The voice of my childhood has gone silent

I almost didn’t write this blog. Just last week my boss showed me a break down of our Facebook followers and according to the stats this the type of topic that would interest few of you. After all most of you are women, and hardly anyone of you are from the upper Midwest.

And yet, something tells me you’ll understand. You really don’t need to be baseball fan to follow along, or to have grown up in the same part of the country that I call home. For Heaven sakes you certainly don’t need to be a man. All it takes is to have admired someone from afar in your life, someone who never let you down.

That’s not an easy task. If you’re a child of the 70’s and 80’s you came of age in an era when virtually no one lived up to their image and billing. Politicians were always being exposed in corruption, television preachers were constantly caught breaking one of the commandments. Athletes and celebrities alike were either being arrested for drugs, or wrapped up in an ugly personal crisis.

You know their names; you can still see their faces. And after all these years I am betting that the feeling of disillusionment continues to haunt you a little.

 I also hope you had someone like Ernie Harwell to look up to.

 He was just a baseball announcer. Just a guy who made his living by describing the actions of others. And still the news of his death, on Tuesday night, hit me with an emotion that couldn’t  have been equaled by the passing of any of the high paid athletes he covered. There was something about this man that you just loved. Millions loved him.

 Maybe it was the way he called a strikeout. Players never went “down” or “back to the bench.” That was too harsh for Ernie. Instead they “stood their like the house on the side of the road and watched it go by.”

 Maybe it was the folksy way he called a foul ball. “That one was snagged by a man from St. Clair Shores.” Growing up I always wondered how Ernie personally knew the name, seat location, and suburban hometown of all 40 thousand fans packed into the stadium. Of course he didn’t. But even when I got old enough, even when that fantasy wore off, I wasn’t left with a feeling of bitterness (like when the secret of Christmas was revealed.) Instead you just chalked it up to his charm and kindness. It was like he wanted you to know that people in the seats mattered every bit as much as the ballplayer.

 Maybe, perhaps above all else, it was the fact that you just knew that he was who he claimed to be. He was not the product of image handlers or public relations firms. He was authentic. That seems so rare these days. In fact I am not even sure if I know what the word means any more.

 In 1990 the team failed to renew Ernie’s contract. The ball club was not prepared for the public backlash that followed. Fans boycotted Dominos Pizza (which owned the team). On one summer day, towards the end of his final season, thousands even stood outside the stadium refusing to use their tickets. They choose instead to form a circle around the building and turn on their transistor radios and listen one last time to this man.

 A year later, with attendance and ratings down, the team had no choice but to bring him back.

 None of us wanted to lose him. Not then and certainly not now. He was part of our home, the voice of our dreams. You knew a long distance road trip came to an end, even before you crossed state lines, because through the static of the AM radio station you could hear his voice…and suddenly you were home.

 Playing backyard ball you didn’t just fantasize about hitting the homerun  in the 7^th game of the World Series, you also dreamt that it was Ernie describing your every move: “Now here comes Doug Wahl to the plate- with the fate of his team on his back.”

 Who knows, maybe you won’t understand. I am not even sure I totally get it either. I haven’t heard his voice in years, and all things considered it’s really not sad news. He lived a good, long life. He was 92 years-old when he died. His passing is the type that should be celebrated not mourned.

 But it’s not losing Ernie that makes me sad. It’s bigger than that. It’s like a part of my childhood died with him.

What I’ve learned in 37 years

Today is my birthday and I’ve been thinking a lot about life lessons. I’ve learned…..

That there is nothing like becoming number two in your own life. God willing, maybe one day I will also know what it’s like to be number three or four

That every time I’ve hurt someone, whether deliberately or unintentional, it has always been in the pursuit of my own interests and goals. Looking back I wonder if any of the things I was chasing was really worth someone else’s pain.

That love, real love, is spent while expecting nothing else in return. This is a hard lesson to swallow and it is only at this advanced age that it has finally sunk in.

That I don’t need to always be the funniest guy in the room. Sure, more often than not it turns out that I am J. But all the same I no longer need to be the source of humor and in fact it’s refreshing when others step up to the plate

That it doesn’t matter how people receive what you do or say, that all that truly is important is the condition of your heart when you put it out there.

That there is no greater joy than those moments with an old friend, someone you haven’t talked to years but soon discover that the moment you reconnect it is as if no time as elapsed at all. In this regards thanks for your phone call tonight Nell and Michelle.

That a big part of figuring out who you are is through the process of elimination. Once you get rid of everything you’re not, what’s left over is a pretty good place to start. Therefore I am giving up on the fantasy of ever becoming a “car guy” or a handyman.

That apparently there is nothing attractive about a man who rolls his eyes. Even though I’ve learned this lesson I am not totally sure I can stop myself.

That depression is always general; Life sucks. Things will never get better. By contrast happiness is always found in the details.

That women may claim that they want the bad guy, or the sensitive guy, or the manly man, or the supportive guy, but in the end all women want is someone who makes them feel special. If I had to guess guys probably want that too.

That pillow fights, cartoons, coloring books and knock-knock jokes are still fun. A five year old boy taught me that, and now I wonder why I gave them up in the first place.

That there is nothing like family. Sure, after a visit extends past a couple of days a part of me is ready for them to leave. But all the same, I’ve learned when you’re down and out that they are first ones to answer the call.

That there is nothing wrong in spending time on yourself. As a single parent such selfish luxuries can be ridden off with guilt, but in the end your own emotional happiness has to matter.

That the main difference between someone of faith and a nonbeliever comes in the value they put on the magical moments in life. Everyone has their share of times when events match up with our life in perfect synergy. To the nonbeliever these are pleasant coincidences. The man of faith chooses to see the moments as a sign of God’s hand in action.

That there is nothing unmanly about crying. In fact, I’d be hesitant to trust any male who holds back his emotions.

That the toughest men I know are not the ones who get in fights. In fact those guys are use violence and intimidation as another layer of bricks in the wall they’ve constructed around themselves. The real tough guys are the ones with the courage to expose themselves and embrace their own vulnerability.

That I will never look good in a photograph, unless the picture was taken at last five years ago. There is something about time and distance that just makes me look so much better in my own; “Dam! I was really handsome back then.

That the best thing to do when you have a cold is drink a mug of hot tea. In fact, I like it so much that I always vow to drink it more often, and then I get better and I instantly return to coffee.

That Jesus died on the cross for my sins not because he thought I get it right, but because he knew I get it wrong.

Therefore, I have also learned that there is no way for me to every really earn God’s love. I’ve tried to be worthy by volunteering, by giving to the church, by being diligent in prayer or reading the Bible- but it will never be enough. All that’s on me is to decide to receive his love and pass it on to those in my life.

That if you take one miserable person and put them in a relationship with another miserable person all you will get in the end is a miserable relationship. I had to learn this one the hard way.

That life is good. Looking back it was in the past. I know too that it will be good in the future. But most importantly it is good right now and that’s all I need to get through the day.

And finally, that if it is the American dream to become the self made man that I have failed miserably in this pursuit. Instead I am the product of all you who love me, who support me, who believe in me, who nudged me in certain directions when I needed that nudging. Failure is never easy to accept, but in this regard I wouldn’t have it any other way

Homecoming

We were at the airport’s security gate when I turned to my parents to give them a hug. I already knew what was coming next, over the years it’s become a ritual or sorts. My mother’s eyes well up with tears and her voice cracks as we say “good bye.”

It sounds very sweet, but for me the moment is filled with guilt and riddled with remorse. Well, that is after all, the price you pay for picking up your life and moving, for staying away for 13 years, for abandoning your folks in their old age, for having grandkids born in another state.

The shame played out again at the airport, but this time…this embrace…those tears…something was different. Something, that just didn’t seem right.

Truth is, as much as I enjoyed myself, this entire trip was a little bit off. It just seemed awkward from start to finish. Even after nine days I’m not sure I can put my finger on it.

It started off with such high expectations. I wanted to show my son where his old man came from. When we drove around town I’d point out my school, the pizza place where I got my first job and the little league baseball field where I once pitched a no hitter. I’d take him sledding down my favorite hill and at night he’d sleep in my old bedroom.

Yeah, at four years old the significance would be lost on him but maybe…just maybe…some of my childhood could become part of his childhood.

It didn’t work out that way.  The school has a new wing and undergone so much renovation that it’s unrecognizable. The pizza place changed names and moved across town. The baseball field has been bulldozed, the sledding hill is now an upscale subdivision and my bedroom is a family storage unit.

Getting through security and making our way across the terminal I once again started to play the game that had consumed me all week long. Searching the faces of the passing travelers I was hoping to see someone I’d recognize. It was a pointless.  I had yet to win on this entire vacation and certainly the odds of bumping into someone here- at a major metropolitan airport – seemed highly unlikely.

And yet I still couldn’t get over the fact that it never happened it my remote suburban hometown. Not too long ago it was impossible to go anywhere in Shelby Township without seeing someone? Where did they all go? Who are these people that replaced them? These days instead of friends, step into a store and all you’ll find is strangers looking back at you.

None of this is new, or in anyway unique to me- I know that. Anyone who’s moved away has experienced the same disappointment.  We’ve all been told that you can’t go home again. But no one bothered to tell us something else. If you stay away long enough there comes a time when your hometown is no longer your home but rather it gets reduced to just the place where you’re from. I think that‘s what finally happened to me on this trip.

The plane was now taxing on the runaway and once again we were going to leave Detroit behind. While we were in the air I thought about all the states I’ve lived in during the last 13 years. None of them ever felt like home. There really just lines on my resume.

 Even now, even though I have no plans to leave my town of Wilmington, North Carolina, a place that I have lived in for three years,  it still doesn’t feel like it belongs to me.  And so this kid from Michigan feels very much like an orphan.

 The image of my mother still haunted me during the second flight on a much smaller plane. Why did her tears seem so different this time around? Is it possible that for all these years she never really was trying to send me on a guilt trip? Maybe she wasn’t crying because I was leaving her or the family, but perhaps she knew that I was saying goodbye to something else; a sense of community- something that once given up it can become virtually impossible to regain.

It was late as we were making our approach into Wilmington. My son and I had spent nearly 8 hours traveling.  Looking outside the dark window it was impossible to see the most inviting and attractive parts of this city. But there in the distance was something that made me smile: the blinking light on top of my television station’s broadcast tower. I wondered what stories I’d be telling the folks at work tomorrow about my vacation.

With my bearings now in tack I knew that the awkward shaped structure in the foreground had to be the Memorial Bridge and up the Cape Fear River I could make out the buildings in the downtown district.

Preparing for the landing we crossed what I guess was MLK Highway and I saw all the lights from the cars below. What are the odds that I knew some of the drivers? It wasn’t a practical thought- just as unlikely as finding a familiar face in a metropolitan airport. All the same there are a number of people- a growing number of people down there- who I care about.

As the wheels touched the ground, I came to terms with the fact that my journey was really coming full circle. In the beginning I had set out to see my hometown. It took 9 days…or maybe it took 13 years… but I had finally reached my destination

  

A View From the Hill Top

The Hill Top Bar deserves a spot on the list of historical landmarks. It is one of the oldest, continuously operated businesses in Shelby Township, Michigan. You’ve never heard of it, but then again few people in Shelby Township have heard of it either. This extremely narrow hole-in-the-wall, built some time in the 1930’s, goes unnoticed because it is flanked on either side by strip malls with huge road signs. There is so much clutter and development that unless you knew what you were looking for… you’d never know what you were missing.

This location was not part of the itinerary for my week long vacation back home. And yet on my first night I found myself saddling up to the bar with my father.

The Hill Top Bar is just that- it is a bar. It is not a tavern, a saloon, a pub or any other alternative name given to an establishment that serves alcohol. It is most certainly not a club. It survives, decade after decade, off the business of just a handful of regulars- blue collar workers who come here after their shift at some automotive plant

Robyn, the only bartender on duty, hasn’t worked here very long. She got the job just a few months ago after being laid off from the nearby Ford plant. The career change took her from making 20 plus dollars an hour, to minimum wage plus tips. ” A lot of my friends are waiting for something better to come along, but I got a little baby girl at home,” she said pointing at a picture on the cash register, “I had to do something to pay the bills.”

My new friend had no problem talking about the troubled economy. The topic has become a favorite for far too many these days. People like telling you how much money they’ve lost on the stock market, or how long their retirement has been delayed because of a dwindling 401k or how lucky they are just to have a job.

Everywhere you go people are hurting, but you come here to Michigan and the pain just seems so much worse. They’ve been in this recession longer than the rest of the nation and the recovery will likely move slower here than anywhere else.

“So how many people here have lost their job?” I asked Robyn the question knowing that she knew all the regulars by name and knew exactly what each was going through.

She looked around the smoke filled room until her eyes rested on one man sitting on the opposite end of the bar. “You see that guy over there?” She gesturing toward a man who was wearing a Red Wing’s hat, sipping beer out of a bottle and talking to no one else. He clearly wanted to be left alone. He was having a miserable time “He is the only one who hasn’t been laid off.”

Just in sake of numbers alone the news was shocking. Eleven people were in the bar and all but one them were out of work.

You’d never know it by looking at them. They were having way too much fun; shooting darts, playing barroom shuffleboard and dancing to the jukebox.

Almost instantly I started to resent these people. How could they be unemployed and hanging out a bar? What a waste of money. It just seemed totally irresponsible. No wonder they lost their jobs.

My mood though changed when a pizza deliveryman walked through the door. One of the unemployed workers had ordered the food- the Hill Top has no kitchen.  I watched her pay the man, telling him to keep the change. She then walked around the bar going to each individual offering them a slice. On the surface she was sharing just food, but in reality it was so much more than that.

When someone loses their job they lose more than just a paycheck, in reality they lose a part of their personality- a part of their identity. Who we are is too often defined by what we do. When you are suddenly doing nothing it is as if you have become nothing.

That is exactly what these people in the Hill Top are going through. And so they come to this bar, come here after spending the day worried about the bills and the mortgage, to get away and remove themselves from all the uncertainty.  They come here because in this place they are not alone. During the day, as they desperately search for jobs, it may seem that what happened to them was somehow their own fault and yet here at night they’re reminded that the blame belongs on circumstances beyond their own control- beyond anyone’s control. By sharing a beer, and a few slices of pizza, the regulars at the Hill Top are really engaging in community therapy.

As I watched the crowd interact, as I heard them laugh and at least for a moment forget about their situation, my feelings against them suddenly disappeared. Technically they were all strangers, and yet I knew them all so well. Their faces were those of so many childhood friends who went on to work for one of the big three. To land such a job meant a promising life and so much security. Somewhere, at some other neighborhood bar, I wondered how many of my old friends were drinking away their sorrow.

My eyes roamed around the room and finally went back to the stranger at the end of the bar. I suddenly knew why he looked so miserable- why clearly was not enjoying himself. I think he was sitting there wondering if he’d be next.

Button Pushers

Once upon a time, maybe five or six years ago, my mother-in -law loved me. Well, okay, “love” is a bit of an overstatement. She did though, undeniably, like me. The two of us hit it off instantly. Our relationship was based on laughter. She understood my sense of humor and I genuinely appreciate anyone who thinks I’m funny.

 Looking back the real reason for her affection is finally clear. It was based solely on comparison.  She absolutely, completely, with total vengeance, hated the boyfriend before me. In short, she liked me because I wasn’t him.  With that as a foundation our friendship had little hope. Eventually the memory of the guy I replaced would grow stale and she’d wind up hating me every bit as much as him.

Just a few weeks ago thoughts, of my mother-in-law came bounding back into my head. For the first time in several years the two of us were going to have to see each other. A lot has changed since our last encounter…well, at least one big thing has changed; her daughter and I have broken up.

This was not going to be a social visit. It’d only last a few minutes. I’d walk in and pick up my son (her grandson) and then turn around and leave. The exchange was really no big deal. So why was I so nervous?

 I’ve never experienced a panic attack, but I now know the symptoms; shortness of breath, lump in the throat, a shaking feeling on the inside.  Getting into the car my mind became cluttered with memories of every confrontation, every rude comment, every one of her nasty tricks.  I once needed to tolerate this behavior to keep the peace, but why now? Why did I have to drive two hours to be treated this way?

You know what I am talking about.

No matter how many accomplishments you have, how successful you become, no matter what you do there will always be complicated and trying personalities. You simply cannot get rid of them. The world has no shortage of button pushers. For me it is my mother-in-law. For you it is somebody else.

 Clearly the blame belongs on them.  Hey, it’s not on us. How could it be; we get along with virtually everyone else. So, if there’s a problem it must be the fault of the jerks, the idiots, the malcontents and the old hags.

Or maybe it’s not.  

Halfway on my journey I started to think about all the reasons, some legitimate, this woman had to dislike me. For starters, she wasn’t technically my mother-in-law. Her daughter and I lived with each other for years but never got married. That would get on the nerves of any mother.

Plus there were words that caused pain. When my ex wanted to buy a home directly next door to her mother’s, the idea was immediately shot down; “Are you crazy? This isn’t Everybody Loves Raymond.”  The comment got back to the mother-in-law who didn’t think it was funny… but to be honest it wasn’t a joke.

Most of all I think she probably felt let down. Her little girl deserved a knight in shining armor. How disappointing it must have been to discover that the make shift son-in-law was far short of that mark.

Getting off the exit, my mind prepared for the tricks she had up her sleeve. She’d probably open with a complaint about me being early or late (five minutes in either direction and I hear it.) She’d then move on with some snide comment about my hairline. She’d make some remark-she wouldn’t be able to help herself- about how happy her daughter is with this new boyfriend.  And then there’d be the grand finale. It’s her favorite weapon, and boy does it get under my skin.  In saying goodbye to my son she’d drop the title of “daddy.” “What are you and Doug going to do together?” “You and Doug have fun now!”

 In the last few miles my hands became clammy; the steering wheel was getting moist.  No matter how quickly I got in and out, this was still going to be painful. And then, out of no where, all the fear disappeared. Without any explanation it was suddenly replaced with this great sense of calm.

 I know it sounds strange. How can a person go, almost immediately, from a total frantic state to just knowing deep down inside that it’s okay? Honestly it started with this presence. It wasn’t a voice; it was just something in my gut that billowed upwards. It made its way to my brain where the same phrase kept repeating itself over and over: “She may push the buttons, but they’re your buttons. You own them.”

I was in the driveway now and shocked to discover that there was a part of me that almost wanted to hug her. Okay that too may be a bit of an overstatement. All the same I knew I could be charming, polite, maybe even funny…it would be nice to laugh together again.

Yes, she tried many of the things I predicted and more but none of them worked. She will always be a complicated personality in my life, but even the most challenging individuals have value.

As I got into the car to start our journey back home, I thought about the contrast between the way I feel about my son and my emotions towards the former mother-in-law. It’s easy to love someone who’s loveable. Anyone can do that. But how many of us can love someone who’s something less?

 They may push our buttons but they are our buttons.

The Moving Truck

It was already too late. The words were out of my mouth. No matter how much I wanted to take them back the damage was already done.

“Are you serious?”

My friend was about to jump me. The conflict was unavoidable now. My poorly chosen words would lead to pain.

“Wow! You really want to help us move?”

I am talking about the kind of pain that comes when you spend an entire Saturday lifting heavy objects.

You’d think I’d be an expert on this subject. In 13 years I’ve lived in six states, five houses, three apartments, two townhomes, a couple of condos, one duplex and even in a renovated 1920’s era grocery store. On average I have changed addresses once every 11 months- and yet I am horrible when it comes to moving.

 

 

Packing a truck requires a certain talent. That is especially true when you’re making a long distance trek. My friend was about to move 15 hundred miles from Wilmington, North Carolina to the middle of the country. A journey like that requires a lot of planning. You need to be a visionary. Long before the first box is loaded your mind has to turn an empty space, 23 feet long by 8 feet wide, into a storage unit big enough to fit your entire life.

Luckily, my friend knows how to use every square inch of space. To him a moving truck is one giant jigsaw puzzle. He mastered a technique to stack boxes from floor to ceiling. When the gap become too narrow- he always  found room for some thing else to fill the void; a rolled up rug, unpacked pillows or blankets, jackets that wouldn’t be needed until he arrived at his new home.

Each of the bigger items: the sofa, the bed, the dresser- were gently turned into vessels for other things.  After carrying in a bookshelf my friend instantly started filling it with possessions. The dinner table was placed just like it was standing in the kitchen; its surface was then used as a foundation to stack more boxes. Even the more awkwardly shaped objects like the lawn mower, ceiling fans and golf clubs always had the perfect place waiting for their arrival the very moment they were carried inside.

The moving van became a testament to forethought; a shrine to the art of having a well designed plan and the endurance to execute it perfectly. All of it matches the very nature of my friend’s character. He lives his life the same way he packs a truck. He is, in short, a man with a plan.

From the moment he picked his career things have gone- more or less- the way they were supposed too. One precisely taken, intricate, step on the corporate ladder was always followed by another. The journey keeps moving forward (or upward) and his view gets more spacious with each step along the way.

The irony of it all, as I watched him in action; turning, rotating, negotiating even twisting boxes in places they had no business going; I realized that life rarely is like a moving truck. No matter how much preparation we do, sometimes things just don’t go as planned. All the pivoting and bending in the world- and you still can’t make everything fit.

The truth is my friend never wanted to leave Wilmington. When he moved here a few years ago it was with the hopes of establishing roots. This is where he was going to buy a house, find a church and become part of a community. His job was secure. So was his wife’s. Their future was promising. There was talk of promotions, raises and yes- maybe one day there’d even be a baby.

It just didn’t work that way.

Wilmington probably started going wrong for my friend earlier then he’d care to admit. He rented a nice home, but it was so far out of town that he had to endure an hour commute. When he arrived at work he often found not just genuine disagreements, but that his personality sometimes clashed with others.

As our Saturday went on, every so often in our conversation, my friend expressed pain and anger. A new job was waiting for him and yet he couldn’t quite let go of the one he had already quit. He wanted to talk about the way things should have been- if only it weren’t for a few unresolved issues

 And yet I knew (and he knowa this too) that  just because things don’t go according to out plan that doesn’t mean they don’t go exactly the way God has planned them.

You see, while my friend was dealing with all this change, his mother-in-law had concerns of her own. She was diagnosed with cancer. Coincidently my friend’s new job is only a few hours away from his wife’s hometown. If they left late tonight, and took two days to get there, they would literally be pulling up just as chemotherapy treatments were starting.  

No, things didn’t go the way they were planned, not for my friend and certainly not for his in-laws. And yet a daughter being there to help her mother just seems to fit perfectly.

When the truck was finally loaded, and after we said our goodbyes, watching my friend drive away it became impossible not to smile.  Yes he was leaving a place he wanted to stay, but I knew he was going exactly where he was supposed to be.   

 

I was Wrong

This doesn’t happen often; today I have to admit I was wrong. Yes, getting things wrong is an all too frequent occurrence. Admitting it, on the other, is a very rare occasion.

 Last week, in this blog, I made the point that technology has gotten in the way of person to person contact. As part of that essay I talked about the social websites like My Space and Facebook and argued they only gave us the illusion that we are in keeping in touch; “It’s like we’ve figured out how to talk without really communicating.”

Truth is I made that observation based on second hand knowledge. You see, even though many friends encouraged me to sign up, I’ve resisted. To me there is something about a man in his mid thirties trolling one of those sites that’s kind of….you know… creepy.

So, after last week’s essay, really more to the fact after friends started accusing me of being a hypocrite, I broke down and became a member.

I started with one of my best friends here in town. Her selection didn’t make much sense. The two of us talk on the phone several times a day. What was I going to say to her online that I couldn’t say to her in conversation? I still haven’t answered that question but she was the first.

Michele was next. She’s one of my closest friends although we haven’t seen each other in years. For a while now she’s been telling me about Arthur. She goes on and on about this wonderful man who captured her heart. And now suddenly, thanks to technology, I can see him. He’s featured in many of the pictures on her website. The two really do make a cute couple.

My attention was suddenly diverted to the right had side of the computer. Out of no where a picture of Gretchen popped up. She was smiling at me under the headline “People You May Know.” Well, of course I know Gretchen. With a simple drag and a click of the mouse, the two of us had become friends again.

Nell popped up next, then Avery, then Monica, then Sue. It was like the computer was magically putting together a maze of my past. One by one I was being reunited with people from high school, college and in all the cities and states I’ve called home during my career. Even though these were very good friends, and people who still hold a special place in my heart, it was like time and distance had relegated them to playing just a cameo, the role of an extra- someone who was in one scene but not the next.

 Until this week, in my mind, these people were exactly the way I left them. They weren’t allowed to grow up or to age. Some where stuck in their teenage years, others were still attending fraternity parties. And they all still look good. No one had receding hairlines or faces that were covered by wrinkles.

In a way keeping them in the past was nice. It allowed me to hold on to my youth. And yet it’s really impossible for your own life to move on until you allow others to grow.

And so they have.

Lanier has done very well for herself. In my mind she is still an intern learning the ropes. In reality she is now a press secretary for a United States Senator. Her Facebook page is filled with pictures of the rich and famous.

 Todd is now a family man. Who would have thought? I wonder if he’s going to teach his kids the same lesson he once taught me in high school; the proper way to knock down a mail box with your car. The two of us exchanged notes and relived that story, along with a number of other stupid stunts we pulled. It’s amazing we graduated without ever being arrested.

The online exchange with Melissa lead to a long phone conversation. She was a good friend in college. She is now the mother of two. Her oldest son is autistic. It was clear by the way she talked that the diagnosis has been a blessing. It’s provided her life with a certain purpose. She now volunteers as an advocate and helps other parents make sure their autistic children get the proper care and attention. Had I not found Melissa I would have lost the inspiration of what her life has become.

It’s good, really good to hear that Jim is doing well. He’s the only colleague of my mine in Louisiana whose home was destroyed in Hurricane Katrina. When I left the state, a few months after the storm, his family was still living in a motel. This will sound horrible but sadly it’s true, in the past three years I haven’t given much thought on how things were going for him. This week I did. “They are finally back to normal.” He told me in a note written on Friday. In my absence Jim has managed to rebuild a home and also his entire life.

Oh I realize the truth about these websites. Yes they can reconnect you with people but only to a point. Just because one locates some old friends doesn’t mean that those people will reclaim a starring role. And that’s okay.  Indeed it’s how it’s supposed to be. You see keeping in touch cannot be about reliving the past. Instead it’s about making sure that the people we once- and still do- care about, don’t totally fade to black.

Unanswered Phone Calls

It’s been a while since I talked to Sarah. A few months have gone by since she left Wilmington and moved to Albuquerque. As my fingers searched for her number, under the Contact section of my cell phone, I thought about all the catching up we’d have to do. Not only has a lot changed in her absences, but she was now living in my former hometown and working at my old station.

Waiting for the call to go through, I started to wonder if she liked her new job. Had she met Bill yet? What did she think of working with Mark on the morning show? Has Paul invited her to the Press Club and bought her a beer?

There was plenty to find out but suddenly there was another question on my mind; “What was that noise?”

It’s hard to explain but each ring on the other end was immediately followed by a long beep. “Ring-beeeeep! Ring-beeeeeep!” The sound totally threw me off. The first couple of times I actually checked the face of my phone to see if someone was waiting on the other line. No one was there.

You know what it was? That sound didn’t indicate that I had another call. Instead it was informing me that Sarah had another call. She was already chatting away with somebody else, probably one of her new friends. Frankly I didn’t need that information!

What happened next bothered me the most- really got under my skin. Sarah must have looked at my name on the caller i.d. and made a split second decision to send me to the wasteland that is voice mail.  Isn’t technology great! It’s now clear when people are screening their calls! We now know when we didn’t make the cut.

Now, as much as I’d like to spend the rest of this essay talking about the pain that accompianed the rejection and the humiliation that came along with the shaft…that’s really not today’s topic. Although, one day I will probably be discussing that with a therapist. Instead, for now, I want to talk about how electronics have more or less ruined our lives

Bringing people closer together probably was never the main goal of advancement but once upon a time technology had the side effect of making the world a smaller place to live. That was certainly the case with the airplane; suddenly the entire globe became accessible. The phone allowed you to stay connected with long distant relatives and friends, provided you were willing to reach out and touch someone. The television, yes even the television, allowed people to have one shared experience regardless of where they were; remember the days when two coworkers could meet at the water cooler and discuss last night’s episode of Seinfeld?

All that’s changed. Something went wrong. I think things just got carried away? Eventually technology advanced so much that it was no longer possible to get away and escape; the cell phone, the pager, the laptop kept us connected in even the most remote area- even when we didn’t necessarily want to be in touch.

And so we’ve rebelled.

If you think about it, all recent inventions have had nothing to do with brining people closer together- in fact they’ve almost been entirely about helping us avoid human interaction. It’s like the inventor’s goal is to make our lives simpler by just eliminating those intrusions and interruptions created by others. So much for love they neighbor.

Every Friday morning I have the same conversation with a woman who sits about 10 feet away. “Hey, did you see the Office last night?” I’ll ask hoping the two of us can share in some of the jokes and laughter. The problem is this season my plan has backfired.”

“No!No!No! No! Don’t tell me anything about it! “my coworker demands of me. “ I TiVoed it. I am not watching it until this weekend.”

 By the time she actually gets around to seeing the episode, I’ve long since forgotten all about it. Technology has taken away the water cooler.

Last night, after work, I was on an elliptical machine at the gym. Striding along side of me, just a few inches away, was a woman in her 50’s. We were both wearing headphones. She was plugged in to an IPod. I was listening to a small, personalized, television set hooked up to the machine. The two of us spent almost an hour looking straight ahead never once making eye contact. Occasionally our arms would brush up against each other in midstride. We were close to touch without ever reaching out to each other. Technology has taken away my ability to make polite small talk with strangers.

Oh, I know what some of you will say. You’ll defend the advancements and tell me that we are actually more connected than ever before. You may point to social websites like My Space or Facebook as examples of how old friends are staying in touch and continuing to share their lives.

Frankly I don’t buy it. We used to write long letters to old friends, and then that became a few paragraphs in an email. Which turned into a sentence or two in an instant message, finally it all to morphed into even smaller, totally made up language created  by the art of texting.    

Yeah, the social websites allow people to share, but I think they only give us the illusion that we’re still connected. Look at what people write on such pages; “Hey you’re looking good.” “Your kids are so cute.” “What’s up homey?” It’s like we’ve figured out how to talk without really communicating.

It’s time for me to unplug. I am going to make some changes. I’m going to stop using my cell phone at the check out counter. I am never going to wear headphones in public-maybe it’s possible that what the person next to me has to say is far more worthy of hearing. No longer will I send an email to someone who works only a few feet away- If the message is that important I can tell them in person.

I am going to be a new man. And I am starting with this incoming call.

 Hey, look: it’s Sarah. Sure a part of me wants to pay her back and let her go to voice mail…but then again we have a lot of catching up to do.   

Four Square

Have you ever played Four Square?

Back in elementary school there was a Four Square court painted on the blacktop of our playground, but I don’t remember anyone ever using it. We were too busy with pick up football, chasing the girls or hanging out around the jungle gym. It seems to me we also had a hop scotch area, but no one ever used that either.

If you’re not familiar with the game then let me explain it. Four Square is kind of a mix between tennis and dodge ball. It is actually played in one big square which is subdivided into four separate sections. One person physically stands in each of those areas, defending his zone against a bouncing rubber ball that has been hit in his direction by the other players.

Don’t be fooled, I am hardly an expert on the game. I’ve only played it once and that was just a few weeks ago.

The competition took place at a gathering for Christian men. You see, most of the guys in my church belong to a small group, made up of no more than a dozen or so members. Typically each group meets once a week.  The first few gatherings are awkward but over time a bond starts to form.  These are the guys who you call during good times and bad. It is more than just faith, what you’re really sharing is fellowship.

A couple of times a year all the men, in all the small groups, get together for one huge extravaganza. We order in food like ribs or hot wings that you have to eat with your hands- that’s a very male thing to do.  We challenge each other to meaningless battles where our pride is put on the line. That too is a very male thing to do.

On this particular night a variety of tournaments were going on all at once. In one area people were challenging each other in air hockey, in another Fossball was the main activity. Ping pong, darts and Guitar Hero competitions were taking up the rest of the space.  Oh and don’t forget there were those of us on the four square court.

Each of the games worked on the premise that the winners got to play on. Meanwhile the losers were forced to exit and endure a long wait before they got a chance at redemption.

 Only a handful of us were playing Four Square. So, even if when you lost, things rotated back to you very quickly. The turnover gave you a chance to learn the ropes. You soon realized that this wasn’t a game of luck, but that there was in fact strategy- not to mention technique- involved.

 A scouting report on each of your opponents started to take form. Bob had a weak backhand. Todd, who recently underwent knee surgery, had troubles with the low shots. Eric was good- really good- he some how managed put backspin on the ball. At 6 foot three John had great reach, but he was awkward and often times off balance- if you got him crisscrossed you could probably score a point.

You ever see that episode of the Twilight Zone where a group of senior citizens recapture their youths by playing Kick the Can? That’s kind of what the evening for this group of middle aged men. Something about this grade school game just brought out the best in all of us. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that no one really cared about the outcome. 

Our excitement started to attract other men to the court.  The line was growing. A massive evacuation of the air hockey and Foosball tables were underway and the word was quickly spreading to the other areas. The evicted loser now had thirty, maybe forty plus guys, in front of him.

The crowd added a new dimension to the game. When you finally got back into the court there was now a certain sense of nervousness. Suddenly it felt like you were performing.

Though, many in number, the spectators stated to speak with a collective voice. An exceptional play was cheered. A foolish miss was groaned or moaned over. When Don was hit in the head with a misdirected ball, at such force that his glasses went flying to the other side of the room, the proverbial hush fell over the crowd. Moments later everyone was cheering again when it became apparent that Don was okay.  Technically he was out, but out of respect for his valor- and his glasses- the crowd let him play the next serve.

The bigger it got the better it got. That is, until….

“Hey! Hey! Hey,” one of the guys in line was yelling and pointing at one of the players on the court, “You palmed the ball. You just palmed the ball! You can’t do that! That’s an illegal hit!”

Who knows? The self appointed referee was probably right. To be sure Four Square, like all games, has rules. Unfortunately for us, this guy just happened to be an expert on them. He was young, brash, a college kid (probably going to school on a Four Square scholarship). To him Four Square mattered and to play it any other way than the right way- than his way- would be a sin.

“You got to be kidding me,” the accused player was trying to make his defense. “This is just a game.”

If Four Square operated under majority rule there’d be no doubt who would’ve won the debate. None of us waiting to play cared about the infraction- if it indeed it was an infraction. And yet the finger pointer spoke with such conviction and apparent knowledge that that the guilty party took his illegal palms and went to the back of the line

There has to be a difference between the spirit of the law and the letter of the law. Some just don’t understand that. They value rules more than what is really necessary. Sometimes the sticklers are advocating for the integrity of their cause but more often they are really just trying to prove their superiority. It is as if the rules exist just to make them- at long last- an authority on something. 

The Bible talks about this very thing. Several places in the Gospels Jesus choose to perform miracles of healing on the Sabbath. This enrages the religious sticklers, the Pharisees, who believed in the letter of the law. To them any work, even healing someone in pain, violated the rules.

 Once when healing a man with a mangled hand Jesus asked the crowd “which is lawful on the Sabbath: to do good or to do evil?”

Back on the Four Square Court, the finger pointer probably never thought of his actions as being evil, but they clearly had a negative effect. Once the fowl was called the entire atmosphere changed. The game went on- but now it seemed like  everyone was taking it far more seriously. Now it was far more intense. It seemed like people really wanted to win- at all costs.

Soon arguments were starting over whether a particular shot was in or out. Players were accused of colluding with each other in attempts to go after the strongest competitor. Trash talk- yes, trash talk was being thrown about; “You think you can handle this serve old man? Not in my house! Not in my house!”

People kept rotating in and out. Winners quickly became losers. Losers quickly became spectators. Spectators quickly became the people to beat- until they were eventually defeated. The more the cycle went on and on the more foolish our behavior appeared to be.  With the same collective voice we had once cheered with- as a group we all decided to call it quits.

As we all walked off in separate directions I couldn’t help but wonder about the impact this game had on our evening. Did it bring us closer or did it pull us apart. At the start of the night few of us had ever played this game before- and at the end of the night- because of the way things got out of hand- I doubted few of us would ever play it again. 

 

 

 

 

Then, Now and Later

Several months ago it occurred to me that I may never get married. Looking back it’s impossible to say where that realization came from but all-in-all it didn’t really bother me.

 Until, that is, I started to think about the future. Suddenly I was suffering from the fear of what could only be described as eventual loneliness. I am okay for now, but who wants to be alone when they’re 50, 60, 70 or 80 years old?

I needed a plan.

At least that is how my mind works. If something starts bothering me I just try to think my way out of it. If- after all- fate and destiny were going to place me in a position to be alone- I would just design a way to live without be lonely.

What would that look like?

With pen and paper in hand I started to write out a vision of my single future.  What would I want to do? How would I keep busy? There was always travel- plenty of places to go and see. My hand started to make a list; Ireland, China, France….and that’s when things came to a screeching halt.  The paper was instantly crumbled and tossed away. The project had come to a premature end.

You see, the problem was really two fold. First, who wants to travel all by themselves? Where’s the fun in that? Writing out the list of countries this image of standing in front of the Eiffel Tower appeared in my mind.  My arm was stretched out as far as it could go. My hand was holding a digital camera trying to capture a photograph of myself. Gosh, that seemed so horrible!

Even worse was the realization that I was committing a sin that has plagued my life for years.  Oh, I know I’m not alone. A lot of people have this problem. At the risk of sounding sexiest, it’s been my experience that men tend to struggle with this far more than women. I am speaking of the inability to live in the now.

Many of us are to busy trying to live in the future. We convince ourselves that we alone- not God- have the power to determine how events will shape up. If we come up with the right plan, dedicate ourselves, work hard enough, give it all we have- then we follow the fallacy that we really can control our destiny. To those of us who struggle with this line of thinking the future holds the key to happiness. The years ahead will lack the kinks and shortcomings that get in our way now.

There is an obvious problem with this line of thinking. As long as you live in the future then the future never becomes the present. You’ll never arrive. Your happiness is always around the corner, a flip or two of the calendar ahead.

Others prefer to live in the past. On the surface, since one knows how it all works out, this seems like a safer option. And yet these are some of the saddest people you will ever meet- even if they are remembering their happiest  days.

  Go into a bar, a watering hole, and chances are you’ll see a person who’s stuck decades behind. It won’t take much before they start telling you about that million dollar sale they once pulled down, or that catch in the high school football championship that sealed the game, or all the women they’ve known. It doesn’t matter when the stories took place, how many years have passed, or even if there true, you will hear them with such detail that it’ll sound- almost- like it all took place the day before.

The tragedy here, for these people, is that life is all behind them. The older they get the further they’re removed from all the glory. No matter how well the stories are told the memories become more and more of a shell game. One is left to wonder if what they longing for ever really existed- ever really happened- in the first place.

I don’t know how to live in the now. I really don’t. And if there was one thing I could change about myself it’d be that deficiency.

All of this was on my mind last night. It seemed like a good topic for New Year’s Eve.  I am not someone who makes resolutions- but change does seem easier to embrace on December 31st.

 No longer am I going to invest time on years from now. This year I am going to invest it on the now. I don’t have to wait to be the person I going to become- in 2009 I ‘m simply going to try being him

It’s all getting underway in the morning. Like 5am! This year- Saturday and Sunday’s excluded; I am going to get out of bed early. No more snooze alarms. Who knows what I am going to do with those extra hours, haven’t figured that part out yet,  but those who I admire the most are all morning people- and in 2009 I am going to convert and join their ranks.

Being funny is no longer going to be a priority for me. You see, too often in 2008, and in the years before, the laughter came at someone else’s expense.  This year any witty, cutting remarks, delivered with impeccable timing will be the result of self deprecating humor.  God knows my life provides plenty of material that I really don’t need to look anywhere else

I am going to be more generous this year. Specifically I mean with money. I’ve always wanted to be a giver, but put it off because…well…money doesn’t grow on trees. Maybe the most generous of people are those who have to budget their gifts.

I want to entertain more in 2009. Some of you will be getting invitations to come over for dinner parties or to play cards. Of course to do this I am going to have to keep the place neat, so this year I am really going to embrace cleanliness too.

I just found out yesterday, through the grapevine, that Bobby Burkhart got engaged. I’ve known him since we were four years old, but haven’t talked to him in years. I am going to write him a letter of congratulations. You see this year, whether through letter, email or phone call- I am going to make it a point to reach out to old friends and to bring them back into my life.

And I am going to make it another point to make new friends. Right now those who are in my life either work with me or attend the same church. Wilmington is a big community and a growing city- and I need to reach out here too.

I am sure during certain moments I will still think about the future, still plan for it- come up with places in this world I want to go…and perhaps that’s all okay. The difference is I am not going to put off living until I get there.

This year- somehow, some way- against every knee-jerk reaction and fiber in my bone, I am finally going to be in the now.

Happy New Year