Nowhere America: Walt...

Walt

 Hey, old man --- it’s been a long time.  I should have gotten back here sooner and much more frequently; but youth has no concept of time, no sense of urgency.  I don't know.  I guess I mistoakenly assumed you would always be around.

 Upon my granddad’s headstone I place a can of skoal, a fishing lure, and a baseball.  They are the three things that remind me the most of him.  I guess I could have placed a bottle of corn husker’s lotion there as well. Every time I see that bottle, every time I smell its contents -- I immediately think of granddad….Maybe next time.

 I always thought that granddad was a good man; but it wasn’t until after he died that I found out that he was actually a GREAT man.

Because of my granddad I have become somewhat of a junior World War II historian.  The day granddad passed away hit me like a ton of bricks  -- he, along with Kenny and myself, were supposed to go fishing the next morning.  Grandad spent the previous day getting the boat ready, double checking all the gear, getting bait and putting it in the fridge.  We were going to be well prepared for the trip ----- then he unepextectdly passed away in his sleep that evening…

 As a young man you have this tendency to feel ignorantly immortal.  The concept of death never really crosses your mind unless you see it in the movies --- or it happens to a loved one.

 I can’t even begin to fathom why I never even considered that granddad would be gone someday.  He was always going to be around, right?  I was so busy (or so I thought) with my own life that I didn’t spend near enough time with him.  I took him for granted, and I’m not sure that I will ever get over that.

 The funeral was rough.  I broke down and felt the weight of the loss as I saw him lying peacefully in the coffin.  But in all my misery I could at least take solace in knowing that he was going to meet his maker dressed in a new pair of Key bib overalls. A suit would not have accurately portrayed the man that he was.

For as long as I could remember granddad, except on vary rare occasions, had always been in a pair of overalls.  I do remember seeing him in a suit for my wedding; but he didn’t have to do that.  I’d have been perfectly okay with him seeing him at the church in his bibbers, a can of skoal in the front chest pocket, ball cap on his head, slightly tilted to one side.

 After the funeral the family went back to grandma’s house, where she pulled out an old shoe box full of family history that I had never seen before.  I was immediately drawn in by a black and white photograph of my granddad, then a very young man, dressed in his class A army uniform -- hat slightly tilted to one side.

 It was as if I had found a buried treasure.  There were more pictures of granddad during his days serving in World War II and a copy of his discharge papers. (It’s a good thing he had a copy; I found out later that the building where granddad’s original papers were kept caught fire and so his records were lost.)

 I had always been (somewhat) aware that granddad served his country and had fought in a war, but I was completely oblivious as to the details.  But as soon as I got a hold of his discharge papers I became obsessed with learning about a chapter of my granddad’s life that I knew absolutely nothing about.

 From his discharge papers I found out that my granddad served in the Pacific theatre of operations (PTO) with the seventh division and made seven beach heads.  His World War II journey began in Attu and Kiska --  small, frozen, islands off the coast of Alaska, from there he traveled south to Hawaii for refit -- where he got to play in a baseball ball game against a traveling all-star team with Joe DiMaggio on it. After Hawaii the seventh division hit a slew of islands that I had never even knew existed - Kwajelein, Truk, Eniwitok.  Then there were Islands that I had heard of, that I had seen on the History channel, and I gasped --- Okinawa, Iwo Jima.  My God, he was there? 

 I soon became obsessed with learning about World War II in general.  I poured through several Stephen Ambrose books, learned about E.B. Sledge and Robert Leckie, read about the atrocities committed all along the eastern front between Germany and the Soviet Union.  I pretty much delved into everything accept the China, Burma, India theatre --- but I will get to that someday.

 Then I began to remember some things that granddad said to me as a kid that didn’t really mean anything to me before he died.  After he died, however, it meant everything.

 I remembered bringing home a time life book about World War II from the school library.  I’m not real sure how, as a third grader, I managed to get a hold of that book. Given it's content I probably shouldn’t have had it. But, hey, it's better to see images of war then girls in the Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition, right?  (Every year the swimsuit edition had all the swimsuits removed....I'm sure I could make some kind of argument railing against censorship, but I digress. I wouldn't be surprised at all if the school librarian removed the pages to keep a bunch of adolescents chuckleheads from disrupting the peace that is supposed to be the library --- can't say that I blame her)

When Granddad walked through the living room and saw me lying on the floor with the book he picked me up and set me on his lap; and the two of us, in granddads favorite rocking chair, thumbed through the pages together.

 Upon seeing a Navy ship (I apologize I don’t remember the type):
 Granddad:  “I was on one of those ships. I remember lying on my belly for three hours while under fire.  There wasn’t a damn thing I could do.”

 When seeing a painting of a soldier with his chin strap buckled:
 Granddad:  “You see that?  You never buckled your chin strap on your helmet.  If an arty (artillery) round hit close by, the concussion will get under your helmet and rip your head clean off.”

When seeing a picture of a Japanese officer holding his sword:
"I saw a Jap up on top of a cliff.  He hollered a bunch of stuff I couldn't understand -- the he drove his sword deep into gut.  He went limp and fell off the cliff."

 Shortly after that the room got really quiet.  Granddad continued to thumb through the pages for a few more minutes.  Then he quietly set me down and walked away.

 It is this very moment that I think of when I wonder if, had I been more inquiring about our family history, I should have ever brought up World War II with granddad.  I think, in retrospect, that it’s a good thing that I didn’t.  Some memories are better left in the past.

 I found out later that after the war the only thing that Granddad kept when he returned home was his discharge papers and a few photographs.  He didn’t keep his uniform and he gave his medals to his girlfriend --- who didn’t happen to be grandma at the time.  I’m guessing he never asked for them back after the two had gone their separate ways.

 So when I created his shadow box all the medals that I put in it were replicas that I had bought; as well as his chevrons.  Even his old pictures were copies.  As it hangs on my living room wall I will occasionally get a sense of sadness that granddad didn’t have the desire to hang on to his things.  But then I remind myself that I didn’t go through what he went through; that I could never even begin to understand what it was that he saw and how it affected him for the remainder of his life. When I really think about it, I can’t hardly blame him for not wanting to relive any part of that painful past.

 But there are a lot of things other than his time during the war that I miss about him.  I miss watching him saunter around in his bib overalls as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

I miss watching him dance whenever that old swing music played on the stereo.  "C'mon, Mother, let's dance."

 I miss all those huge breakfast’s he made for Kenny and I while Mom was in the Phillippines visiting family.  We would stay the night at Grandma and Grandddad’s while dad went to his nightshift job and in the morning we would be treated to pancakes, eggs, bacon, orange juice and Mighty Mouse on the television.

I thought it was odd but never realized it's signifigance until Dad told me years later, but granddad would make a hot cup of coffee --- and then put ice cubes in it.  He would drink from the cup until the brew was cold.  Turns out that during his time in the war he never once got to drink a hot cup of coffee and so got used to it cold.

I (kinda) miss watching granddad swab all the bacon grease out of the pan with a slice of bread and wolf the saturated wonder bread down......Growing up during the depression nothing went to waste.  (Blech)  It's not wonder that heart failure would be how the old man met his end.

I miss baseball with Granddad. 

There were several ways to enjoy a baseball game at Walt's house.  Of course the Kansas City Royals are big in these parts so they were always on TV.  But grandad was also a huge Atlanta Braves fan.  With Maddux, Glavine, and Smoltz how could you not like the Braves?

If the Braves happen to be on tv grandad would watch them with the television muted so that he could hear the Royals game on the radio.  It was all very confusing at first, but once I got used to it I enjoyed the challenge of keeping up with two games simultaneously.

In my opinion the best was to enjoy a baseball game at granddads was outside on the front porch.  I still remember the perfect day to listen to a game on the porch; overcast with a slight breeze.  Granddad would open the big living room window, put the game on the radio, and lead us outside.  I would lean up against the porch pillar while granddad kicked back in his rocking chair.  To this very day I just love listening to a well announced game on the radio.

I miss watching the old man smack the ball around.  On a camping trip the family got a ball game going.  Now, Granddad was a small ball guy who had always talked about being able to stick the ball anywhere he wanted it to go.  On this day the old man showed that he still had it.  The pitch was in the inside corner --- granddad, smooth as silk, smacked a line drive over the shortstops head and into the gap.  I still laugh when I think about grandma losing it when she saw her almost eighty year old husband hoofing down the line. 

"Walt, you stop that!  You're gonna fall and break your hip!!"

Sadly, I never went fishing with him, but I loved hearing him explain his take on fishing.

Granddad fished for all sorts of different species -- but more than anything he was a catfish man.  He loved to go out to his favorite spot, the hog trough, (I have no idea where that is) and chum the water with some kind of fermented soy bean concoction --- a secret that he took to the grave with him.  (He also left us behind without revealing all his green worm spots -- which is particularly aggravating.  Green worms -- no so affectionately nicknamed "shit worms"  are small, vile smelling creatures that leave a eye watering, gag inducing stench on your hands that doesn't go away after several washes. But, man, it's damn good bait

Granddad was a firm believer in flexible rods and loose drag.  I have literally taken one of his rods and bent it into an oval.

"Damn, granddad, how in the hell do you catch anything with this?"

Granddad:  "Ya gotta set the drag real loose, see?  Then, once you hook 'em you let 'em run and wear themselves out. Best way to catch big 'un."

It's not how I would fish -- but I'm not about to question the logic.  The old man has hauled in more that his fair share of big cats.

I miss granddads easy way of talking.  I miss the words and phrases he used.

That ol' boy.  Doo-daddy.  Whatchacallim.  Crick (that's Creek -- but I say it that way too).

On and on and on.  Writing about how he spoke does him no justice.  You just had to hear him speak.

A few of many great memories of a GREAT man.  My hope is that I live to be half the man that granddad was; then I can feel pretty good about the time I spent here on this old earth.

See ya, granddad.  When I come back I'll bring another can of Skoal --- and I'll remember the Corn Huskers lotion.

Nowhere, America: Getting Back in Shape

Getting back in shape...

 Kenny's truck pulled in at 6:30 am; just as I knew it would.  I could hear the thundering exhaust of his 1971 Ford Ranger from my kitchen. 



 That big, yellow beast of a truck has been in Kenny's possession since his freshman year in high school.  He gets it muddy, he romps on it and runs it hard; but he also takes very good care of it.  I’m convinced that he has dumped enough money into the beast to buy a brand new truck -- but Kenny wouldn’t dream of getting a new truck.  That Ranger is his baby, his pride and joy.




The damn thing sits tall --- so tall that you almost need a step ladder to get into it; which means its cornering capabilities are all shot to hell.  But, it wasn’t built for speed anyway.  This truck is built for muscle, a blunt force trauma kind of pickup.  It’s large, oversized tires could navigate easily through thick, deep mud and pancake dimwits and large, unsuspecting animals.
  
 A tow package in the back and winch in the front with a heavy black grill guard that would remind you of something out of a mad max movie, the beast has earned it’s keep by providing Kenny a rather lucrative side business.




 On the outskirts of town is a road simply known as the “Y”.  The left fork of the Y is just another quiet dirt road that leads to one long stretch of fields after another with the occasional house along the dusty way.  The right fork --- well, I honestly have no idea where it goes.  On a rainy day the right fork becomes a quagmire; a marshland siren whose irresistible calls sings out to all those who firmly believed that they had in their possession an off road vehicle worthy of its swampy terrain.



 Having never (until very recently) owned a truck, I knew that I was not worthy of such a challenge and so never bothered to find out where the right fork of the Y actually went.



 Kenny, on the other hand, had driven his old Ranger through it several times.  After a while, perhaps out of boredom, he quit plowing through the mud with his truck and just hung out and watched everyone else try to navigate the Y.  More often than not some poor soul would succumb to the deep, muddy Y and for a small twenty dollar fee; Kenny would hook the latest victim up to his beast and pull them out of the morass.



 Most of the time it was someone from out of town who had heard about the legendary Y that Kenny would make his money on. 




 Any weekend that it rained, Kenny would drive out to the Y and see if there was any money to be made.  It was usually Saturday night when he got most of his business.  It never failed, whenever somebody from out of town began to brag about their truck one of the locals would challenge this person to take on the Y.  If this person said no, then he was not deemed a true truck owner by said locals, asserting that the truck in question was just for show and “too fancy” to git ‘er perty little fenders dirty.....(Yeah, none of the boys are ashamed to admit that they love baiting the hook.)
 If anyone did accept the challenge Kenny was sure to receive a phone call.




 “Bring your truck, Kenny.  This boy ain't got a shot in hell.”




 I truly believe that Kenny will hang on to the old Ford even after it has fired up for the last time.  In fact it wouldn't surprise me in the least if he were to request to be buried in it.  I don't get the attachment, but, I guess I'm not a true truck owner.




 “Mornin'” I said.




 “And a good mornin' to you,” said Kenny, “What do we have here, sausage and eggs?  Awesome!!!  Got some rice cooking?”




 “Already done.  Hot sauce is in the fridge.”




 “What about you?” asked Kenny, “Not hungry?”




 “No.  I thought I'd eat after I finished my run.”




 “Good. (belch)  That's what I like to hear.  You go on ahead, I'll clean up here and then get to work.”




 “Just leave the dishes in the sink; I can take care of it.  Besides, you’re doing more than enough already.  Did you manage to get everything into the back of the truck?”




 “Oh yeah.  I'll have your home gym set up in no time.  You still want it in the shop down east, right?”




 Dammit.  Why does he always do that?  Kenny knows damn good and well that I have no sense of direction.   If you were to drop me off in the middle of an unfamiliar field on a cloudy day and tell me to head west to get home then you better have a search party ready to find me, ‘cause it ain't happening.  It's safe to say that I have no future in the Pathfinders.



 Did I just say “ain't”?  Wow.  I’m unintentionally reverting back to old ways.  I guess I really am home.




 “I'm messing with ya.” said Kenny, “I know where you want it.  I just can't figure out how in the hell someone who grew up in a small farming community can't have a sense of direction”




 “Yeah, I gave up trying to figure that out.” I said, “What do I owe you for this?”




 “I got it for free,” said Kenny, “Slim, or should I say Slim's wife, needed it out of the basement.  All I had to do was pick it up.”




 “Yeah, but you're still going to assemble it.” I said, “I need to at least pay you something.”




 “You just get your ass off the couch and use it and that will be payment enough.  Exercise is good for the soul.”




 That is unless you're exercising with Kenny.  Out of the four boys, Kenny was by far the most athletic.  He's not very tall but he has wide shoulders packed with muscle and he's quicker than all get out. His thick, heavy hands, if you are ever unfortunate enough to get hit by them, are like bricks.
 He would have made a good wrestler, if our small 2A school would have had wrestling.  He would have made a really good running back --- if he would have had any interest in going out for football -- or any sport for that matter.



 But Kenny had absolutely no interest in sports.  It was just him, the garage, and that 71 Ford Ranger.  It’s a wonder that he didn’t marry that old pickup.




 Since he got out of high school he has taken up running, lifting weights, and scuba diving.  I've tried to do all three with him and found that I had neither the strength nor the endurance to keep up.



 He would go on six mile “Motivational” runs to start his day.  He would lift weights until his muscles twitched and burned.  He knows nothing about moderation; it's always go hard or go home.
 Me?  I do just enough to not have a beer belly.



 “You know,” said Kenny, “That incident at the gym was a freak deal. In all my years of working out I have never had that happen to me.”




 “Dude, it was vile.  I'm never going to that or any other gym again.”




 “I know, I know.  That's why I'm here now to put together your home gym.”




 Kenny had talked me into going to the gym after work as a way (in his mind) to not only get in shape but to get in what he refers to as some much needed social interaction as well.




 Yeah, the social interaction part, at least until the incident right before I quit going, never happened.  Just like at work when I'm writing my code, I put in my ear phones and tune out the rest of the world.




 When I'm at work, I have a job to do and idle chit chat does nothing but keep me from my work.  I find chit chat at work most aggravating.  I have deadlines dammit, and I simply must stay on task.




 I have the same approach at the gym.  I'm there to do a workout; to be in, out, and gone in one hour or less.  I don't have time to socialize.....Not that I really want to.




 I especially don't want to talk to any of the women there.  My list of awkward social failures with the opposite sex is painfully long.  Small talk with strange men that I don't know is difficult.  Small talk with a woman is virtually impossible.  It's even worse if she's beautiful, but if you add intelligent on top of that?  I turn into a dim witted, stuttering moron.  I'm not afraid to admit it.  I'm intimidated by a smart, beautiful woman.




So the day I brought Lacey home (who is, by the way, beautiful and extremely smart) to meet the family you'd have thought that I had won the lottery, cured a disease, maybe saved the world, or all three simultaneously.  My family treated Lacey as if she was royalty and my mom (in a near state of euphoria) correlated me getting a girl friend to that of finding the Holy Grail. Later she would pull me off to the side and told me that if I screwed this up that she was going to have me tarred, feathered, and shackled to a river bank for all to see. Well, okay then.




Yeah...It's safe to say that, before Lacey, my family was a little worried about me. 


But I’m drifting off topic here….Back to the gym.




 So I make sure that I have my ear phones in as I'm walking into the gym.  I don't want to talk.  I just want to do what I have to do and get the hell out.




 By the end of my first week at the gym a middle aged gentlemen was desperately trying to make my acquaintance.  He would wave and smile.  I would wave, grimace, and bury my ear phones deeper into my ears.  That's as far as this bit of social interaction is going to go, buddy.




 But my new (can I be your) friend was persistent.  Every day that I went to the gym the man made sure to wave and say hi. I would wave, smirk/grimace, and continue to go about my day.




 He seemed like a nice enough man who had sadly fallen out of touch with today's fashion trends.  Not that I'm really all that judgmental about what people wear. It will not matter what the trends of the day are, I will always wear my flannel shirts and carpenter's pants --- it is what I'm comfortable in.




 But this man kind of stood out with his short shorts, knee high socks, head and wrist bands.  Rest assured folks, a chick magnet he was not.  And the severe comb over did nothing to help in the way of attracting the ladies.




 Then a terrible thought occurred to me.  Can he see through me?  Does he recognize that I'm socially inept, and so, feels that he has found a kindred spirit with which to hang out with?




 If I bury my ear phones any deeper into my ears I'm going to rupture an ear drum.....




 This awkward hello/goodbye routine went on for a couple of weeks.  Then that horrible, horrible ---- horrible --- awful day reared its ugly head.




 I was getting ready to enter front door of the gym when I reached into my back pack for my ear phones ---- they weren't in there.




 A wave of panic crashed heavily upon me the instant I realized that I had left my precious ear phones at work.  I was Linus without his blanket or, perhaps more accurately, Gollum without his precious.  I broke out in a cold sweat.




 What am I gonna do?  What am I gonna do?




 The gym beyond the double doors had abruptly turned into a social mine field.



 “Excuse me.”




 I jump back, startled.  I turn around to see a cute little blonde with a perfect smile.  My stomach lurched and I could feel my hair raising on my head.




 “I'm sorry,” she giggled, “Did I scare you?”




 “Um, uh.....yeah.” Jesus, you idiot, think!!!! “I was um, d-daydreaming.”




 “Yeah, I do that all the time.”




 My God, she's beautiful; with green eyes.  In my book green eyes automatically turns a woman into goddess.  I'm going to throw up.




 “Can I get by you?' she asked.




 “OH....yeah, yeah.  Here, let me get the door for you.”




 I opened the door, slamming it into my own foot.  As she walked by she smiled that perfect smile and flashed those sparkling green eyes.




 “Thank you.”




 “Sure....er, I mean, you’re welcome.”




 I closed the door behind her.....I’m going to shit my pants.




 I can't do this.....I can't do this.




 Shit.....




 I touch the wedding band on my finger and found comfort in it; odd considering I walked out on the relationship – the only relationship that I'm quite certain I'll ever have for the rest of my life.




 Then I hear Lacey's voice, “Kyle, you can't shut out the whole world.  You have to go out and see what it has to offer.”




 See what it has to offer......Right.




I mean, let's be rational about this.  No decent woman is going to take the time to talk to a married man, right? Right….The ring is my social savior.




 And what about the men?  My only hope is that they like talking about baseball.  I at least have my Cubs hat on, so maybe if I have to talk to another guy, he will pick up on it.




 I walk through the lobby like a man who looked as though he's desperately trying to not pass out.  Well, at least that's how I felt I looked.  I get in and out of the locker room as fast as I can and make my way to the bench.  I feel fortunate that today is a chest day; which happens to be the quickest of all my workouts.  Maybe I should do just three sets instead of four; that would get me out of here even faster.




 I've always been a low weight, high reps, kind of guy.  The overriding reason for this approach is that I don't need anyone to spot me.  I work best alone and my goal to keep it that way.




 But I could already tell that my well planned out routine was not going to happen today.  My middle aged, shorty shorts, comb over, friend noticed that I was not wearing my ear phones on this day.  To my complete dismay, I could see the flash of excitement in his eyes as he planned his next move.


 He waved and said hello, (that would be the first time I actually heard his voice) and I nodded as I put a 45 pound plate on one end of the bar.




 “Chest day?”  Shorty shorts asked with an almost creepy smile.




 “Yup.” I grudgingly answered.  Monday is always chest day and I'm quite certain that you are already aware of that Captain Comb Over.  Now if you would kindly let me be.....




 “You know,” (shit, here we go) “I've noticed that I have never seen you max out.  I could be your workout partner if you ever want to do that.”




 “Um, thanks, but I'm a low weight, high reps kind of guy.”




 “Ah, built for endurance,” said Shorty Shorts, “That's cool.  But wouldn't you at least like to know how strong you are?  It's a good thing to do every once in a while to gauge your progress.”




 Progress towards what?  I'm not planning on trying out for a football team or anything.  I just don't want to have a beer gut.




 The look on the guys face absolutely reeked of (perceived) desperation.....Will you be my friend?
 Despite how badly I want nothing to do with the man I just don't have it in me to be an asshole.  I would rather endure a few moments out of my comfort zone than to make someone feel like shit.




 Being an introvert, there are enough people as it is in this world that think of me as a stuck up prick, I don't suppose I need to add another individual to that long list on this day.




 “Um, okay.  I suppose it wouldn't hurt to deviate from the normal routine today.”




 Shorty Shorts claps his hand together, gives me a thumbs up and an ultra cheesy car salesman smile.  I feel, aside from massive regret, a slight tinge of self-consciousness and embarrassment as it feels like everyone in the room has focused their undivided attention on the two dorks about to play he-man on the bench press.




 “That's the spirit....Change is good.”




 No, Captain Comb over, change is most definitely NOT good.  Change throws me off task and screws up my well planned routine.  It's change that completely screwed up my life and has nearly turned me into a basket case.  It's change that has cost me my marriage and the best thing that ever happened to me.  It's change that.....




 “SO!!!!”  (Shit!  I’m startled out of my daydream and back to painful reality) “What weight would you like to start at?  I see you start every workout with 135.”




 “Um, yeah.” Yes. I start every bench routine at 135; WHICH IS WHAT I SHOULD BE DOING NOW!!!! “I really don't know.  I haven't maxed in a long time.”




 “Well,” said Shorty Shorts as he rubs his chin and, I’m guessing, making his best attempt at looking thoughtful, “How many sets do you do and reps for each set?”




 “Four sets at fifteen, twelve, ten, and eight with thirty seconds of rest in between.”




 “Ok, ok....That's pretty good.  You want to try 185 and see how it feels?”




 “An extra fifty pounds?” I ask dubiously. “That seems like quite a jump.”




 “Dude, if your popping fifteen reps at 135 then 185 isn't going to be a problem.  Besides, I'm spottin' ya.  You've got nothing to worry about.”




 “Um, well, ok.”




 It turns out that Shorty Shorts was right.  One hundred and eight five pounds was actually pretty easy.  I felt an incredible surge of confidence as I pressed the bar up and effortlessly put it back onto the rack.




 The only thing that I felt was strange about the whole thing was how Shorty Shorts spotted me.  Most spotters stand directly behind you; Shorty Shorts stepped over and straddled the bar coming out from the bottom side of the bench; positioning him off to one side of me.  I wasn't sure how he planned to pick up the bar if I lost it. I was of the opinion that he had placed himself in an awkward position and, fearing the possibility of a bar slamming down on my throat, I decided that I would go a little bit less than what I felt my max would be......Better to be safe than sorry.




 “Hell, that looked easy,” said Shorty Shorts as he gave me a high five. (Awkward) “How about giving two hundred a shot?”




 “Oh, yeah.  I think I can do that.”


 Suddenly, the anguish and anxiety of deviating from my routine had given way to a sense of achievement and optimism.  I actually found myself excited for the next attempt.




 The two hundred went on and I laid back on the bench as Shorty Shorts took up his unorthodox spotting position.




 “Ready?”  asked Shorty Shorts.



 “Yeah, I got this.”




 I took the bar off the rack --- and it felt good --- I totally had this.  I lowered the bar to my chest but, for reasons unbeknownst to me; I looked off to the side towards Shorty Shorts as the bar touched my chest.




 There.......Right there, inches away from my face, I discovered that Shorty Shorts was not only sporting shorty shorts, but sporting shorty shorts sans underwear.  What dangled before me will forever scar me; a reason for years of intense therapy;  the stuff of nightmares.




 It felt as though I had come face to crotch with the world's largest scrotum.  It just hung there like a deflated punching bag ---- wrinkled --- hairy ---- purple ---- ugly.




 I turned my face away and held my breath.  The thought off accidentally inhaling a loose hair mortified me. (I know, disgusting....I can't help that that is what I thought)  I pressed the bar up as hard as I could, slammed it into the rack, and tried not to think about throwing up.




 I practically launched myself up from the bench....I felt sick....real sick.




 “Man, dude,” squelched Shorty Shorts, “You made that look easy.  You wanna go for 220?”




 “Um, uh.....” shit, Kyle, think....”I better not.  I felt a little pop in my shoulder.”




 “Ah, that's too bad,” said Dangly Ugly Scrotum Man, “Maybe next time.”




 “Yeah, yeah......We'll get it next time.  I'm gonna hit the can.  I'll be back.”




 “Alright man.  I'll hold your spot for ya.”




 Right.  You do that.




 I high tailed my ass into the locker room, grabbed all my shit, and booked it out the door.  That was enough social interaction for one day and, quite possibly, forever.




 Needless to say, I haven't been back since.  It's the home gym for me from here on out.  My workout, my schedule, my routine.........and no ugly scrotums......




 Ugh.....I feel kinda sick.....

Nowhere America: Melancholy

Melancholy

 “ I wanted so badly,
 Somebody other than me
 Staring back at me
 But you were gone.....gone....gone.....”

       ----- Time and Time Again
        Counting Crows

 I sip my coffee as I sit at the bay window and watch the rain; a seemingly monsoon like downpour coming down almost sideways beneath a dark and ominous sky.  The branches of the trees in my front yard bend, a few snap, as the wind blows and screeches unmercifully.


Occasionally the darkness is interrupted by a quick, bright, flash of lightning.  But, for the most part, it is just a dark and dreary day.


 Tripper, my beagle my adorable dumb ass, my gift from Kenny, lies on his pillow and snoozes.  Normally he's outside as soon as the sun comes up and only comes in when it starts getting dark.  But not today; he wants no part of the rain and, quite frankly, neither do I.

 On a side note I’m actually happy to see Tripper inside.  That means that, at least for today, this deranged, bug eyed mutt won’t be bringing home any carcasses and attempting to hide them throughout the house.


 He seems to have an affinity (perhaps the word “affinity” is not being used in its proper context but it is what keeps popping into my head) for rabbits as it seems that nine times out of ten that is what I find under the couch, tucked behind the trash can, left in the bath tub, or tucked under a pillow that he pulled down off the bed.  (That pillow is his now.)


 Finding a mangled carcass will scare the shit out of you the first few times you stumble upon it.  Now, however, it just seems part of the daily routine. How sad is that?  I tried to break him of it but gave up when I realized that he seriously thinks that he is doing the world some good. So who as I to squash his delusional dreams?


 At first, if said carcass was fairly fresh, I would clean it and cook up a meal for him.  But I quickly realized that this was not the best idea since I was only encouraging his behavior.  So I started sharing my meals with him in the hopes that he would give up the hunt.


Spaghetti was a winner as well as hot dogs.  Bacon or sausage with rice is a home run.  Tomato soup?  Not so much.


Yeah, I know.  You shouldn’t ever feed your dog people food.  Whatever…..I tried dog food when I was a kid and it tasted horrible.  It’s no wonder that dogs are always begging for scraps.  But I digress…..


Maybe I should just get rid of the doggy door.....

Nah. It's terribly inconvenient for me but hunting is what makes Tripper happy.....Hunt on my friend.




 Samuel Barber's Adagio for Strings is playing softly from my cd player.; not the best music considering my state of mind. I don't know why I continue to feed the beast, it's almost as if I enjoy being sullen.  When it's dreary outside I react in a dreary way.  On days like today I want to lock the door, pull all the shades, turn off the lights, lay in bed and hope that the outside world will grant me my humble and self-destructive wish to just leave me the hell alone.


 But I’m proud to say (and it’s a silly thing to be proud of) that today I managed to force myself out of bed.  Of course knowing that Kenny is either going to call or show up unannounced makes it a lot easier to motivate myself. Plus it’s summer time and getting out of bed is a lot easier to do in the summer.


 In the winter, when it's dreary and cold and darker longer there are days when it is utterly impossible to drag my deeply rooted ass/brain out from under the covers.  Lacey grew to hate winter.


Depression…..I hate that word.  I hate how it sounds.  I hate what it means.  I hate that I have to grudgingly admit (to no one but myself) that I suffer bouts of it from time to time. 
More than anything I hate the fact that I can look at my own existence and know that my life really is/was/still is pretty good.  I have absolutely no reason to be unhappy – and yet…..


I simply can’t explain why I get this way….There’s no reason for it…..and that is what I hate most of all.


 On those days that I battled my “funk” as Lacey liked to call it I would have loved more than anything to throw my phone away and just be left alone.  No contact with the outside world.  No social interaction of any kind.  But Lacey wouldn't allow it.  Some of the worst ass chewing's I ever got from her was when I refused to answer my phone.


 Lacey......I really miss her.  Kenny keeps insisting that I call her.  I'm still wearing my wedding ring and she still, to the best of my knowledge has yet to file for divorce, but I just can't do it.  She deserves better.  She doesn’t need this albatross hanging around her neck.


Yeah, I know --- broken record.  But when it’s all you can think about…..


 Lacey, by my standards, is an extreme go getter.  She graduated from college in three years with a degree in business and it has always been her goal to latch on to a big company and climb the corporate ladder; to do her part to break the still ever present glass ceiling.  She thrives in that environment, loves to lead and is unafraid to make decisions, popular or no.  She tells it like it is and does not fear confrontation. 


 In other words, she is everything that I am not.....
 
 (Ring)


 Well that didn't take long.


 “Mornin' Kenny.”


 “Mornin.....How are you doin'?


 “Oh, you know, enjoying the sunshine, the birds chirpin' and what not.”


 “Right.  Hey, I'm taking the little man into the big city to get a tile saw, wanna come along?”


 Shit.....No, not really.


 “Oh, I don't know. Is he going to pee in the display toilet again?”


 “That was just a simple potty training misunderstanding.  The people at the store were okay with it after we mopped the floor.  C’mon Kyle, I know you're just going to sit around the house all day.  You need to get out, brother.”


 Yeah, so what?


 “I'm fine Kenny.  You act as if you're on suicide watch.”


 (pause)


 “You’re wallowing…..I'll be by in an hour.  See you then, bro.”  (click)


 Shit.....I guess I shouldn't have said that. Keep making comments like that and I may very well end up with some crotchety old woman in my spare bedroom that Kenny hired to keep an eye on me.  I can just see her now;  crusty, old, moldy smelling dress, pressure socks, black and worn orthopedic shoes, halitosis and a big hairy mole on her lip.....Ugh.....that produced a shudder.


 For all of his toughness Kenny is a worry wart when it comes to his family.  No one believes more in the value of family than Kenny does.  So I guess with me going through tough times, Kirk away at college, and Kasey in the marine corps not sending letters home or calling, it's probably enough to drive Kenny crazy....Well, if he wasn't crazy already.


 He's a good guy.....A bit of a mother hen, but a really good guy. I’m glad he’s on my side.


 I pet Tripper.  The thunder has him visibly shaken.  Every time he tries to fall asleep the low booms from above send his head shooting up and his eyes bugging out.  Poor mutt, I wish there was something I could do for you.


 “Looks like you get the house to yourself for a few hours.  Try not to shit in it, okay?”

 I would really like more than anything to go back to bed.  On days like to today it’s a real fight just to say on my feet.


 Lacey could never understand what was wrong with me.  Hell, I really couldn't either.  I can't understand why I fall into this feeling of hopelessness.


 As I said earlier, the winter time is the absolute worst.  I'm hoping that with the job change, going from night shift to days, and a workout regimen that Kenny has put me on, my outlook on life will improve. 


 There is nothing worse than working night shift over the winter.  It's dark when you get up and go to work.  It's dark when you get off work.  It's dark when you try to sleep; but only because of the heavy curtains you put up to keep the sun out in an attempt to trick your body into thinking that it's supposed to sleep.

 I really honestly believe that's where it, the depression, all started; the lack of sleep.  I could never get more than a couple of hours of sleep when working the night shift.  I got up tired, I worked tired, I came home exhausted, collapsed into bed and fell into a deep sleep --- for about a half an hour.


 Then it's up for another hour as I try to find ways to fall back to sleep.  Read a book, do some housework, listen to classical music.  None of it really works.  I would fall back asleep for an hour and then wake up again.  This scenario would repeat itself over and over until after three hours of sleep out of eight attempted I give up and get up for good.  It looks like it’s going to be a two pot of coffee kind of work day.


 When it comes to depression it's crazy to think about all the different variables that can send you into a mental tailspin.  It could be a sad part in a movie or song that sends you hurdling at warp speed into the deep, dark, abyss.  Sometimes it could just be the tone of someone's voice; the inflection with which they speak.  It could be any number of things in my daily life that went wrong that could set me off.  A burned out tail light, over cooked spaghetti noodles (that would be my fault), or a shattered coffee mug that I mishandled and dropped.  Any one of these trivial matters would absolutely ruin my entire day.  Yes, the world is coming to an end.


   And sometimes, more often than I care to admit, all it takes is just getting out of bed.


 What made the problems inside my head even worse was the fact that Lacey is a social butterfly.  She HAS to get out.  She HAS to socialize. 


 I despised every single company party that she dragged me to.  Depression is one thing (by the way, I have never been to a Dr. and have not be officially diagnosed but I'm not an idiot), add being a little bit of an introvert on top of that and you get one hell of a mess.


 I can't think of a more uncomfortable situation than to be stuck in a room with people that I don't know and be forced to talk to them.  Even with people that I do know I don't find small talk that simple. 


 I remember Lacey and I would fight all week over whether or not I really had to go to this god forsaken event.  Lacey would tell me that it would not reflect well on her if no one in her company knew who her husband was. 


 First, why should they even give a shit? And, second, I don't know that Lacey even realized that I had never once taken her to any of my company parties......Mostly because I didn't tell her about them.  I'm sure she would have made me go had she known.


 Lacey was always talking about “building your social network”, she almost obsessed over it.  She hobnobbed and collected business cards the same way I used to collect baseball cards as a kid.


 “C'mon.....There's going to be an open bar there,” she said, “You can get a few drinks to loosen you up.”


          That ----  is a bad, bad idea......An incredibly bad idea.


 Booze, or liquid courage as some like to call it, is definitely a great way to relax you and make you the person your really aren't (or maybe are in some cases) but I have found that the repercussions simply aren't worth it.


 The end result of a few hours of alcohol produced confidence is an entire next day of fatigue and irritability which, unfortunately, Lacey had to deal with.


 I do know that beer is okay as far as the next day.  With beer I'm a little tired, slightly crabby.  But with a cup of coffee I can get going again.


 Hard liquor, on the other hand, is an absolute no-no.  That just takes hatred of life and self-loathing to a whole new level....Whiskey, by far, is the worst.


 Needless to say, my marriage was falling apart.  Lacey tried like hell to keep me positive but I just couldn't fight it.  She once suggested marriage counseling and nearly got her head bitten off.


 We didn't need marriage counseling. I needed marriage counseling.  There is and never was anything wrong with Lacey.  I love her more than I can possibly express.  The problem wasn't US, it was ME....and I knew it.


 Despite this obvious knowledge I didn't want to see a doctor.  I didn't want to see a psychiatrist.  In my family the men are men, dammit.  No man would ever do a weak sissy boy thing like go to a doctor.  I had to fix this on my own.  I knew what had to be done. (Male bravado can be nothing short of moronic at times)


 Telling Lacey I had to leave was the hardest thing that I had ever had to do.  I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her.  But I simply couldn't ask her to put up with a mess like me.  It was way too much to expect of her.  For her own good I needed to leave.


 She was crying and screaming at me.  She threw her wedding ring at me and told me that she never wanted to see me again.  That all I ever really did was hold her back anyway.........An assertion I simply couldn't deny and the one comment that keeps me from calling her.  I love her --- but I refuse to hold her back.  I have most likely been burned in effigy and she has moved on with her life.  It’s for the best that I’m not around to complicate things.


 Her ring is sitting on a mantle below our wedding picture that I have hanging in my front room; and I'm still wearing mine.  It will never happen but part of me hangs on to the hope that maybe someday I can go back to her. Not just go but go back to her but go back to her as a much better man.  The man that she thought she was getting when she married me.


 Her ring fits perfectly on my pinkie.  It's a small, simple diamond.  Not a ring that is befitting of someone like Lacey but more accurately befitting of my stature in life.  But Lacey didn't care.  It came from me, she said, and so it was perfect.


 I miss her.  I miss the smell of her perfume.  I miss the sound of her bare feet walking across the wood floor.  I miss.......everything about her.


 But, honestly, who am I kidding?  What exactly did she get out of being married to me?  In her family of doctors, engineers, IT experts, and therapists I simply didn't fit in.  I came from a family of factory workers and was all too aware from day one that I was way out of my class.  After the dust settles and Lacey regains her composure I'm sure she will meet a nice upper class guy, rebuild her life and put her past --- put me --- behind her.


 “So are you going to stand there and look at that ring all day?”


 “JESUS CHRIST!!!”, I spill my coffee all over my shirt.  It burns us, precious.....aaahhhh!!!


“Dammit, Kenny, don't you know what a door bell is?”


 “Yeah, you don't have one.”  Kenny says with a shit eating grin, “Might want to change your shirt.  It looks a little filthy.”


 “Yeah, I'll get right on that.”


 “Hi, Uncle Kyle.”


 I pat Kris who, unlike is dad, is a mellow three year old, on the head,  “What's up, little man?  You know your dad is a dork right?”


 Kris smiles and nods, “Uh-huh.”


 “Is there anything you want to do while we are out?” asks Kenny.


 “Nah, I'm just along for the ride.  As soon as I change my shirt I’ll be ready.”


 “Alright, let's go.”


 The truck pulls out of the drive.  But then at the end of the driveway I remember something and tell Kenny to stop.


 “What did you forget?” he asks.


 “I gotta turn the coffee pot off.” I lied.


 I run into the house and make my way into the living room.  I take Lacey's wedding ring off my pinkie and put it back on the mantle just below our wedding picture.


I made a terrible mistake leaving her……..


 Quietly, I go back to the truck.......It's probably a good thing that I'm leaving the house today.

Nowhere America: Sweet Mariah May

Sweet Mariah May

 In this small town that I grew up in; this village, this small farming community tucked away deep in the middle of nowhere, my mom, my brothers and I, plus a family of five from Sri Lanka pretty much made up the entire minority population – enough to represent .0083 percent of the population if I calculated correctly.

 (On a side note, one of the boys from Sri Lanka was around our age and we hung out together quite a bit.  When he first arrived to our town he pronounced his name David as "Dah-veed"....It didn't take long for him change over to the pronunciation that the locals were accustomed to hearing.  Also he would proclaim “Ay let a fahrt..”  That soon gave way to the simplified “I farted.”  Anyway, I just found it amusing...)

 Mariah May, the only black person that I would meet and become friends with until after I graduated from high school (graduating class of thirty three) and first left this small town, pushed our minority representation up to .00917 percent of our tiny village's population.

(And while we are talking percentages I would wager that .00917 consumed .999 of all the rice in our small community....)

 I have no underlying reason for quantifying my minority status aside from just giving some further insight as to who I am......(Who am I talking too?  It's not like I'm going to seriously consider publishing this....I'm just doing this to keep Kenny off my back....Isn't that right, Kenny?)  With a few exceptions, I have never felt like a minority, and so, never gave my unique skin color a second thought.

I remember hearing stories of the Klan and saw the pictures of the Catholic ( --- hmm --- was it church or school?) that I have been told that they burned down.  But that story had it's origins at least a couple of generations before I was born so I don't feel comfortable either confirming or denying it ever took place.  The winners write the history books --- and you can't always trust history.

Anyhoo (no that's not a typo)  this place, for me, (personal adolescent self loathing aside) has always been and always will be really is a nice place to live…..I just had to crash and burn to figure that out.

 But anyway.....I'm veering off topic.

 Mariah May --- Sweet Mariah May --- was, in the opinion of a very young boy, quite possibly the nicest person on the face of the planet. 

 The nursing home that was just up the block from where I lived was a place that Mariah frequently visited. She had no relatives there -- she was just there to offer company to those who had none.

 Let's face it; a nursing home is the last stop in life. For many unfortunate individuals it's the loneliest, most isolated feeling they will ever experience. Not a fitting end, in my opinion.

However, there are those people that choose to reside in a nursing home of their own free will.  I actually knew a husband and wife that were very well off -- he owning a construction company -- that seemed perfectly content with living in the home.  For the life of me I couldn't ever figure out why.


 Sadly, there are those individuals that because of their medical condition have to be there it's not a simple matter of choice. Even sadder are those individuals who are there because heartless relatives didn't want to take the time to deal with a family member that they really wanted no part of.  Having worked in a nursing home for the first year after my high school graduation, I know from experience that this unfortunate reality happens a lot more than anyone is really willing to admit.

Don't believe me?  Show up on Christmas Day and see how many residence are still there --- alone.....

It's a crying shame.....There are a lot of great stories that could be shared in those homes; if only there was someone there to listen.

Mariah May WAS there --- for as many of these lonely people as she could make time for.  She never did anything extravagant; maybe (if possible) take them out to dinner or sit around the kitchen table and shoot the breeze. Or maybe she sat at their bedside and read the paper to them.

 To those confined to a bed or a wheel chair with nothing to do but look out the window, Mariah's simple gestures meant the world.  For the last days of their lives Mariah was their everything.

 Now that I sit back and think about it I don't recall ever seeing any of Mariah's family stopping in for a visit. (It's not like I was there all the time) So maybe the time she spent with her nursing home friends was every bit as meaningful to her as to those she made smile and help pass the time.

 But if she was lonely I was never aware of it.  Mariah was a kind old sole with a beautiful smile.  I can't remember if she had all of her teeth or just falsies but it didn't matter.  Her smile was as beautiful as the warm soul that resided inside her old body.



 Well.....Until she went to mow the trailer park that she owned.  Then she became the most dangerous weapon in the neighborhood. (Oh, sweet baby Jesus.....)

 The trailer park Mariah owned was just across the alley from the house I grew up in and where Kenny lives now.

 Whenever Mariah pulled into the trailer park with her little truck, towing her little trailer, hauling her little rusted red and white riding mower all the neighborhood kids, wide eyed and with accelerated heart beats, would scatter.

 Nothing tightened a sphincter faster than to hear some kid scream, “It's Mariah!!! Run!!!”  Suddenly, an entire neighborhood full of kids busted ass to get as far away as possible from the angelic danger that was lurking about in the trailer park. 

 The trailer park that Mariah mowed had little tiny yards, if you could even call those sparse patches that, around each trailer, with large patches of loose gravel in between.  Actually, I would say that only about a third of the trailer park was grass. The rest was rock.

 The problem was that Mariah would fire up her riding lawn mower, lower the deck, and keep it lowered the whole time she was mowing.  She would finish mowing a patch of grass and then ride across the gravel lot to the next patch of grass, launching whizzing projectiles all across the neighborhood.

 I had been hit in the leg and I believe Kenny caught a rock in the rib cage.  Thank goodness for Mariah this was long before the days of the sue happy mentality.  Every parent in the neighborhood just said, “What were you doing back there?  You know you're supposed to run when Mariah mows.”

 The logic, to this day, still escapes me...... I've seen my dad go apeshit at a baseball game when a base runner ran into his infielder as he tried to make a play on the ball.

"You gotta call that, blue!!!!" he scream, "You're gonna get one of my kids hurt!!!"

But a pointy, high velocity rock shot out by a riding mower blade?

"What are you thinking, boy?  Just go play in the front yard until she's done."

Ah.....Yeah.....I got nothin'.....

 My best guess is that perhaps there may have to been two trains of thought at work with this typical adult response:

1.  All the adults had their vehicles parked in a garage so they didn’t have to worry about dents and.....

2.  Mariah was such a nice person that no one had the heart to tell her that her motorized stone thrower was leaving bruises on their kids.

Of course you couldn't tell her anything while she was mowing anyway.  Once she put her head phones on she didn't hear a thing.

Looking back I can just imagine Mariah being completely lost oblivion; blissfully ignorant to the screaming chaos going on all about her as she sang along with Billie Holiday on her headphones.  (I have no idea if Mariah liked Billy Holiday.  I'm just guessing that she would have.....It's some really good music)

The closest building to Mariah's trailer park was an old tin shed in my backyard.  One afternoon as Mariah pulled into the park and all the kids scattered I decided that I wanted to know what it sounded like when Mariah's little riding mower launched a rock into the side of the shed.

 Well, allow me to be a little more specifice. I had heard rocks hit the shed from the outside on several occasions.  I wanted to know what it sounded like from the inside of the shed.

Since there was no electricity I left the door to the tin shed open so that I could have a little light.  Plus, with it being the middle of summer and the tin shed lacking for insulation, the open door offered just a little bit of relief from the stagnant and almost suffocating heat that I found myself sitting in.

The sweat rolled off of my forehead and rolled down my back -- my shirt was saturated. But I was determined to know what it sounded like inside the shed whan a Mariah rock pelted it's tin siding. 

I didn't have to wait long.

I involuntarily jumped when the first rock hit the shed......POP!!!!  I had no idea that a rock hitting off the shed could be that loud or that the rock could hit with that much force.  Soon, other sounds followed.  BAM!!!!  BANG!!!!! POP-a-POP-a-POP.....

Before the tin shed incident I had already had a healthy respect for the power of Mariah's tiny riding mower.  But I had no idea just how powerful, well, at least in the mind of a nine year old, Mariah’s mower was.

As soon as I felt I was safe I bolted out of the tin shed and ran into the house.  I didn't even bother taking the time to close the door to the shed....Screw it, I'll get it later. My new respect for the power of Mariah's mower was matched with a heightened sense of fear....I was in full flight mode as I ran for home.

Still -- paralyzing fear, bruises and all --- she remains in my fond memories as truly one of the nicest people I have ever met.

I wonder what ever happened the sweet Mariah May?  She was getting on in years when I was just a pup so I'm sure she's gone to see the Lord above by now. I'm guessing that she's probably having a grand time with her nursing home friends, drinking good coffee and eating wonderful dinners....

And I bet she has a brand new shiny riding lawn mower to mow her trailer park in the sky – a large lot with thick green grass and completely devoid of gravel.....
:)

Nowhere America: Mom and Dad

Mom and Dad

 Both Mom and Dad, over the last couple of weekends, stopped by for a visit – and I suspect that I won’t see them again for a while.The time in between get togethers is becasue both of them have very busy lives, albeit in completely different ways.

 After four boys and twenty five years, Mr. and Mrs. James’ marriage dissolved.  Up until now none of their four boys could figure out why.  From seemingly out of nowhere it just happened with little or no fanfare; just a simple announcement that they had decided to part ways.

Shocked and angry are the two words that most accurately describe how the children handled the announcement.  Who was to blame for this?

As divorces tend to do, two camps formed up; picking and jabbing at each other with neither side even remotely interested in compromise. This was clearly a black and white issue; the grey in the middle simply didn't exist.

While the other boys chose a side, I tried like hell to stay out of the mess.  Yeah, that didn’t work worth a shit.  I was an ant on a beach trying desperately to build a dam to hold back the oncoming tsunami. 

Without getting into too much detail there was a time when I didn’t talk to either of my parents for a very long period.  The delicate, well organized and slightly OCD balance that was my life had been destroyed with all the subtlety of a battle axe to the forehead.  Forgiveness would prove to be a very, very, slow process.

 But fortunately, time, distance, and forgiveness did win out over strife and undying hatred.  The boys regrouped and got on with their lives; Mom and Dad remarried and are now on friendly terms.  In fact, so friendly that Mom and Dad can be found at family functions, talking to each other’s spouses -- laughing and enjoying their company.  It all seems very genuine to me, but if it isn’t I don’t want to know.  I am more than content to let life play on as is…..

It has only been recently, when I could spend time with them separately, that I began understand the differences in their personalities that led me to have a much better understanding of their divorce.


 Dad was the first to visit after I had moved back home.  The first thing he did was mow and weed eat my lawn -- which I found kind of strange.  Dad had owned a lawn mowing business but got out of it.  I thought sure he was sick of yard work and only mowed his own lawn when he absolutely had to.  But, after he finished with my yard he told me that mowing had always relaxed him and that some of the best ideas he ever had come from the seat of his mower.  So…..I had made an erroneous assumption.


 The second thing dad did was to unload a wooden picnic table and swing for my front yard. Both wood working productions from his second business and a way to keep himself busy over the winter.


 While dad liked mowing, I believe he loves his wood working projects in his shop even more.  Dad would make picnic tables, Adirondack chairs, swings, corn hole games, toy trucks and trains, rubber band guns, bird houses, on and on and on. He would then load up his goodies and go from craft show to craft show, content to sit in a chair, sell some products, and shoot the breeze with any and all who stopped by to visit.   His income may not be as much as when he was one of the many working stiffs, but I think he is enjoying his retirement a helluva lot more than any one day he spent earning a paycheck.  His absolute favorite time of year is November and December when he is selling his wooden toys --- and maybe even just giving few away if he comes across a kid that he just can't let walk away from his booth without a toy....Sometimes I think he imagines himself as a poor man's Santa Claus....Hell, sometimes I think of him as a poor man's Santa Claus; and that makes me feel good.


 Dad, deliberate as always, found nice, shady spots to place the picnic table and swing.  Afterwards we hobnobbed for a bit over a cup of coffee; talking just about life in general and enjoying each other’s company. The more I talk to Dad the more I see how very similar we are.

 Dad has never been a big adventure guy.  In fact, he reminds me a lot of a hobbit.  He doesn’t spend much time worrying about what goes on beyond his borders. His work and hobbies indicate that this is a man who is very comfortable living a solitary lifestyle.  Dad is at peace -- when not working in the garage or in his garden -- sitting on one of the swings he made, drinking coffee, and quietly watching the world go by.

When I was a kid my grandma used to sit in her rocking chair and say “ho hum”.  But grandma didn’t mean ho hum in a bad way; in fact quite the opposite.  Ho hum was a very good thing.  Ho hum meant that you were kicking back and enjoying the fruits of a quiet, honest, clean living.  And to my Dad, there was absolutely nothing wrong with that.  Ho Hum is a wonderful thing.


 The longer I am around Dad the more I realize that I too, am a ho hum person.  I began to wonder exactly what it was that I was trying to run away from the day I graduated from high school and bolted town. 


 Actually, that’s not true at all.  I did know what I was running from.  Part of it was that I did not enjoy high school at all and felt a strong desire to break away; to dispose of my self despised identity and rebuild a new one. Another part of me just wasn’t ready to accept the fact that I was going to live a “boring” life like my dad.


 Fast forward to today......Boring is good.  Boring is simple and quiet.  Boring gives me time to get lost in my own thoughts.  Boring means that I don’t have to go to company parties and fail miserably making small talk with people I don’t know.  Boring doesn’t involve plane tickets, passports, crowds, traffic, and all the noise that comes with being in the concrete jungle. 

Boring is sitting on the open front porch of a simple little house out in the country, feeling the breeze in your face and hearing the birds chirping in the trees.  Boring is a rock road in the country outside of a sleepy small town that sees an occasional pickup or tractor going by.  Boring is gazing up at the clear blue sky and getting lost in them.


Boring is anything but boring.  Boring is, always was, and always will be, where I find my peace of mind.....


 Mom, who lives in another small town now, arrived at my doorstep the following weekend and brought with her a flurry of restless activity.

From the minute Mom walked in until the moment she left there was never a dull moment.  She be-bopped in the door and announced that she had brought coffee; which meant that we were going to be busy all day.

In short order the sounds of  banging of pots and pans filled the kitchen as mom handed me a knife and pointed me in the direction of a roast that she had set on a cutting board. When she was satisfied that I was doing my job correctly she began talking.  From then on the conversation never stopped.

Where conversation between dad and I was low key and, with a few exceptions, never really involved our own personal lives, Mom was hitting up her eldest son with a barrage of personal questions.

Are you back for good?


Are you eating right?


You need to exercise son....


Are you taking vitamins?


What happened with you and Lacey?


On and on and on the grilling and the prying went; to the point where I was beginning to feel uncomfortable.  So you can imagine my relief when the conversation switched back to mom.

 My mom is from the Philippines; a very poor island nation where her journey into education never made it past the eighth grade. But, as I would find out years later, her lack of education, while hindering her at times, did nothing to slow her down.  I firmly believe that it was growing up poor that gave her the dream big mentality she now possesses.

 The kitchen was bombarded with all the wonderful smells of my childhood.  Fried rice, marinated pork chops, chicken adobo, pancit, and, of course, a big pot of rice from the new, and very expensive, rice cooker that mom gave me as a house warming gift.

 Listening to mom talk now is, beyond a shadow of a doubt, like listening to a completely different person then I grew up knowing.  As her four boys grew up, mom took on the old school traditional roll of staying home and raising them.  She did the cooking, the cleaning, went to parent teacher conferences and ball games.  She lived a ho hum, small town lifestyle.

 It took a few months for her to get emotionally reset after the divorce; but as soon as she got her bearings about her, Mom spread her wings and went in a whole different direction then what I was expecting.  She went out and got a job, started going out with new friends that she had made, got a membership to a gym, bought her first car and started exploring the world.

 After she got remarried, Mom started to travel and take big vacations.  She began hosting big hog roasts every year and Filipinos seemingly came out of the woodwork to attend.  Where were all these people before?

 Mom had gone from stay at home mom to socialite.  She was enjoying her life in a way that I had never seen before.  I had never realized just how opposite she and dad were. In retrospect I am now certain that being totally opposite personalities lead to their parting of ways.  For Dad, the world was much too big and needed to be shrunk down.  For Mom the world could not be big enough.


 As I stated earlier, the divorce hit all the boys hard.  But several years later it has become obvious to all of us that it was for the better.  If they are getting along and happy with who they are then, hey, what have we got to complain about?

 Mom dominated the conversation as she talked about her future plans; how many vacations she was going to take and how often she was going to fly back to the Philippines to visit family.  The conservative part of me wondered about her retirement and whether or not she was investing any of her money but I refrained from comment.  She’s married now and it’s really none of my business what she does with her time and money. I figure she can hash those details out with my stepdad.

 After all the many hours of cooking mom refused to step aside and let me wash the dishes.  So I continued to drink my coffee while mom continued to chatter.  When the dishes were done Mom, seemingly in the blink of an eye, packed up her things, said good bye, and sped away in her Camry. She was gone -- just like that.


 As my four foot eleven mother with a lead foot  hauled ass down the dry dirt road, kicking up dust as she went, I wished she would slow down a bit.  But, that would be going against the grain for her.  Mom is living life full throttle now; no sense in trying to change that.

 As she sped away I wondered if maybe Lacey and I broke it off at the right time.  You know, before we had kids and built a life together.  I’m having a hard enough time starting over now.  I can’t imagine rebuilding my life after twenty five years and kids.

 Then I thought, no, I didn’t break it off at the right time.  I shouldn’t have broken it off at all.  I pull my phone out of my pocket and pull up Lacey’s number --- but I just can’t get myself to call.  I really screwed up and I can’t see how she will ever forgive me. 


I'll admit ------ I'm paralyzed by the fear of rejection. 

 I walk into the kitchen and pour the rest of the coffee out of my cup and into the sink.  I’ve done nothing but swill java since mom got here and I’m starting to get heart palpitations......No Bueno...

I pull out my phone and dial up Kenny.

“Hello?” answered Kenny.

“Hey, what’s up?”

“Not much, what are you up to?”

“Mom stopped by for a visit.  She cooked a whole ton of food.”

“Shit.....I’ll be right over.”

Nowhere, America: Bug Zapper

Bug Zapper

 Call it redneck if you like, but there is something kind of soothing about sitting on the front porch and watching a bug zapper.  I can't explain why, but every time I see that flash of light and hear “tzzt!” it just relaxes me.

Well, until I sit and think about a bug being electrocuted and burnt to a crisp.  I can’t image how painful that must be.  But Kenny thinks hitting a windshield, though a quicker way to go, would be even more painful.

 “I mean, think about it,” Kenny muses, “What is the last thing that goes through a bugs mind when it hits the windshield?"


 “I don’t know – what?”


 “His ass….”


 “Oh….”


 But bugs are nasty, disease carrying creatures, so my pity does not last long.
 
However……What I really loved about bug zappers was that it always belonged to someone else.  Now that Kenny was nice enough to buy me one I'm not quite as enamored with it.


“You know that bug zappers don't attract mosquitoes, right?” I ask, “Mosquitoes aren't attracted to light.”


“This one does,” Kenny said with a devilish grin, “This ol' boy here emits carbon dioxide which DOES attract mosquitoes."


“Ah, I see.  Well, I must say that that is brilliant.  You know, however, that I could have just put up a couple of bat houses.  Did you know that a single bat can eat up to four thousand insects in an evening?”


 “I call bullshit....Plus bats aren’t as much fun to watch.”


 “Yeah, but now I gotta clean this thing.” I said, “Don't you know that the best thing to do with a bug zapper is to give it to your neighbor?”


 “Well, you're not close enough to be my neighbor, but you'll do.”


 “Prick.”


 “Dude, you're making a mountain out of a mole hill.  It's not that hard to clean.”


 “Fine.  But can you at least get it off the porch?”


 “What for?”


 “Don't you know that after a bug is electrocuted it's body parts go flying all over the damn place?  It'll get in our pizza or in my open bottle of beer........Some bugs carry bacteria you know....I once......”


 “Blah, blah, blah.” Kenny interrupts, “Holy shit.  Would you like a little cheese with your whine?  If I move it over to that tree will that make you happy?”


 “Is it more than ten feet away?”


 “Are you sure we're related?  If we are then I think mom had to have dropped you on your head.  Shit the bed... I'll go get an extension cord.”


 Satisfied that the bug zapper was a safe distance away from the porch, I open my bottle of beer and grab a pizza out of the box.


 “You got the Louisiana hot sauce?”  Kenny asks.


 “Yeah, here.”


 TZZT....


 Kenny, speaking with a full mouth, “Hey, you remember that commercial where the guy is putting the hot sauce on his pizza, a mosquito lands on him, draws blood, and then as if flies off it explodes into a big ball of flame?”


“Yeah, I remember that commercial.  I don’t remember what company it was, but yeah….”


“Wouldn’t the world be a cooler place if that could actually happen?”


“I’d be using hot sauce on everything I eat.”


“No you wouldn’t.  You’d be worried about getting bug parts all over you.”


“Au Contriare.  I believe that the exploding fireball will be lava hot, therefore assuring the bugs complete incineration.”


“Um, whatever you say there, dork.”


 Kenny opens his can of Keystone Light, takes a long guzzle, and belches loud enough to scare off any wildlife wandering within a mile of the house."

“BBBRRAAAKKKK! Ugh.  That felt good. Anyway, I hope you like your summery foo foo beer there.  Is that one of your micro brews?”


 “Just because my beer has a mildly fruity flavor does not imply in any way that it's foo foo.”


 “Yeah, whatever.  By the way, if in the future you plan on drinking you're Guinness I suggest you buy it while you’re in the big village.  You're not going to find it here.”


 “Huh,” I say, “That's too bad; people don't know what their missing.”


 “I don't think the locals like their beer to look like tar,” said Kenny, “Plus, it's not beer if you have to chew it.”


 TZZT....


 “Whatever.  Go on and drink your stones you uncultured shit.”


 “Yes....Yes I will.”


 TZZZZZZZZZZZZZT!!!!!!!


 “Well,” said Kenny, “That was probably our first June bug.”


 “Yup.”

 “So how long do you plan on keeping that ring on your finger?”

  “Oh no; we are not starting this again.  You bring this up every time we meet.”


  “Yeah --- and?”


  “Well, aren’t you tired of talking about it?”


“No.  So, how long are you going to wear it?”


 “Good God, Kenny, I don't know.  It has its uses.  I mean, I don't have to worry about being asked out on a date.”


 “True.....(Burp)” Kenny chucks the can into the recycle bin I had set out. (Well, aren’t you the environmentally conscious hippie?) “You were never one for small talk.”


 “Nope.”


 TZZT...


 “So I hope you don’t mind me prying but I have to ask.  Just how in the hell did one so socially challenged as you manage to land a nice girl like Lacey in the first place?”


 “Well, as luck would have it, when I first saw her at the library she was having problems with her laptop.”


 “Ah,” Kenny smiles, “So it was your first girlfriend that introduced you to your second.  That was very nice of her.”


 “Ah ha....Ah ha....You're a scream.  Anyway, I can't explain why, but I just felt comfortable around her. I mean, I never stuttered once.  She offered to pay me for fixing her laptop but I wouldn't take anything for it.  It wasn't that big a deal.”


 “What did you do to it?”


 “I gave it the three finger salute.”


 “Is that dork speak?  In English please.”


 “It's a Windows machine.  I just rebooted and everything was fine.”


 “Ah.”


 “Yes.....Buy a Mac.  Anyway, Lacey told me that since I wouldn't take her money then the least she could do is take me out for dinner.  We've been together ever since........Well, up until recently.”


 “Dude, she's the one.” Kenny said, “You can't let her get away.  Otherwise you’re going to be that goofy old recluse who talks to animals and wears the same underwear for weeks at a time.”


 “Irreconcilable differences.”  I say before finishing my bottle of beer.


 There was a long pause as I delve into my next beer and stared off into space.


 TZZT...


 “She a very ambitious woman,” I said without any prompting from Kenny, “She's a city girl from a well off family that dreams of one day shattering the glass ceiling and becoming a CEO.  All I was doing was holding her back. I mean, I tried to be someone I'm not and it simply didn't work out.”


 “Ain't it odd,” said Kenny as he waved his hand to present the world sitting before us – trees, fields, and dirt roads. “The one place you couldn't wait to get the hell away from turns out to be the very place where you end up feeling most at home?”


 “Yeah.  I didn't want to admit it, but I'm glad to be back.  It's quiet out here.  No concrete, no sirens, no people......No people.”


 “Dude, as much as you enjoy being a hobbit tucked away inside this little hobbit hole of yours, at some point you are going to have to go into town and reestablish some old contacts.”


 “Listen to you,” I laughed, “A Tolkien reference.”


 “What?”


 “The gentleman that wrote the hobbit. JRR Tolkien.”


 “Oh.  Yes.  Well, you simply can't live with a dork for as long as I have and not have some of his dorkiness rub off on you.”


 “Whatever, dude.  I’m not that bad.  I never got into Dungeons and Dragons or anything like that.”


 “Still a dork.”


 TZZT....


 “So….” Kenny pauses long enough to polish off another stone, “About this ring.”


 “My precious.”


 “NO! Not that ring you dipshit.” Kenny says and points to my finger, “Your wedding ring.  If you’re not going to take it off, then is it safe to assume that you’re still holding out at least a small bit of hope that you and Lacey can get back together?"


 I stare at the band on my finger.  It’s simple. No diamonds. No frills. Just a band. It seems fitting of the guy that’s wearing it.


 “Hope.” I whisper, “Yeah, to answer your question for the thousandth time, I’m kinda hoping. But I’m kinda hoping for that winning lotto ticket too.  I think the odds are about the same.”


 “Have you tried to call her?” Kenny asked.


 I shake my head.  “No, I haven’t. Just like I didn’t the day before and the day before that. I mean, what in the hell am I supposed to say to her?  Hey, sorry I packed up all my shit and walked out on you.  It’s not you, it’s me, will you take me back?”


 “True, you did dig yourself a big hole to climb out of,” said Kenny, “ but I don’t think that excommunication will lead to reconciliation.”


 “I’m impressed that you used two big words in one sentence.  I believe that you may have exceeded your big word limit for the month.”


 Kenny smiles, “Yeah, I’ve been saving that one for ya.”  Then the smiles disappears as his face turns grim, “I worry about ya, bro.”


“I know.  I appreciate it.”


TZZT….


After a long silence Kenny blurts out, “Do you think people would be more civil to each other if we could be like monkeys and just fling our poop on them when they say something that we don’t like?”


??????


“Dude……What?  Um, I got nothing.  Where in the Hell did that come from?”

“I think it would solve a lot of problems.”


“No, Kenny, I think that would get you shot.”


“Nah, just gotta be quicker on the draw. I guess that mean you couldn't wear a belt.”


“How much beer have you drank?”


“I’m about out.”


“Call Marlo, you’re sleeping on the couch tonight.”

Nowhere America: Ol' Jim's Gas Station

Ol' Jim's Gas Station

     Wow, the gas station is now a....what?...I don't know---- a nursery, I guess?  Given that there is a section of the old lot covered with a ton of plants I assume that’s what it has to be

      I wish I could be more descriptive but I don't know a damn thing about plants other than they are green and come in an array of colored flowers.  And I'll be damned if I'm going to research the matter.  This so called book that I'm writing is, according to Kenny, more for therapy, or perhaps even enlightenment, then it is for publication. 

(Kenny; this part is for you: BITE MY ASS!!!!.......Therapy?  Really?....Whatever)

      But, if it wasn't for Kenny insisting (prodding, demanding, incessantly prodding)  that I drive into town to look at all of the places that I would be writing about, dredging up a past that I’m not totally excited about reliving,  then I wouldn't have even known that the gas station no longer existed.  In fact, until Kenny told me I didn't even know that ol' Jim, the owner had, sadly, passed away. Perhaps if I had known in time I would have attended the funeral. He was, after all, a great guy.

     Okay, I’m lying.  I wouldn’t have gone to his funeral.  That would have required me to engage in conversation --- and not just conversation but small talk.  Given my incredibly inept social skills the situation would have rendered me a bumbling, stuttering idiot (albeit a well-dressed one) and taken me back to my awkward high school days.  No thanks, I’ll pass – and that makes me feel horrible because Jim, as I said, was a really good guy.  I really should have paid my respects.

(But, in all honesty, I wouldn’t even go to my own funeral if I thought I could get away with it.)

     Wow....A nursery.  They say the more things change the more they stay the same.  Well not in this case.  I wonder how many more surprises await me as I continue my return to Nowhere, America odyssey.

 “Remember,” bellows the booming voice of Kenny that I can’t get out of my head, “It's a happy journey.....NO self-loathing....Understand?”

 “Grr.....I got it, I got it.....Shit.”

      I chose the local gas station as my first piece for one main reason:  It's on the edge of town.  I can drive by it real slow, pull into the parking lot, turn around, and high tail it back home. No one outside of those that happen to be there would even have to know that I stopped by. (But give it five minutes and the whole damn town will have been notified --- therefore, I must be quick)

      I don’t recall Kenny ever saying that I had to get out of my car and talk to anybody so, by God, I'm not going to.

 No....Freaking....Way....The old outhouse is still there. Whoa..... That's -- Ugh -- kind of disgusting.

      Ol' Jim's was one of the few places in town where I felt I could just kick back, not say a word, and be accepted.  There were more than enough of the old farm hands coming in and out of the station for Jim and Kenny to bullshit with; allowing me the luxury of happily sitting back and quietly watching life go by.  I was comfortable at Ol’ Jim’s......with exception given to the outhouse.

      Jim's place didn't have a bathroom.....Just that awful outhouse.  I never once dared to set foot in it and, near as I can tell, neither did Kenny.  When he was working for Jim he would tell the old man, “I'm going to the bathroom.”

     Jim, sitting behind a cluttered desk (at least I believe it was a desk that was what was lying beneath his piles of books and papers) would simply nod his head and go back to his newspaper. Kenny would then exit the building, get in his pickup and drive halfway across town; going home to use his own bathroom; complete with porcelain, sink, soft toilet paper, and a can of shit be gone spray.

      As I gaze at the door of the outhouse I notice that there are no markings on it.  I have no idea if it's true or not but I had read somewhere that the old outhouses used to have either a half moon on the door to indicate a women's privy, or a sun on the door for men.  It could be just an old wives’ tale, but, like I said, that's what I have read.

     Given that there are no markings on this door I can only assume that the women have long since come to their senses and have taken full advantage of the wonders of indoor plumbing.

    Yes, this old relic had to be strictly a men's outhouse.  Only a barbarian would plop his hairy, crusty ass down inside that sunbaked shit box.

     I had also read somewhere that men's outhouses always had the seat mangled by wild animals that would wander in at night and chew on the seats to consume the salt from the urine that was dried onto them. Given the aiming skills of most men I can totally believe that.  A man can throw a baseball over a plate from sixty feet, six inches…..Can’t hit the center of the bowl while standing over it….
 Blech.....Ok.  No more outhouse. 

     The door to the main building ---- ok, shack if we must be honest ---- is closed.  Back in the day that door was never closed during business hours. 

      I can’t help but smile as I remember the sign Jim had hanging on the wall just to the right of the doorway as you walked inside; it was always the first thing I saw.

      The sign had a drawing of a man with his head in hand and looking absolutely miserable.  Just above the man the sign said:

 “One day, I was feeling down when somebody told me “Cheer up, things could get worse”.  So I cheered up and, sure enough, things got worse.”

      If you only knew Jim, you would see the humor in it.


     Because the lot was gravel and the door was always open, dust was a mainstay inside Jim's station.  There was a broom there and I hear tale that it got used on a regular basis, but I can't claim to have ever seen it in action.

    But that was okay.  Oddly, the dust just made the place seem more homey. I could take a seat on the beat up cloth chair and watch the dust float about in the sunshine that would beam through the small window at the front of the station.  A table and chair would sit just below the window so that Kenny could look out and see if anyone was driving in to fill up.  Although you didn't really need to look, you could hear the tires hit the gravel as the cars and old pickups made their way to up to the pump.

     Most of the time Kenny would be sitting at the table sharpening one of the many knives he owned.  You could pick up any one of Kenny's knives and shave with them.  You had to be careful though, those knives would cut you deep if your hand slipped. 

    Kenny’s favorite, by far and away, was a very large bowie knife which, to this very day, he still owns.  I don’t know how many times I’ve seen him sharpening that blade --- and I’ve never once seen him actually use it.  A friend of ours once joked, “Why skin the deer when you can just hack its legs off?”

    Jim was what would turn out to be the last of a dying breed.  In these parts there is no such thing as a full service gas station anymore.  No one comes up to your car and asks you how much you want, cleans your windows, or checks the oil and your tires.  Sadly, there are no companies that want to pay anyone to do that kind of thing anymore.  I kind of miss it on those cold and rainy days when I have to get out of my car to fill up. (I hear tale that there are still full service gas stations on the east coast but I have never personally been there to confirm it)

    The running joke around town was when Kenny worked the pump you always got eight dollars’ worth of gas; $7.50 in the tank and .50 cents on the ground.  Kenny may not have had the best math skills, but he certainly did know how to round up.

    You know what, I almost forgot about the stock tank sitting outside the station.  I can't remember how many gallons that old galvanized stock tank could hold but it was more than big enough to hold a seventy pound plus catfish and some monster snapping turtles.  Occasionally you could go to the station and see one of these creatures floating around in the tank, filled with fresh water, in order to clean the mud out of its system.  Trust me, catfish tastes horrible if you don’t get them properly cleaned.

      Now I have no problem eating catfish.  In fact, fish fries are a part of everyday life around these parts, especially during Lent.  There are few things better than fried catfish, French fries, and your favorite beer. (Well, not at lent.  We obviously can’t serve beer at church --- I think….I'm sure there is a Catholic joke in here somewhere -- but nothing is coming to mind right now)

  Of course, a lot of things here are fried, so I suppose it's not any real surprise that high blood pressure and heart attacks are just a way of life.  But, that's nothing to get fired up about.....Just ask the locals.

    Catfish -- damn good.......A snapping turtle, on the other hand....

    I have never once had a desire to eat a snapper.  Snappers are just plain ugly and I just can't imagine anything that grotesque tasting good.  I've been told by several friends that I'm really missing out.....I'll take their word for it. (Yes, I’ve been told they taste like chicken.  But doesn’t everything?)

 Ok, sorry, I got distracted....Let's get back to the old couch.

   The couch in Jim's station, I'm quite certain, had once enjoyed a quiet and peaceful existence inside Jim's house.  But then, I'm guessing, Jim's wife decided it was time for new furniture and the old couch suddenly found itself at the station, covered in dust, stained by greasy gas station food and the occasional Skoal or Redman spit that had inadvertently dribbled off the lip of some farmer that was shootin' the shit with Jim and Kenny.

    I loved that old chair.  I used to sit in it and pat the arm just so I could watch the dust fly off of it.  I also liked to sit in it and listen to the sound of someone’s boots as they entered the station and sauntered across the hard wood floor -- whump, whump, whump.   I don't know why, but I love the sound of a pair of boots on a hard wood floor.  (Oddly, I had never owned a pair of boots growing up)
 It was also in that old chair that I acquired a taste for the Landshire burrito.  (I wonder if they still exist.) I don't remember the names of all of them but I tend to gravitate towards those of the spicy variety.

   Today I would be a little concerned at making any attempt at consuming this oversized, microwaveable, plastic wrapped, sodium bomb.  But back then I practically emptied out Jim's refrigerator of all the Landshire burritos he had available.

   The key to enjoying your burrito was to make sure you didn't smack the arm of the old chair beforehand.  You didn't want to send the dust flying as you were microwaving your lunch.  Otherwise your burrito ends up tasting a little gritty.

 You know what, Kenny?  Perhaps you're right.  Maybe this is good therapy for me.  I wonder just how long I've been sitting here this goofy grin on my face?

    Damn. These are good memories; memories that have been buried for way too long in the back of my head.

    (Sigh)  Jim was the only guy in this town other than me that liked dark beer.  I remember the Celebrator that I had my brother give him.  Kenny (the idiot) left the beer in his truck and let it bake in the sun for a day....But it didn't matter.  Jim guzzled it down and told Kenny to have me get him some more.......Unfortunately I never did.  Damn it.

Good guy....Good guy.

    

I best get home and put this all on paper before I forget.....again....