Till Death Do Us Part...

I told Carla that in the not so distant future when I face the inevitable decline of old age, as things break down and the end of the line is looming, I plan to face it with a good attitude. After all, I've had a great run. No, no tears or morose gatherings. I want to be surrounded by the people who have meant everything to me, the ones I love the most. I just hope we can track down all those Patel’s who ran all those liquor stores over the years...

Easy Rider

My friend, Marty Lewis, spoke of the cheers prompted by the Kennedy assassination, the attitudes he lived with at a small Methodist college in Texas, 1963...

I had a similar experience in a little spec of a North Alabama town in 1969. Athens College had recruited hippies from the Northeast to enroll there two years prior in order to pay for the new dorms they had just finished building. If you had money and could fog a mirror, you were in. Mostly we stayed on campus, smoking pot and drinking beer smuggled in from the only “wet” county within driving distance, just over the border in Pulaski, Tennessee. Proud to be the birthplace of the KKK. Long hair was a call to arms for locals when we ventured out beyond the campus, so we mostly circled the wagons and stayed close. But when “Easy Rider” hit the musty old movie theater three blocks up from campus, so did many of us. Filling the first several rows, staring up at the big screen, ramped up on pot and horse tranquilizers, we owned that flick. Although we were used to the whistles from the crowd of good old boys behind us, taunts for guys who “looked more like girls”, the rift was never more clear than when a huge roar of applause shook the back of the room. Dennis Hopper got what he deserved. Shotgunned into oblivion, by a squirmy little redneck sporting an untreated tumor on his neck and a nasty grin. Pointing his double barrel out of the passenger window of his buddy’s 56 Ford pickup, he blew that particular easy rider off his chopper and into movie history. That blast was cathartic for the boys in the back, one orgasmic, celebratory exclamation point that sent a strong message. We knew that the shared sentiments uncovered in Woodstock, NY earlier in the year were still light years and a decade away from walking openly in the light of that little town.

Six Things of Many...

Six things about me no one knows:

1) If you asked me to name the thing that I feel most guilty about, I would probably tell you it was the time I killed a goose in San Miguel, Mexico. We spent summers there when I was a young teenager. While out walking the grounds of the Institute where we stayed, a goose came at me from behind, flying up at me in attack mode. Never having been around geese before, it scared me and I just reacted. Grabbing a heavy stick from the ground, I bashed that white blur squarely on the top of his head and he dropped like a stone. I didn't mean to kill him and I'm sorry.

2) The first time I saw what a woman’s vagina looks like, I was 9 or 10. Certainly I had seen naked women before, like when I was over at a neighbors house and her mom rushed out of the upstairs bathroom, wet and dripping from her shower, to get a towel from the linen closet in the hall. But no one shaved in those days so there was little to see. That changed when Bill Rosenving brought a very crumpled page torn from a medical book to choir practice. A line drawing, with arrows that named each part. The fact that he had it at all seemed terribly dangerous and exciting. Not because of the actual image of that unappealing and almost alien line drawing but because I thought it was so forbidden, like having a loaded gun or a human toe in his pocket.

3) When I drink liquids, I always count the gulps as they go down, and I always inadvertently skip gulp #12, going straight from 11 to 13.

4) I collect high-end fighting knives: neck knives, automatics, assisted openers, fixed blade, punch knives, armor piercing, carbon fiber to go undetected through airport security, hand hatchets...and many custom tactical knives made with beautiful Damascus steels, carbon fiber, and rainbow anodized titanium. Many are stashed all over the house and in my car. I always carry and feel truly exposed and vulnerable if for some reason I have to be without one.

5) If our house started to burn down, the first material thing I would try to save are two oil portraits of my fifth great grandparents. They've been in our family since they were painted in 1852. I don't particularly like them, especially the one of great, great, great, great, great grandma. She looks so sour and nasty. But the paintings aren't mine. I'm just the current caretaker and I take that responsibly very seriously.

6) I've never been scared by monster movies or fictional characters that defy logic, but I'm very frightened by my own over-the-top reaction to bullying of all kinds. Sometimes, I'm scared of me.

Yes please...

Carla and I drove South down the coast yesterday, A1A blacktop stretching out to the horizon, a thin black line sandwiched between breaking waves to the East and beach houses, huddled close, silhouetted by the sun to the West. An exceptionally clear, perfect day with sunshine so bright it stabbed my eyes with each explosion through an oak canopy. A thousand flashbulbs, paparazzi shooting down from overhead, their red carpet a mottled stretch of blacktop tunneled through massive oaks, arms intertwined, a roadbed slashed cleanly through dense Florida hammock. 

Our destination was the Flagler Fish Company, a laid back seafood joint, one block West of the beach. 

Lounging on the outside patio, a cold Anchor Steam Beer dripped sweat rings onto my napkin as it flapped white edges, and the hair tumbling down Carla's back, in unison with each hurried gust. Salty winds dancing excitedly, circling and chasing, spawned by the back and forth battle line where surf meets sand, just a block away. Hot seafood chowder, chunky with bites of shrimp and clam, lightly browned crab cakes, fat with fresh-picked lumps of savory white flesh, crisp fried spinach leaves freckled with toasted garlic, warm Asiago potatoes, melty with cheese...all trumped by Lobster rolls, heavy with pink meat that had been chilling in the cold algae coated tank only moments before, pressed up against large swordfish and tuna, frozen forever in a blue mural that covered the wall, floor to ceiling. A side of real butter, humble and perfect, sat quietly at the ready.

We talked excitedly, as we often do, 38 years and still learning who we are with each other. She looked much younger than her chronological age, natural, oblivious to her own beauty, long hair streaked with sunlight, waving in the wind. Growing quiet as she continued with great detail about an observation her friend had made, my gratitude for all of it was every bit as palatable as the dinner itself, now a scattered scrum of food and drink paused at halftime on the chaotic field of the paper covered table. That moment spoke to the essence of our years together, side by side, itself, an amazing meal of shared celebrations. And I knew that I was still hungry... for dessert, yes, but mainly for an ever evolving “more of the same”, for us, and this, together...yes please!

A Morning Woodie...

This morning, Woody and I got together in the back yard. I drank coffee, he ate grubs. 

I complained: “You know, sometimes it feels like I'm just beating my head against a wall!” 

He looked at me like I was crazy: “You talking to me? I've got a headache 24-7 and you're crying to me like some little girl?” 

He was right, of course, a good lesson in perspective. I made a silent vow to buy him a nice cup of meal worms next time so we could sit and talk quietly, without all that banging...

Live!

You can travel the world, go to the places of your dreams, see barriers as bumps...It's not a concern when your bags are packed with little more than confidence and a smile.

I'll Drink to That...

Like many of my guy friends, I never met a beer that I didn't like. No confrontational personalities, no unwelcome discussions of politics or religion. Beer is generally friendly, comforting, and it has alcohol in it. We all know that alcohol is good as an antiseptic before or after an event. I figure the best way to use it is internally, as a proactive line of defense against all kinds of evil parasites and germs. I'm just trying to be practical here. So beer and I have been good friends since we used to hook up in college, driving from a dry county in North Alabama to a wet one in Tennessee, just to be together. But, unlike my friend Mike, I do have a few conditions.

You see, Mike and I were out in the middle of a parking lot one particularly scorching summer day here in Florida. The asphalt was starting to melt and grab our shoes. And there in that desert sat Mike's old junker resting on three wheels. The right rear was a rubber pancake and we needed to make it work so we could get the hell out of there before we melted too. Mike opened the trunk, leaned in, and did his impression of a dog digging a hole. Stuff flew out behind him as he threw out junk that had been hitch-hiking along in there forever. Somewhat surprised, he found a spare and it wasn't flat. But there was something else too. Rolling around on the inside of the tire, bouncing from side to side for the last 60,000 miles or so, was a very dirty can of Old Milwaukee Beer. An unopened can, a hot, very shaken can. Without hesitation, Mike yelled: “Look, my second favorite kind of beer!” he grabbed the beer with a rag in his hand in case it was too hot to handle directly, popped the top, threw it back in a slurping power chug that he had perfected many years before, and drained it. Hot foam dripped from his chin. He immediately put the can on the ground and with one definitive stomp, flattened it like the tire on his right rear. A huge belch punctuated the coup de grace. Turning back to the business at hand I said: “OK, I'll bite, what's your favorite kind of beer?” He confirmed my suspensions with his answer: “Cold beer!”

So although I admit that I won't drink Mike's second favorite kind of beer, all others are fair game and have stood with me through all the chapters of my life. In my bachelor years, we considered beer to be a balanced meal. We would no more forget the cooler when going on an outing than we would forget to wear pants. And sometimes, the beer would cause us to not wear pants. But I've never gotten a ticket, had a beer on the job, or ever had any problem with beer, until recently.

These days I've got a beer gut that won't go away, and putting my time in at the gym every other morning isn't enough to fix that by itself. I need to stop drinking beer at night, or at least cut back. And that's easier said than done. Now I never have a beer until I've completed my “to do” list when I'm not working or until after work when I am. Then I get the reward. But I know that the nightly calories are no longer burned off the way they were when I was younger. Most nights I think like a cigarette smoker...I'll quit tomorrow.

Yesterday afternoon I thought maybe it was the elusive “tomorrow” and I did something different to break the cycle. I Googled Alcohol Anonymous found a meeting a few blocks away, and went to my first ever AA meeting. Curious, I thought that I could pick up a few tips on how to incorporate beer free nights into my lifestyle.

The parking lot was full and some members were walking in from cars parked more than a block away. An informal gathering of tables and chairs preceded the coffee and doughnuts in the back. Order was called and one of the men read the creed from a printed script encased in a laminate cover, opaque and scratched by the wear of a thousand hands. He looked down and mumbled through the words that it appeared that everyone in the room knew by heart, except for me. And I was unable to hear anything the guy said. The next order of business was for the new people (me) to tell everyone just why I was there. “Well, I'm off work today and after I completed all my chores, I happened to see a note about this meeting on my Facebook page and as I was driving to the liquor store for beer, I simply stopped here first out of curiosity because I like beer and it makes me fat and I am looking for some tips on how to cut back.” Knowing looks accompanied a large verbal welcome from everyone in the room.

Then we got the stories from the AA veterans. A nervous young guy recently out of the slammer and unable to exercise any self-restraint to stay that way, was up first. The once successful business owner who drank himself out of a marriage and into a lonely bankruptcy. The woman who had been in an abusive relationship where the only thing that she and her ex had in common was alcohol. On and on. Bad stories, ruined lives, very often, the wrong side of the law. Alcohol fueled train wrecks for lives. But they seemed to know each other and they counted on each other for support. Most liked the camaraderie and all were in total agreement on one thing: No alcohol, zero tolerance. Each new story had me thinking, “Wow. that’s some seriously bad stuff!” And I kept remembering that I had never had any troubles like that. In fact, I had always been successful as a father, husband, employee or boss, and as a human being. I had never known an alcohol related problem other than around my waist. I just liked beer and it made me fat.

Finally, we wrapped up the meeting with some awkward group hugs and an even more uncomfortable circle of hand holding while reciting the Lord's prayer. I squirm at the thought of holding other men's hands or feigned belief in Santa Claus. Oh, but that unpleasantness was after they gave me my first “chip” to mark day one of my sobriety.

All in all, it was a learning experience. I learned that alcohol was an undeniably a huge problem for  the people in that room, as was daily life itself, I suspect. Feeling considerably better about my own situation, I drove straight to the liquor store to get the supplies I needed to properly celebrate my new- found sobriety I kept thinking to myself: “What's a few extra pounds anyway?” I mean it's not like I'm an alcoholic or something.