Attitude DNA...

Ruth picked a good one with this guy. Sure, he’s an accomplished engineer with more than 13 years at Skanska under his belt. They’re a world leading project development and construction group. He’s got a big job there and he is more than up to the challenge.

His greatest talent is natural though, that of husband and father. it required no advanced degrees.

Eternally upbeat, I’ve never seen Andrew be grumpy or angry. Now I’m starting to see that same attitude in little Wilder Maverick.

Kids are who they are from an early age. Ruth would often be in a shady corner, reading books to Ohio the Wonder Dog in the front yard. Hannah would be marching up our steep gravel driveway, out to the dirt road, barefoot, going places in her diaper, with or without anyone else tagging along.

They don’t change much.

Now I see Wilder smiling and laughing, enjoying music with his mother, sleeping through the night and never making a fuss. Even at a recent family reunion in Idaho when all of Andrew‘s relatives passed him around like a hot potato, Wilder just beamed, bathed in the attention.

They say attitude is everything, and I believe it is. Now it is apparent to me that Andrews attitude is contagious and Wilder caught it from his dad.

Its a great one and possibly the most important life-quality a person can possess.

We’ve all got an attitude, but to just naturally have an upbeat and happy one, is a gift.

Even if we need to cultivate it though, it’s important to make sure our own attitude is worth catching.

Marital Bliss and the Entomologist...

It was an eye opener for me to go over to my friend Donny ’s house on Saturday’s and see his entomologist father, who taught both of us how to collect, mount, and identify insects. 

I was seven years old and loved that stuff.

On Saturdays, after we got back from our visit to the collecting fields that for some still unknown reason we called Egypt Hills, Mr Ferguson watched back-to-back baseball games on his big hi-fi console with the little black & white TV built in. No kids allowed in the sun-room to disturb him. He drank beer in there all afternoon, Pabst Blue Ribbon, the Champagne of bottled beers. 

Mrs. Ferguson was always standing at her station, pressed up against the kitchen sink. She stared out  the window over her sink at the empty driveway, drinking from a short glass filled with chopped ice and brown liquor. While washing dishes, she sat her glass on the windowsill. Condensation ran down the sides to form a coaster of swollen wood on the sill, a permanent circle erected over time by the cold sweat of her glass.

Using it like a mini-helicopter landing pad, Mrs. Ferguson knew exactly where to place her drink.

She didn’t want us in her kitchen any more than Mr Ferguson wanted us in the sun-room. That was fine with me. He was preoccupied and would snap at the slightest interruption, while she appeared to be pissed all the time, a scowl on her face. Yes, drunk pissed as the English call it, but also, boiling inside. It wasn’t until much later that I understood that she was an alcoholic, and that she, in fact, was indeed pissed and pissed off. Apparently, she wasn’t happy with Mr. Ferguson, in fact, she hated her husband with a passion.

One Saturday afternoon as the TV was screaming baseball from the sun-room,  I watched her from the dining room. She stood with her back to me, an ice pick in her hand, wearing the same dingy floral- patterned dress that she seemed to wear every day.

Mrs. Ferguson was angrily recreating the Anthony Perkins “Psycho” shower scene with a large block of ice that was sliding around in the sink. I don’t think she saw Janet Leigh in that ice block though, I’m sure it had Mr. Ferguson's face.

Pausing her violent stabbing, mid frenzy, she calmly lifted her left hand away from steadying the ice block and placed it firmly onto the chopping block next to the sink. Lifting her pick high in the air, she froze for an instant to admire the back of her hand, and then continued her downward arc,  plunging the ice pick down hard, right through the middle of her left hand, pinning it firmly to the wooden block. 

Slowly looking up through the window into the empty drive, her left hand crucified in place, I realized that for the first time in memory, she didn’t look pissed off anymore. Her lips turned white as they pressed tightly together, but her grimace had an upward turn, almost like a smile.

She looked…peaceful.

Immediately doing an about face, I left the house by way of the front door that we kids were forbidden to use. Phil Rizzuto was screaming in the sun-room; Mickey Mantle had hit a home run. Over the top of the crowd noise, a high pitched scream slowly rose in volume, emanating from the kitchen, the sound piercing everything like a thousand ice picks, like a cat being squeezed in a vice.

That was my first realization that not all families were like mine. Some adults watched baseball and drank beer all day. Some adults hated their spouses, and some adults shouldn’t own an ice pick...

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Update:

As it turned out, the Ferguson’s foster daughter, Betty, hadn’t left permanently to go live with her Grandparents as we had been told. 

Apparently, she wasn’t a foster… and she never left at all.

It wasn’t until much later, when the new owner was having work done in the basement that they found Betty. The grand prize of her entomologist father, stretched out, dried, mildewed and mounted on a wall of cork board… right next to her mother. 

Unlike the dried exoskeletons of the insects Donnie’s Dad taught me to mount on the balsa floor of all those cigar boxes, the officers on the scene said the close-up stench of those troubling specimens haunted them for the rest of their lives. 

They would wake up in the night, gagging.

It’s funny.  Everyone had assumed Mrs. Ferguson had left Mr. Ferguson. 

Nope, she was still right there. Just not at the kitchen sink anymore.

What is the best possible use of my time right now?

People who know me a little, probably think I’m a real scrooge because I do nothing special or different for any of the traditional holidays. Same with birthdays..

Why even acknowledge birthdays at all for that matter? They’re just an arbitrary milepost in our development that normally started about nine months before that. Maybe we should celebrate our start date instead? That seems like it would be a more enjoyable memory than all that unpleasant pushing, cursing, guts and gore. Ok, maybe some of the start dates were like that too, but lets not go into that here.

People who know me well though, know that I appreciate all holiday’s way more than most do. I celebrate them every day. Every day is Christmas, Thanksgiving...birthdays, Ground Hog Day and Arbor Day all rolled into one.

We’re only here for a billionth of a second, folks, a dust-speck in the scheme of the universe.

Act accordingly, you know?

Too often we don’t think about that clock ticking.

Never postpone happiness for some out-of-focus time in the future: “I’ll be so happy when we get that raise, can’t wait to get into the new house or drive that car, can’t wait to get those shoes out of layaway, they’re perfect, only two more weeks until we go on vacation...lets go to the taco place on your birthday. I really look forward to Christmas this year…all of it someday ,other than today…that’s when I’ll really be happy.

I can’t wait.

You know what? Tomorrow never comes. The past is memory, the future a hope. All we ever have is today, right now. This minute, this second.

Never “kill time” waiting for something else. Don’t “bide your time.” This moment is just as important as any other, and they’re all equally and extremely important, because they are all we get. Present moments. Be there, be present in the moment.

I ask myself: “What is the best possible use of my time right now?”

In our culture the knee-jerk reaction to that question is usually some kind of a semi-apologetic blabbering about doing something other than what we’re doing…something that is goal oriented, whatever it may be that we feel we should hold in higher regard than what we’re actually doing. “Well, I should be working on that customer information but…I should be doing the dishes but…I should be getting these reports done but... I should be walking the dogs but...

I really should be doing all that rather than sitting here watching the birds chase each other around in the oak canopy overhead.

No, many times, what you’re doing is exactly what you should be doing. Let yourself off the hook. Give yourself a break. The best possible use of your time may well be reading a book, watching a movie, eating chips, maybe just sleeping and enjoying the luxury of having no demands, self-imposed or otherwise.

We all need a guilt-free break, and we all need to celebrate the moment.

For me? I’ve been doing my gym thing every morning for the last week. Working consistently. I do a great job at work, they’re lucky to have me and I’m lucky to have them. I’m a good husband and father. I take care of the lawn, garden, dogs, cooking, bills, all that day to day.

Right now though, the best use of my time at 7:34 Sunday morning? Drinking ice cold shots of Ketel One, steaming fresh organic spinach that I hit with butter, salt, pepper, and a pinch of nutmeg. Royal Reds, cleaned, ready for a quick fry in garlic & butter.

Moderation in all things, including moderation, right?

Alexa wanted to be nice so she’s playing George & Tammy singing Bobby Braddock’s : “We’re not the Jet Set”

I know that this is the best possible use of my time right now. It’s Christmas, the 4th of July, and yes, Father’s Day too.

I like that, every day, every moment matters…until moments like these run out and my energy shape-shifts into something else.

Next time around, I want to come back as a clone of my dog Chica. Then I would be assured of making the best possible use of my time...in every single moment I’m given...

“US SOCCER STAR MEGAN RAPINOE REFUSES TO SING THE NATIONAL ANTHEM!”

Scandalous!

Her refusal has created another wave of self-labeled "patriots" to lash out at her with lectures on how to be patriotic. It's their way or the highway according to the haters.. Just more hypocritical shades of the Colin Kaepernick fiasco.

Megan Rapinoe is gay, and apparently doesn’t feel that the current atmosphere in this country offers her the same rights, freedoms, and protections that are promised to everyone else. For Rapinoe, the anthem is a “somber moment” for a “peaceful protest” of inequality and injustice throughout the United States.

Good for her.

Know what? I never sing it. Even as a little kid I would just stand respectfully and wait for everyone to finish. Same thing with “The Lord’s Prayer” and various pledges along the way. I don't need group prayers or churches to feel spiritual nor the crowd assumption that we’ll all recite the “Pledge of Allegiance” now because you tell me to.

Forced "patriotism" is the antithesis of the very freedoms we espouse and hold high. I'll pray or experience patriotism in any way I please. TYVM!

BTW, before you get your panties in a wad and start calling me names, I am a vet and served my country proudly. That was my responsibility, one I was happy to fulfill, but in my mind, a huge part of that service was to protect these exact personal freedoms.

Now let EVERYONE enjoy them.

Road of Life IED...

Whenever we went somewhere together, Stephanie drove her shiny little convertible. A MG Midget, not much bigger than an amusement park car broken free of its miniature track. 

Small, cute, perfect. Her automotive doppelganger. 

On that rainy morning we got up early to drive down to Virginia Beach for a bit of fun in the sun. The weather channel said it would be clear by early afternoon. Her idea, I was just fine hanging out at my place, but having spent the week on a carnival ride from hell with my work, I was seeking vacuous pleasure with someone else in charge.

It was hard to see the road that morning; a dark, cloudy, rain spattered shit of a day. Wind driven water forced itself through the path of least resistance and dripped from the line of rubber lips where the convertible top shut its mug down tight to the windshield. It was never tight enough.

I really enjoyed being the passenger for a change, rolling a joint, kicking back. Usually I was the one in charge of our time and activity. It was much worse at work. I felt like the head babysitter of a bunch of kids with severe ADD. So I really needed a break, for her to take the wheel that day and  to drive everything, with or without the car. “You decide” I said. Where we were going and what we would do was her job, I was just along for the ride. Not an easy thing for me to do, I finally relaxed and started to enjoy the letting go. That's when she splashed dramatically around a tight curve and drove head-on into the front end of a big Chevy four door. A fucking boat of a car. Young Stephanie had put a wheel over the edge of the road on the right side, quickly over-compensated, and cut a hard turn to the left, directly into the path of the Chevy.

Boom! And it was done.

Stephanie, oh Stephanie, such a sweet little fawn of a girl, smashed that beautiful face of hers into the steering wheel. In an instant, the plastic disk at the center of the wheel broke away and allowed the metal post of the horrifically designed horn mechanism to slice her face open like a kill strike from an ax. From her upper eyebrow line down to the center of her nose she was divided into opposite halves. We hit in slow motion, my legs driving into the glove compartment and dash, molding the metal to the shape of my knees. The beach towel I had been using to stop the leak at the top of the windshield flew free and splatted itself to the radio controls like a fresh application of white paper mâché.

Stephanie hit the wheel hard with her face, bounced back and turned slowly to me with a look of surprise and wonder. I could see her brain clearly, beneath specific layers of sinus cavities and bone, cleanly opened by the surgeon of traumatic impact. Her face had been split in in the middle. At first there was no blood, just clean white flesh and bone, layers exposed, like a chart hanging on the wall in a cranial anatomy class. I was interested in the detail of the horror, taking mental notes, observing the dissection. Time clicked by in mini seconds dressed, in costumes of eternity. The arterial blood startled me as it began to spurt from the center of her face with surprisingly hot ejaculations that colored my arms with a thick crimson goo.

Pulling the beach towel off the dashboard, I folded and pressed it to her head. Cars backed up behind us in both directions as I held towel tight to her face, my left palm cupping the back of her head.

The rest of that day is mostly a blur, but sometimes even in the darkest clouds, there’s a silver lining. 

We had crashed in front of a State Prison with its own ambulance sitting at ready. The prison doctor radioed ahead to the hospital where a team waited. Once there, they sprang into action and a prominent plastic surgeon who was just about to go home, was called back in.

My legs were sore afterward, but I was fine, although not allowed to see Stephanie for several days. Once I was able to go to her room, I didn't recognize her.  There was no way to say for sure that she was even human.

Heavy bandages covered the grotesque horror of two eye slits and a tiny oval mouth slashed crudely into a Halloween pumpkin made of horribly swollen flesh splashed purple with antiseptic. Fortunately, Stephanie was too out of it to even know I was there.

Weeks later, after the swelling went down and the bandages came off for the first time, the girl in the hospital bed next to her was surprised to see the unveiling: “Oh my God…you’re pretty!”

Like me, she had assumed her roommate was permanently and horrifically disfigured.

Two months after that, the same plastic surgeon was able to almost completely erase the scar that ran up Stephanie’s nose and between her eyes.

That pretty girl was herself again, with a smile that lit up her surroundings like fresh sunshine...after a rain..

As for myself, I need to drive, or if someone else is driving, I’m happiest sitting in the back seat, buckled in and reassured by the people in front of me that act as impact cushions if that kind of unexpected road of life IED ever blows up again...

Normal is Overrated.

You know what would be nice? Just to be able to act like a normal fucking person when we go out to dinner. 

No worries about which knife is best for the occasion, no big need to know if the restaurant we’re heading to has an empty booth in a far corner so I can put my back to the wall and see what’s coming at me. 

No fear of surprises. 

You know, just get dressed and go. Simple. I wonder how that would feel.

People think: “This guy must be very unbalanced, quite paranoid. He behaves like a 6-year-old.” 

I think about that whenever we get ready to go out, but then, I wouldn’t leave the house naked either, even if people thought it best, so I don't worry about being normal too much either...

It makes me feel more normal when friends point out that normal is overrated.

Chicken?

Googling recipes for cast-iron pan-fried chicken.

I’m going to “make a mess” as Mandy, my grandparents live-in cook, used to say. I have that heavy black pan that she used for everything 60 years ago.

All she needed to start cooking was Crisco and this pan. Just start frying something.

My own approach is a bit different.

4:30am, 3, vodka shots to get started, 4 vape encounters, some flower dabbed with the last of the shatter.

Normally I would be in the gym around now, but you know what? I’m tired of being a responsible adult. So you know what? Fuck it.

Rinsed, dried, organic chicken thighs. Then the usual suspects: grind some salt & pepper and massage those thighs with garlic powder and paprika.

Serve up pan fried chicken, wilted spinach, fried tomatoes with basil leaves from the sunshine pot on the front stairs. Mashed up local potatoes, skins on.

A few more shots.

Buck Owens competing with “Valhalla Rising” on the screen. The movie giving lessons on how to safely tie and eviscerate someone who isn’t your best buddy. Cut their belly low, all the way across, help their entrails fold gently down onto the ground in front of them so they can watch. 

No splashing.

Chicken?