, but lacking a chimney, I was certain he'd use one of the two doors in this little house. I wasn't allowed to stay up and wait in the living room where I'd be sure to see him as he made his grand entrance with his red suit, jelly belly, rosy cheeks and his toy sack filled to the brim slung over his shoulder. But I could lay in my bed all attentive, knowing just what a jiggling door handle sounded like. Surely a sleigh being pulled by 8 tiny reindeer couldn't make a whisper-quiet landing on the roof. I was ready to spring out of bed at the first sign of any noise out of the norm.

Did I just hear something? I'm not sure, but I think I drifted off there for just a second. I must stay awake. I must stay...wait a minute. If he notices we don't have a chimney, will he land in the yard instead? That means I won't hear him on the roof. And then there's the tree. It's not real. It's not even green. It's shiny aluminum. Does that matter? Will it make a difference? Will he see the metallic glow and miss the fact that it's a tree, and not a low-hanging disco ball?

Have I been good enough this year? It wasn't my fault that I was left behind that one time when we were going to town because I was dragging my feet when Mom said to "hurry up if you don't want to be left behind." And I didn't flip the bird to my teacher. That was my ring finger. I have a hard time believing that he could see my intent, but couldn't see which finger I threw up. And, of course I didn't mean to laugh and call my sister names. I thought we were playing reindeer games...

I wonder what I'll get this year? I remember the best toy from last year. It was a Steve Austin 14-inch Action Figure with bionic eye (miniature spy glass through his head), bionic hand grip action, with crystal radio backpack. The radio had an earpiece and a long wire with an alligator clip to clip onto something metal that touched the earth to ground the crystal. It actually worked! Sort of. I enjoyed that gift about as much as I did my Evel Knievel on a rip-cord motorcycle and G. I. Joe action figure with rotating wrist (for hand-held rotor blades).

I don't even know what time it is. All I know is I gotta pee, but I can't keep my eyes open any longer. I must fight sleep! I must stay awake! I know I can do...

I'm being shaken. The bedroom is lit with a glow from the morning sun and my brother wants me to wake up. It was then that I realized I had failed. I had fallen asleep and missed Santa. It was Christmas morning. There were presents at the foot of my bed and presents under the tree. The stockings were filled with nuts and fruits and candies and little toys. The presents on the bed were wrapped; the ones under the tree were not. The wrapped ones were from Mom; unwrapped, from Santa. What did I see under the tree? There was a Tonka truck, a Ford Bronco with a shop jack in the bed and a winch on the front bumper. There was more than enough room for Steve and Joe to ride, and perhaps a little room for Barbie in there as well.

It was a good Christmas. There was still that bit of belief in its magic. There was still the mystery and childlike wonder at the appearance of gifts where there were none before. There was the spirit of giving and, I won't lie, getting. There was just one thing...

As I sit here and type this memory of a magical morning from my distant youth, I know what that one thing was, even though I wasn't aware of it for quite some time. Christmas was always special. We were never loaded down with gifts. We got something we wanted and something we needed. It was a perfect balance. We were kids, and kids want things and need things. Kids want to believe what you tell them. You tell them that this magical dude flies around the world to all the good boys and girls delivering gifts, and, lo and behold, there's gifts under the tree, they're gonna believe you. But that one thing...

I remembered more from that night than I thought. Even in a deep sleep, the need to go to the bathroom has great waking power. I remember getting up. I remember opening my door slowly, trying not to make noise that would wake anyone up. I remember turning as I shut my door, and as I did, I barely saw a movement in the direction of my grandmother's (whom we all called "Mom") bedroom. And what I didn't notice until after I'd come back from the bathroom, were shadows of things under the tree. Of course, I didn't go to investigate, because I'd been told to stay in bed. Bathroom break exempted, of course.

I believe that was my last Christmas truly believing in Santa Claus. It wasn't this earth-shattering revelation; something I'd one day be telling a therapist as I reclined on a couch. It wasn't something that changed my childhood forever, claiming lies over truth that would cause emotional scars. And maybe it really wasn't a total disbelief in the Big Guy, but perhaps the seeds of doubt were planted with a simple fleeting glimpse in a dark room of someone I knew and loved. I knew the presents at the foot of my bed were from her. She told us so. But making us believe that there were presents that were not from her? I didn't see the harm in that.

Did I, when my kids were old enough to comprehend the concept of Christmas, let them believe as I once did? You bet I did. Did I, once they were old enough to decide on their own and begin to question, tell them the truth? Once again, yer darn tootin' I did. But just as my grandmother did, I left a little bit of mystery; a little bit of wonder to live on as a spirit of the season. There would always be one present that I had no clue where it had come from. And all of this was done with a wink and a nod. They knew, just as I did.

The spirit of Christmas isn't something that you unwrap on Christmas morning. It isn't a song you hear on the speakers over the din of frenzied shoppers looking for the perfect gift at the store. It isn't opening up the card at the company Christmas party and getting what you deem to be an insufficient bonus. It's the fact that you got one at all. It's singing along with the song you hear at the store. It's the feeling of being loved enough to have something given to you. It's giving to others and getting love in return.

This Christmas is going to be meager on both the giving and the getting of stuff. We all want stuff. I admit it. Not so much for me, but I like to give my kids things. They know how it is. They know that "Santa" is broke this year. Sure, there will be things under the replacement tree (fake ficus) and they know I try to give to them year-round. Me? If I want something, I just get it, if there's money to get it with. There are so many things I want...I had...that money can't buy. Those things slip through my fingers so easily.

This is something that I want my kids to know this Christmas day:

We may not have a tree, but I hope that you develop roots. Roots in good moral behavior. Roots in caring about other people. Roots in doing what you know is right in your heart.

There may not be lots of presents, but I will do my best to give you a future. A future where you can look back on your past and say, "I did my best." A future where faith holds promises for you. I'm not the best believer, and you know you're free to make your own choices in this matter, but example is a great teacher.

Giving. Loving. Family. Faith. To me, this is the spirit of this season. It's something we all need, and get too little of. Give some...get some.

Oh, and that Tonka truck I got that Christmas morning? I still have it.

Last Night

11:26.

That means it's really 11:16. Ten minute leeway on the morning alarms and all...

Sigh. I had been laying in bed for nearly two hours. I was really tired when I crawled under the sheet and double blankets that, at first were pulled up to my chin but are now currently pulled down mid-torso. I've heard the sounds of rain increase and then dwindle to a trickle. I've heard the sounds of the neighborhood dogs being joined by my dogs and a yipping handful of coyotes in a 2-mile radial display of canine operatics. And the cats...I've lost count of the laps they've run on the roof of this trailer. Only thing missing is the puppies whining to go outside, but that will occur at 2:00 a.m. with them refusing to leave the porch because of the rain, no matter how bad they have to go.

I hadn't felt good all day. Not bad enough to not go to work, but bad enough to not want to be there. Feeling like a fever, but not. Body aches that ibuprofen fixes right up. It's like I have Flu Lite. And as I lay here wondering why I'm not in dreamland, I also wonder if I dazily mistook DayQuil for NyQuil...

Slumber finally came upon me. I don't know when it came because I was laying on my back (a position that I rarely take in bed to sleep because the snoring soon wakes even myself up) and therefore couldn't see a clock. But before I slept, I thought. I thought about Christmas and how measly it is going to be this year. I was thinking that I can't afford the luxury of a tree, but I do have the fake ficus that can do the honor this year. Hey, it's a tree and it truly is ever green. Right?

I thought about how this year has been about 70/30 on the crappy/awesome ratio. April saw the demise of a relationship with someone I considered the second love of my life. Why the second? Because, come on, surely the mother of my kids was the first. That doesn't weaken the second love in the least. Nor does it put the first one on an unattainable pedestal. It's merely numerical...but still, I mourned that lost relationship for quite some time. Work? Well, it's work. It isn't perfect, but I love it now like I loved it when I first started.

Personal issues? I never said I was anything else than what I am. I am working on myself. I never said I was a good man. I only said I try.

Money? I don't even wanna talk about it, and that should speak volumes.

Dreams took me. I remember standing on a hillside looking over a valley below that was covered with ice and snow. A little road wove itself through that valley. The headlights of a car glistened off the icy road, disappearing behind sections of the road hidden by frost covered trees. As I stood there watching the lights come and go, I remember someone standing beside me. I don't know who it was, whether it was male or female, or even if the voice I heard speak was audible or in my head.

"Last night."

As soon as the words were spoken, the lights from the car vanished and I was no longer on the hillside. I was in the valley, in the woods. The snow was gone. Flowers were in bloom, trees had sprung forth leaves; new life was everywhere. And those words were still echoing in my head.

Then I awoke...

I had no clue what it meant. I have no idea what it means. I've had plenty of "last nights." Some I'd love to re-live, others I'd like to forget. But I can't do either. I thought that maybe, since I ended up in the woods with new life springing forth all around me, that perhaps a period of darkness was over; the last night of hurting; a last night of rejection; a last night of worry...all of that was coming to an end, replaced by the newness of something else.

There was something else I thought about before drifting off to sleep again. What if it meant it was my last night? What would I do if it was? I know one thing, first and foremost that I would do. Everyone I love would be fully aware that I love them. Those that I don't love as much? They would be made aware of that too. Would I change anything? If so, it wouldn't be much. Changing things always seems to come too late. It wouldn't make a difference anyway.

I've had hyper-realistic dreams or gut feelings before. Nothing's ever come from them, but when it happens, it seems so real, like it is something I can feel or at least do something about to either make it happen or prevent from happening. Perhaps this "last night" is a thought from deep within, a hope, a wish, a dream, a premonition of positivity and luck, from myself, to myself.

But then, perhaps it was just the nighttime flu medicine messing with my head...it's not as romantic, but it's much more believable. :-)

dr jn ltr

"Hey. I'm sorry, you're a really nice guy..."

Barely an hour after the family Thanksgiving feast and hardly two minutes after uttering the words, "I don't know what's going on," the ringtone that indicates an incoming text sang its muffled cry from my pocket. I had a hunch as to who it was from before I even pulled the phone out. But I really didn't expect what I read.

I had a feeling something was going sour for a few weeks. The time spent together had become less frequent and the quality of that time had not necessarily gone bad, but it had changed. The atmosphere was not as fluid; the little things had all but vanished. The texts that used to fill my phone's memory bank in a few days had dwindled down to texts that were merely responses to mine. Forget about incoming calls; those were non-existent.

"...and you deserve the best..."

Flames die out if they're not fed fuel. It takes more than just wanting a fire to have a fire. You've got to add to it something that will keep it going. It's got to have oxygen. It's got to have fuel; something to burn. A relationship is like that fire, hot and bright, where one person is the wood and the other is air, both adding to the mix to keep the fire going. Sure, sometimes external factors can hinder the flames, like water being poured on the coals, but if you take away either internal factor, poof...out it goes. You both have to contribute; you both have to put forth the effort it takes for combustion.

"...but I'm not happy being in a relationship with you..."

I should have seen this coming. In a way, I did have a premonition. After the times spent together became more infrequent, I would look forward to the next time together. This last time we were apart, it was just over a week since I'd seen her. Wouldn't that make you want to see someone after all that time? Wouldn't you be excited as that time drew nearer? I was. When I mentioned that I was so excited on the drive over that I almost had butterflies; like it was the first time all over again, the response I got was, "That's just weird."

Weird? Weird that I felt that excited about seeing someone who took my breath away? Weird that I wanted to see her again? I didn't get it. I still don't.

"...and I'm sorry, but I think it would be better if we just parted ways."

After a while, doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different outcome grows quite old. When I say "doing the same thing over and over" I mean put my heart into somebody. I mean try and find someone who fits with my complexities, matches my simple personality, shares my love of weird things, tolerates my imperfections and won't run at the first sign of strife. Every time it seems right, it seems to go wrong. It gets tiring.

"I'm just not feeling it anymore...you didn't do anything wrong..."

I do love technology. I love having the world in the palm of my hand or at the end of my tapping fingertips. It does make things easier, if faster equates with easier, that is. Type up a few words, hit send and your recipient gets those words seconds later. Wanna read a book? Download that. Wanna hear a favorite song? YouTube it. Movies? Comics? Research? Just reach out and take it. There is something to say about a handwritten letter, though. The words written by hand, in my mind, carry a bit of the person who wrote them, like the ink flowed from their fingers. Reading a book...I love flipping through the pages. Renting a movie from the nearest Redbox...there's adventure in finding the nearest one with movies you want to see, and I usually throw an errand into the whole trip.

But you know what's best? What carries the most weight and means more to me than any email, text or even a handwritten letter? What puts more meaning into this whole "tactile experience of life?" Face to face communication. Sure, it's easier to say something when you don't have to look them in the eye. It takes the pressure off, reduces the timidity or the awkwardness of speaking. I'm the first to admit that my hands speak better than my tongue ever could. But when it comes to getting your point across with something as important as say, removing yourself from someone's life or expressing your love, nothing's better; nothing's more personal than live, in-your-face interaction.

"I just know you're not the one for me."

As much as that stuck the knife right into my heart, at least it wasn't twisted while it was in there. Truth is so much better than lies. Explanation is so much better than being left wondering why; so much better that the end comes sooner than later when all signs point toward failure, no matter how much you want it to work. I'm strangely fine with it. No regrets, right?

I'm not mad. Just like I wish for myself the best in this life quest, I too wish the same for her. Just like I want someone to put up with me, I wish the same for her. Like I said, I'm not mad.

I only wish that it had happened to my face, not via text.

Common Wealth

"We all have riches. Some have them in money, but most have riches in talent, ideas, creativity, loving, caring, or wisdom." -Sara Teasdale

As I closed the checkbook on another bill-paying session, I noticed that the number of days left until the next payday was not equally proportionate to the final number in the check register. I get paid every 15 days, which means that there are 11 days to go. 11 days to curtail spending. 11 days to wonder where it all goes. 11 days to watch it go. In the end, it doesn't really matter. I always seem to make it, one way or another. Besides, I have more wealth than a positive cash flow.

I was talking to a friend a while back around the icy chill of a cold one or two or six. Chit-chat turned to small talk turned to random thoughts turned to deep conversation. I remember talking about a guy we both know who had run into some trouble and with whom we had fallen out of contact with. He was the type of guy who couldn't sit still. He couldn't get his mind off of business and the art of accumulating the almighty dollar long enough to enjoy conversation and the deep connection between friends. Even on a camping trip, when he said "No business this weekend" he was on his phone, trying to make money.

There's absolutely nothing wrong with making money. After all, it takes money to live, no matter where you are. Even those who "live off of the grid" had to buy things to get them there. Growing up, I never really knew how low the income level was at our house. We always seemed to have what we needed. And occasionally, what we wanted. But there was never a shortage on things that kids need; love from my grandmother, food on the table, the whole world in a 2-acre yard, education from schooling and from common sense, shoes and clothes, and whenever deemed necessary...a good ol' paddlin'.

There are things in our lives much more important than money. The love of your family and friends, good health, hobbies, and time spent with all the above, just to name a few. This guy just didn't get it. It came out in our conversation that our friend asked my buddy, "Aren't you worried about money? Don't you want wealth?" And the answer to his questions stunned him; he was blown away. My buddy told him exactly what I would have said. "I do have wealth. I have a wife and kids who love me. I have a job that pays the bills. I have my toys; my cars which are my hobbies. I am surrounded by friends who are always there for me and are always welcome in my home. I have all the wealth I need at the moment." This other guy didn't get it. He asked, "How do you get these things?" My friend answered, "It isn't something you get. It's just something you have. And all I know is that I have it."

I get it. In fact, I got it too. I have children that love me and I love them. I have a woman who has my heart and who means the world to me. I love her. I have a job that doesn't make me rich, but I consider it the best job I've ever had. I may not have a lot of material goods, but what I have is mine. I didn't "get" any of these common riches by buying them. I just have them. If I have to buy these things, it sure isn't bought with money. The down payment is kindness. The monthly payment is understanding. And the interest earned is love.

Too many people are concerned about their fat bank accounts without even caring about others who may be in dire need. They are too focused on the accumulation of their own wealth. It doesn't matter that there isn't a high-definition flat-panel television in my living room. I don't care that I drive a small economy car that was isn't flashy or could smoke you on the straightaway and that my other vehicle is one whose meager monthly payments ended while I still hadn't even grown my first facial hair. My house isn't much to look at or to brag about, but it is home. I get it. I got it. It's good. I share a common wealth with my friends and loved ones who also get it.

And that makes me rich beyond my wildest dreams.