Middle Aged Style?

  The thing is, it just doesn’t seem right to harp on a middle aged working man about style. How’s a guy supposed to keep up with it all?  I mean every time you turn your head they’re changing things up on you.

  During the Fifties we wore deck pants you tied with a matching rope, for crying out loud. We all had crew cuts and pushed it up in front with “Butch Wax”.

  By junior high we were wearing continental slacks and tassel loafers. You had to have a 100 % cotton, button down collar shirt. If it wasn’t starched stiff as a board, it was not cool. The piece de resistance of this ensemble was a v-neck alpaca sweater. At the end of my tenth grade year, we went home in all this sartorial splendor, sporting short Ivey League haircuts.

  That was the “Summer of Love”, so by the time we came back to school we had grown our hair out and donned elephant bell-bottom jeans. Pocket t-shirts of assorted colors were the rage. “Dead Heads” liked the tie-dye ones best.  Popular footwear were these biker boots with sawed off toes we called “snoot boots”.

  The movie “Saturday Night Fever” with John Travolta started a disco thing. “All us good ole boys” just left our hair long and started wearing designer jeans and faux silk shirts unbuttoned to our navels. You’d accessorize with a gold chain that had a small gold tusk hanging from it.

  Believe it or not, Travolta struck again with another movie entitled, “Urban Cowboy”. I was suddenly the proud owner of several western style shirts, Tony Lama cowboy boots and skintight Wrangler jeans. That was the most uncomfortable style EVER.  Sitting down could be a painful experience if you weren’t careful.

  When I met my wife (who did some modeling) I was still about halfway stuck in this style. We had cut our hair shorter and ditched the western shirts. She thought I was cute but she’s always telling folks that what she saw was “a little boy with frogs in his pockets”, so you can’t really count her opinion.

  These days, I’ve taken to wearing my teenager’s stuff for casual social activity. I have to watch it though. A grown man with graying hair and beard just does not look right in a fur lined “hoodie” with “Hollister” written in giant letters across the front. I don’t care how slim you are.

  Since they started making you ring the bell and get some usually grouchy lady to come open the dressing rooms, I don’t even try clothes on. If they don’t fit, the wife will take them back and buy herself something with the money. We call it “doing me a favor.” We don’t talk about how it’s really just a piggyback way to get in a little shopping. At least someone in the family has got some fashion sense.

The Grouchy Trail Running Shoe

Thank God! This guy is a wreck! Every time I turn around he’s injured again and I spend the next two weeks gathering dust with that pile of old running shoes in his closet that he won’t throw out.

Thwap, thwap, thwap on the asphalt.  MAN It’s freezing! But I love it! Run the golf course, dude RUN THE GOLF COURSE! Easy does it. Don’t blow that rickety knee or mushy ankle of yours. What’s with the limp? Get over it Shirley! Turn! TURN! Ahh yes! Spung, spung, spung through the rough. Splish, splash over water logged declivities. Now river rock. crunch, crunch, crunchin’. Dodge those roots! Hold your form! Ok he’s settling in a bit. Past the first green through the tunnel of woods as the cart path cuts behind some houses. They sure built ‘em close on the left. I imagine mothers at the kitchen sink wondering what this maniac is doing in the freezing cold. Then I imagine a little envy creeping in. I can just hear ‘em … “ I need to get my expanding butt out there!” The light begins to change as we near the clearing. God I love this spot as it opens up. Dun covered expanse declining. Evergreen forests bordering on the right … stately homes greet us on the left. The creek in the distance with sea oats waving at us.  A hawk riding a thermal across our line of view.  OK … OK! Watch those sprinkler heads dummie! Don’t space out here! Trouble breathin’ there ole man? That’s quite a bit of huffin’ and puffin’ this early on. Past the greens keeper’s shed he angles left and up. Over the curb… down the hill and across the quaint little wooden bridge. Thump, thump thump. Here comes the monster hill! I LUV it when he runs the tree line! Soft mulch … swaf , swaf ,swaf … oh boy he’s crankin’ it now. I gotta’ admit. He’s a determined little goof.   I know he wants to walk.  Also know he’s not gonna.  Sometimes I can hear him.” Lord give me strength to do thy will. I humbly ask you to remove my shortcomings”  Here comes the turn. Careful … careful  and down we go! Easy … eeeasyy … Whump! … Over the creek! Green moss covers the roots and rocks in this shady place . I hear him again … “ and miles to go before I sleep.” Frost  … right? Up the hill back to asphalt. Wimp. He’s taking the shorter route. Must be running late for work. Twap, thwap twap. The long steady incline rises up to meet us. By the Milleman’s. There’s the grouchy  woman with the weenie dog. Is she ALWAYS frowning?(sings) “Don’t stop. Beleeevin’!” ok ok in front of Chad’s house. Here comes the last leg. Watch the car dummie! You in “la la land”or what?! You almost ran out in front of the guy! Steady as she goes. Here it is … he’s in the home stretch and reachin’ for more. Ouch ouch ouch. Harder and harder. I can see his face. DUDE! Are you actually CRYIN’?  Jeesh man … get a grip! Pump it. PUMP IT! I can hear him again. What’s he sayin’? I know his lungs feel like they are gonna’ bust. Hit it dude! Kill this mutha!   “Important to finish … more important to finish well … important to finish”..  “God grant me serenity …

You know somethin’. Maybe this ole guy ain’t so bad after all.

The Battle Never Won

When our young fall in

battle never to rise again,

can we see their grieving

loved ones, striving to begin

loving instead of mourning,

Each breath a sorrow’s paean?

Always to remember,

never to rise again.

After the flag is folded,

when we turn and walk away,

do we carry the burden lightly,

or see them when we pray …

The children who have no father,

the wives in their lonely beds,

parents with souls dismembered,

existence wrapped in dread?

When we hear “Taps” played

Slowly. Three shots ring crisp and clear.

Can we make ourselves remember,

the family wrapped in fear?

Broken they’ve ceased dancing.

Their war has just begun.

Can we hold them close, embracing,

The battle never won?

"A THOUGHT FOR TODAY:
How far you go in life depends on your being tender with the young, compassionate with the aged, sympathetic with the striving and tolerant of the weak and strong. Because someday in life you will have been all of these. -George Washington Carver, scientist (1864-1943)"

How To Cure "Fatally Hip and Terminally Cool" Disease

  First of all you need to fall flat on your proverbial face and have to start life all over again at the ripe old age of thirty-five. Then you marry a volatile firebrand ten years your junior. After a couple of years you start a business on a shoestring borrowing against your home and have twin boys with the volatile firebrand.

  Next thing you know you’re changing diapers, getting peed on, food slung at you on a regular basis and just generally abused. One night, exhausted you’re bathing one of the little boogers in the basinet. (God made ‘em REAL cute so you wouldn’t kill ‘em) Suddenly he sighs and lets go of whatever he was holding onto. As you look in the water for whatever gross deposit he has gifted you with you catch his twinkling eyes and could swear he’s saying, … “I love you … thanks”.

  Before you know it comes first grade. Mom’s panicking, work is absolutely overwhelming, windows are broken, you’re making emergency calls to a plumber and the great American voting public elects George W. Bush to the presidency. Just as you’re about to run for the hills you breathe and for a moment really see them. Little biddy heads, little biddy feet and a HUGE backpack clamber up the school bus steps. Gears grind obnoxiously, the rattling motor roars and all that’s left is toxic smoke from the yellow monster’s tailpipe. You realize that you are mourning and very confused.

  Eventually you figure you’ve about had enough. The firebrand is way too high maintenance. (God made her VERY pretty so you wouldn’t kill her). The adolescent boys want, want, and want. Business sucks, the world economy is in the tank when suddenly you look around and a hundred or so people you have come to love, the firebrand and the twins are singing “God Bless America”. WWII vets are standing at attention and you can’t help but wonder how you got here in this terribly corny place. Gone are leather jackets and Steppenwolf. Gone are fist fights and 45’s, fast cars and wanderlust and you are singing “God Bless America” in church with a bunch of old people. The crazy thing is… you’re loving every minute of it.

In-Between Places

                                               Why do I waste the “in-between places? Like those first moments when I know I’ve awakened but haven’t accepted it yet.

I see the cat’s paw prints in the dew on the car and only think of the workday ahead.

I hear the first call of the dove on the neighbor’s roof and yet dwell on the leaky faucet in the kitchen.

Out of the corner of my eye I spot the old black tom crossing a cul-de-sac many houses from home. I wonder is the white flea collar still fighting the fleas

I’m grateful for the pensive pauses at work … gazing out the window for brief moments … no constructed thought. Then I hurry to the next task.

 Something makes me look upward and I note the fluffy white cumulus caressing the deep blue heavens. I can’t help but think “ Hello Father … I see you there. ”

The days labor past; darkness has descended.  Bitter tired, I stare as the headlights part the way towards rest. Several deer bolt across the beam. They’re wide-eyed and frantic as one stumbles at the roadside ditch. Injury or death passes whisper close by his haunches then he bounds away into the night.

The moment arrives when I shoulder my way through the back door off the garage … hands full … weary. My still sick and pale teenage son asks if I need help and I mumble, “no … I’ve got it.” “Thanks” comes a little too late as I pass through the bright light of the kitchen.

Lying in bed, reading before sleep, the book startles me when it falls. I leave it knowing I’ll have to find my place tomorrow. As I reach into the lamp’s yellow glow for the dangling chain of the switch I welcome the click that brings a nether world of darkness … sleep … renewal.

Dreams are the best in-between places. They’re always waiting there just beneath the surface.

At least dreams are one thing that refuse to be wasted.

The Silent Children

                                                          

  There was this girl in grammar school. Her name was Karen. She had greasy hair and wore the same two dresses over and over again. Karen would pick her nose and furtively lick at the results. It seemed, in some way, an absent-minded act. She’d have this far off, haunted look in her dark eyes.  

  Once, as we stood in the line at the library, I noticed I was standing in a small pool of liquid on the dark wooden floors. The trail led to Karen who was standing beside me. She had wet herself. Her arms wrapped about her torso like an embrace as she stared at the floor. I could see the flush on her face and neck from her humiliation. Gradually the others noticed. I moved out of the small puddle and stood silently.

  The rougher boys began to exclaim, “Ewww … Karen peed on herself.” Many of the girls simply stood with horrified expressions. I was frozen. All I knew was that someone needed to help her. “For God’s sake … someone help her,” I thought.

  The teacher came and took her by the elbow to lead her away. That’s when Karen looked at me.

  I’m a middle-aged parent today. This morning, during meditation, I saw Karen looking at me once again. After all these years, I realized something. Karen was crying out for help. Those fathomless eyes were pleading and had been pleading all along for someone to save her. I can only imagine what might have been her torment.

  I was never unkind. As I recall I spoke only once to softly encourage her. That was before I became harder. That was when my heart still yearned with open love for those around me. Today my heart opened once again.

  I can’t help Karen anymore. It’s too late. The moment passed by as I stood watching. Maybe I can help someone else though. Maybe you can too. So I’ll pray for Karen. I’ll pray for all the children who need to cry out for help but can’t. They can’t cry out for the shame of it. They are ashamed that others will know their brokenness and the brokenness of their tormentors. They are afraid that if they tell, the torment will increase. They are alone in a world full of people so we need to listen. We won’t hear them with our ears. We will only hear them with our hearts.

  Listen and be careful. Hold them. Encourage them. Teach them and watch. Look for the opportunity to save them without doing harm. Remember … there are children who need to cry out but are afraid. 

Listen …