Pickin’ the birthday blues at age 3. Hard times, indeed

Remember when your birthday was so cherished? When the cake and ice cream and Coca Cola flowed from the cornucopia of the kitchen, and clowns and mimes and magic shows were what it took to satisfy your soul? Okay, those last three sound creepy and offensive and they were, and that’s okay, because we were so hopped up, we just wanted to PARTY and smear icing on our faces and never let this day end and ohmygod you crashed on the living room floor in a diabetic coma, and all was right in the world.

Then we became teens and we were surly and zitty and counting down the days till we could drive and escape the horrible oppression of our parents. We wondered if we were too old to be virgins, if we were too old to smile when our parents took the time to think of us and give us a gift, if we were were going to finally get OUT of this miserable town. We weren’t comfortable in our own skins and then we let it show and birthdays became merely tolerated, not celebrated.

Our roaring 20′s arrived and we were on the cusp of drinking legally with the passing of a birthday, and then in one of life’s most anticlimactic moments we lost considerable interest when we turned 21 and one day old. We soberly realized ALL that was left to celebrate with a birthday was auto insurance costing a little less. So we got back to drinking, heavily, year round. We got jobs, got married, got kids, still got carded and that’s what convinced us that we had life by the short ones.

The third decade approached and with each passing birthday we noticed a few more wrinkles, and maybe your hands started looking like your old man’s from the passage of time and hard work and many mistakes with wrenches. Rather than discuss the party the night before, we became more apt to discuss the ravages of the hangover with our co-workers, and wondered why, O Lord, we keep doing this to ourselves? We begin to really appreciate the kids’ birthdays more, outside of waiting in the Jumpy-Inflatable Place, catching communicable diseases from kids with parents who don’t bathe them regularly. We cherish their joy at tearing into Lego boxes and we hover over Coca Cola consumption, worried that they’ll be hopped up too soon and interfere with our own 10pm bedtimes.

And then we get kinda angry at the passage of time. I don’t want to be this old. I am, in the immortal words of that heartthrob Rod Stewart, Forever Young. I can’t be 38, 39, whatever, I’m around 26. I’m almost sure of it. Then comes the resignation when you add the years up, trying to figure out if 1974 really WAS that long ago. It was. You’re old. So you sit at home on your birthday and you realize that your parents aren’t ordering up an ice cream cake for you, and if a clown showed up at your door, you’d probably stab him. You play the blues on your acoustic guitar to an audience consisting of the dog and you eat some cheese, probably too much and then decide that yes, you WILL go for a run today, because NO ONE wants to drop dead from artery blockage on their birthday.

You find yourself wishing for your birthday that your kids didn’t forget it. You wish for a nice dinner with them, where they aren’t trying to choke one another, and you’re not trying to choke them both, simultaneously. You hope they don’t grow up too fast, but you know they’re counting down the birthdays till that elusive concept of “freedom” will become crystal clear, even if it isn’t yet to you at age 39. You wish for time to play Legos with them, while they still find your company good, and you find yourself ordering up an ice cream cake for no other reason than you’d like to smear a little across your faces and run around the house with them, no rules, no curfew and, for the briefest of moments, no worries. And that alone is a cause for celebration, no matter how old the calendar says you are today.

Mother Dearest & I headed to Portland via train. It derailed.

There’s not a person in this world who has your back more than she does, or should. When no one else believes in you, it is her voice on the end of the phone that reassures you that yes, you CAN do this. When your father kicks you out of the house, your mom is the one who puts all of your stuff up in her place, no questions asked.

When I broke my arm, it was up your driveway I ran crying, and it was you who drove me to the ER breaking every applicable traffic law in existence in the year 1984. When I broke a heart, and when my heart was broken, it was you who I called in the middle of the night to seek assurance that I wasn’t at my core, a bad person. Your hesitance at addressing that point notwithstanding, I felt your heart aching with mine. When I ignited and torched my hand and arm while trying to light the pilot in my shitty little single wide trailer at 1am, it was you, the nurse, I called, to which you responded “Are you drunk? Ok, next question, are you okay?”, then took me, again, to the hospital.

When Dad left, and it was you and me and a cat versus the world, it was you who never stopped working to try and make our lives better. You cooked delicate meals, endlessly, in your kitchen, one leg hiked up against the other, ever present cigarette in your free hand, leaving me so tempted to yank those apron strings with each pass I made through the kitchen. You ran your own business, you were a pioneer as the first female president of the America Society of Travel Agents, you interviewed Air Force Brass for Chamber of Commerce positions (or something like that), you taught me what fork goes where, you drove too fast in your French car, and you tolerated my questionable taste in music stations. When you met the man who would become the more stable father figure in my life, you took me along on your dates, because in your eyes, if the guy didn’t get along with me, or I didn’t like him, there was no point. I was first in your eyes, and in your heart, and no kid could ask for more than that from their mother.

While my actual father may have been the crazy character in my life, you were my rock. You spent most of my childhood rolling your eyes at my antics, but you never stopped loving me. We went on your business trips together, which forged me into the wandering, independent soul I would become as a man. They were OUR adventures, and I cherish the memories so very much. I always wanted to make you laugh, and you’ve always been so damn appropriate, I made it my personal goal to make you spit your wine out onto the, naturally, freshly pressed white linen table cloth that graced our table. You didn’t fire me when, as a kid, I ate the entire skin of your Thanksgiving turkey off the plate while you and your guests were kibitzing in the living room. You were disgusted with me when you found out that, at the age of 10, I placed a room service request of 17 side orders of bacon on  a business trip, just to see if I could eat that much bacon in one setting, but yet you didn’t stop loving me. When I wanted to work on an island in the West Indies at age 12, you encouraged me to take that job with your business partner in Antigua for a summer. When I needed to venture out to boarding school, to fly from your nest, at age 13, it was you and my stepfather who figured out HOW to make it happen, while simultaneously fending off threats of a lawsuit from my father. I was astonished when I got my acceptance letter and showed you and you cried, both tears of joy and tears derived from the knowledge that I’d be leaving, for good, too soon. Now, as a parent, I find myself weeping on a semi-regular basis when my children do those things that children do to establish their own identities, and I understand where yours came from.

We have 2000 miles between us now, and although you’ve raised me to be independent, I still need you, Mom. I’m trying to raise my boys to be the kind of young men you would be proud to love. They have a good mom, one who loves them the same way in which you love me, and I’m grateful for that, too. As we grow older and I no longer feel the urge to constantly declare my independence in this world, I hope you know that the ties that bind are as strong as ever. I still call you when no other would listen to my rants and raves. I still long for your fried chicken dinners and our banter around the dinner table.

I love you, Mom.

I couldn’t ask for one better, and I hope you know how much you mean to me, to my boys, to our world. And I hope you know that the next time I’m in your kitchen, I’ll still be amused to yank your apron strings, hoping to hear the words “You’re such a creep, young man”, just one more time.

“Have You Seen Me?”

I saw a squirrel with no tail in my yard yesterday. I kid you not. This is not a metaphor, nor hazy Ozarks double-speak for “carpetbagger” or “Nascar fan” or anything; it was a real-deal squirrel sans tail jumping around the front lawn, nervously chewing on nuts or bits of tree or whatever passes for squirrel fare these days. Seeing that is one of those bizzaro brain-benders that make you wonder if you’re having some sort of mental episode. It was as out of place as if the cat came in the house and started paying bills on my laptop and barking at the dog. And nothing looks more ridiculous than a squirrel with no tail hopping around, looking like a miniature beaver, all while likely being mocked by his companions for his naked ass. Was he aware, or self-conscious? Did it throw off his sense of balance high up in the trees? Was he (I’m assuming it was a he, since really, no respectable she-squirrel would EVER leave the home without her tail perfectly groomed and intact) the victim of a cat assault or the fan belt under the hood of a neighbor’s ’91 Saturn? Was it hard to get a squirrel date? Without the tail to shake, it just looked like he was violently shaking his rump, an angry rodent stripper forced to scavenge on the ground for nuts, having fallen out of a tree and into a life of shame.

Of course, I saw all of this as a parallel to my own current situation. Only the best of the raging narcissists can turn a maimed squirrel into being about them, but nonetheless, it was there in front of me. I recently became intimately acquainted with an infection of sorts. After participating in an urban adventure-style race that included wading through a creek that even the homeless population won’t use as a  bathroom, I noticed a swelling in my knee. I thought this was the result of being a near-40yr. old non-runner trying to cover 9 miles without really training, but I had once again misdiagnosed my own hypochondria.

I woke up a day or two later with the knee swelling to the size of a grapefruit, both intriguing and repulsing my co-workers. A doctor’s visit followed up by an ER visit landed me with the diagnosis of a MRSA infection and a bottle of pills, the size of  each being meant to gag mules. Now, MRSA is no joke, and is sometimes referred to as “the flesh-eating mofo of bacterias” by scientists and doctors. Tell people you have MRSA and watch as they recoil in horror, thinking to themselves that you’re actively spreading The Plague with reckless abandon. It makes you feel like a disabled Darth Vader of sorts, where people look at you with a mixture of fear and pity as you attempt to Force choke your enemies, slouched over your walker with tennis balls on the front. In reality, though, MRSA lingers everywhere, from Wal-Mart shopping carts to tables in the most tony of upscale eateries, lurking as only bacteria can, indiscriminately and invisible. Sometimes it finds idiots like me to unleash itself upon, and since I’m an award-winning host, it would be downright rude to turn down a potentially limb-threatening guest; Mother Dearest would frown upon such lack of social graces.

Despite the best efforts of this killer super-disease, though, my flesh isn’t being eaten, and thanks to a nurse practitioner friend who treats these things with the kind of aggression normally displayed by the leadership of North Korea, I’m on the mend. On the mend, staying away from work and most people, lest I somehow open up my wound, and somehow jam a knee in their mouth, thereby spreading my own form of passive-aggressive leprosy. No making moonshine. No playing fireman. Swallowing horse-gagging pills and wondering if that squirrel missing his tail wants to hang out for a little while, talk about our infirmities, complain about the weather and discuss life as a social outcast as we nervously hop around on the front lawn.

James Dean Burton, RIP

Tragedy can be beautiful, but it rarely seems so while it occurs, or to those who endure it. Last week I witnessed a co-worker say goodbye to his father, a life cut short at 55 years, struck down indiscriminately by a heart attack. Jim was a biker, his sons, including my friend, are bikers, and I was able to piece together from the service that he’d been on a ride on a Sunday, came home, had some chest pains and then was taken, too soon, from this earth.

Having only met Jim Sr. a handful of times, several of us from the fire department went to the service as a show of support for our friend, in a small town an hour away. The parking lot, bombarded by motorcycles of various schemes and type, was packed already, and the number of people in leathers far outnumbered those of us that weren’t. My co-worker, named after his father, clearly was in charge of the presentation of the service, and kept a command presence as people flowed in to begin paying their respects; a strong bastard, usually with a quick tongue, Jim Jr. seemed merely grateful for all who were showing up, and in the bear-like hugs he gave each of us, you could feel the strain on his heart.

His father was his best friend, a fact not lost on anyone who’d ever been around them. His father taught him about respect, hard work and honest-dealing. Jim Sr. had had a rough and rowdy early life and decided one day to straighten up because his family needed him. Thus began a life devoted to family, work and the open road. I was thinking, naively, that in the vein of bikers being tough guys, the service would be terse and brief.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Instead, it was a gut wrenching foray into the beauty of a man, devoted. Devoted to his family, devoted to his children through their own struggles, devoted to his grand-daughters who seemed to take delight in painting a grandfathers fingernails pink. He was devoted to his professional craft of painting, with more than one reference in the service to his perfectionistic ways and attention to detail. His children read letters to their dad, breaking down as they described the cornerstone of their world being ripped away from them, their voices cracking as they were being forced to say goodbye. Their love for him was overwhelming, displayed in a raw, emotion-laden fashion, and leaving the rest of us with tears flowing freely, without restraint, for this beautiful family, crying over a man we never knew.

And, people being people, we turn inward at such moments. We wonder what would happen if we were to go suddenly, unexpectedly? How would our loved ones describe their emotions? How would we deal with having to say goodbye to our own fathers, our own best friends? Many people already have, most of us most certainly will, but it is heavy the heart that has to endure it.

As we listened and absorbed all that this man was about, I couldn’t help but think that there was no way he could have done the important things better; his fiercely loyal sons and daughter, his dedicated and devoted wife ALL alluded to his commitment to them. They described him in a way that every father hopes to be remembered by their children. Every father wants to hear that their kids know they were first in their hearts. Every father hopes to enjoy a lifelong bond with their offspring, strengthened over time. Every father wants to be the kind of father that Jim Sr. was and no doubt that Jim Jr. has become.

It was a thing of beauty to witness. Tragic, yes, but through the pain, a thing of beauty.

We should all be so lucky to have the kind of family bonds displayed before us. But, in all likelihood, luck had little to do with it. What was displayed before us was the fruit of a lifetime of work and devotion to that which is important in this world. While I’m so sorry for my friend, for their loss, I know that he is so proud of his father and proud to be his son.

Jim led the funeral procession on his father’s bike, a long winding path for a final ride, and I cannot fathom the depths of his thoughts. But, as we loaded up into a car, ready to trek back to the real world, the same strength, integrity and resolve of the father was being displayed by the son.

And I’m proud to call him my friend.

All I need is a pipe. And a time machine to the ’50s

This morning I discovered anarchy within my dishwasher. While the motor would still begin its raucous cacophony signaling a cycle, no water was being added, thereby baking the gunk onto my dishes and ruining my life forever. By “forever”, of course, I mean “for the next half hour, as I plunge elbows deep into the sink of suds.” No longer an owner but a renter for now, I called the landlord with my head hung low, as though I’d broken a beloved piece of antique china, awaiting a verbal rebuke that never arrived. Since I’m a tenant who always pays on time and isn’t running a meth lab out of his house, I’m considered one of the good ones, and he cheerfully informs me that Leon, his “appliance guy”, will be here tomorrow to “give it a look.”

This consoles me, as the last time I saw Leon, he was squeezing his considerable girth into the attic to work on the furnace (yes, you read that right), and after he did some repairs, he left my place without so much as stealing any of my furniture (and yes, I have trust issues). I’ll be happy to see Leon again, whereby he’ll refuse my offer of coffee and give me a look every time I try and make him laugh as though I’m lighting my sideburns on fire for his amusement. It’s a dynamic between us that’s still in the rough.

There is hope for my dishwasher, after all. I just need to keep up the effort until tomorrow. And I can wait that long.

Divorce, like dishwasher anarchy, is emotional devastation with an unknown half-life. From the moment that that decision was made, there has been little emotional peace. Things just aren’t as funny, I’m not funny, trust between you and others is under greater scrutiny, and like the dishwasher debacle, you have to work a lot harder to get rid of the gunk, lest it get baked on permanently. It’s been said that Karma is a bitch, but in truth, consequences are a lot bitchier when you have to live with them.

And then, one day your eye catches something, and you catch yourself smiling like you used to, a little. You remember for a moment why you have faith in the better days of tomorrow. You’ll live. Given the magnitude of greater sorrows in this world, it seems selfish to feel so overwhelmed by your new reality, but there you are. Some little kid smiles up at you in the fire truck, and you smile back, like you used to a few years ago. Someone asks for your creative input, and you feel a little rush as your artistic vibe gets nudged awake from a long nap. You’re going to be you again, and that feels pretty damn good.

Tomorrow night some friends will join me to watch Robert Earl Keen put on a show. We’ll all be up front, a girl who knows how to make me smile at my side, putting our minds right with music and memories to be made. I’m damn lucky to have a chance to catch a good concert, and I’m grateful for the way things are looking up. Maybe the dishwasher will be repaired. Maybe I’ll see a little more laughter in my world, laughing from the soul, without a bitter edge. I just need to keep up the effort until tomorrow.

And I can wait that long.

Where it ends, and a life well lived begins

“You boys are gonna have a blast in Florida, you know this?”
From the back seat of a worn out Toyota pickup barreling down a pre-dawn city street , they murmur in assent, having been up since 3:30am in anticipation of  today’s journey. Their mother, my ex, is riding shotgun, and it’s the first time the four of us have been in the same vehicle since the divorce. It’s an odd feeling, but it’s the new reality. I’ve gladly offered to take them to the airport, this, my boys’ first trip out of town without me. I keep trying to keep the spirits up, mindless banter about sharks and planes filling the voids between the streetlights. On the one hand, I’m excited for the break from the day to day lunch making, endless loops in the carline and relentless pleas to please, for once, just pick up your laundry. On the other hand I realize the momentous occasion this is shaping up to be; my little fellas are gonna flap their wings for a bit, albeit with their mother, and give the wanderlust itch a little scratch. It’s in our blood.

We wander, my family. For some of us, it was a trans-atlantic voyage to America for the first time, for others it’s a circuitous route to Missouri with a stopover in Alaska for a few years. Others have never left town except for a few years in college. But deep down, I’m a wandering soul, sometimes opening the door to new adventures, sometimes opening the door to disaster.

But this is different. These are my babies. These boys are my link to relative sanity, to stability in a chaotic world, and now they were about to embark on their first flight that they’ll remember, and I won’t be there to marvel at the miracle of flight, the organized cacophony of the airport in Chicago, to bury our toes together in the sands of Florida. And that is how it should be, this is how divorce works. We don’t do stuff together anymore, and the price of that is that my lads will experience many, many new aspects of life without me.

My eldest is 9 and wants to hit the road as fast as possible. I smile at this, I remember well leaving my mom to go to the West Indies for a summer between 7th and 8th grade, alone, to work at an all-inclusive resort. I could hardly contain myself. A whole new world was laid out in front of me. My youngest is 7 and while he’s excited to go on a trip, he worries about his old man, worries I’ll be all alone. I won’t. I’ll be fine. I have work, I have friends and those close to me to help make the days fly until they return home to me. But a part of me feels the bonds growing tighter with the tears he’s shedding.

Then we’re pulling up to the loading zone, where I have to stay, lest the one employee on duty at this hour mistake my grey pickup as an instrument of unholy terror. A courteous goodbye to the ex, she’s a good woman, and I’m glad if my boys are not with me then they’re with her. She’ll show them so much, and their bonds will deepen, too. The older boy gives me an excited squeeze and is practically running to the ticket gate…“Love you, Dad, call you tonight!” My youngest then hugs me, tells me he loves me so much and heads out.

Then something happens. Almost like he’s in a movie, he gets halfway to the door, stops, turns around and runs back to me, throws his arms around my neck, squeezing with all of his 7 year old heart. And, of course, as his huge blue eyes look up into mine, they begin leaking with reckless abandon. We hug it out in silence for half a moment. Then, in a roar of emotion, the words come spilling out…

“I don’t want to leave you, Dad!”

-”It’s okay, son, you’re gonna have so much fun! I love you, you’ll do great!”*

          *I love you, but you’re breaking my heart, son

“Daddy, I’m gonna miss you, so much”

-”I’ll miss you, too, buddy, but I can’t wait to hear all about it!!”*

          *Don’t go son. I’m not ready. I’m crying on the inside, and you’re about to unleash a waterworks display if we keep it up

“I miss you now, I just want you to come with me”

-”Who’s gonna watch the dog? Who’s gonna drive the fire truck?”*

          *Son, I want more than anything to be by your side. I miss you already, don’t turn around, don’t walk away just yet.

“Please don’t stay here Daddy.”

“You gotta go, my man, your mother is now gesturing angrily from the door to the gates. I love you. More than anything in this world. Always.”*

          *I gotta let you fly son. It’s time. I’ll be right here. I’ll never stop loving you. You boys are the one thing I’ve done right in this world. I love you. Always

The oldest saves the day, comes and retrieves his younger brother while giving me a condolence hug. In the distance, I’m pretty sure the ex is rolling her eyes at our Latin soap opera-level of drama at the Springfield “International” Airport (sidebar: apparently anything outside of Missouri is considered “International travel”.)

My boy trudges towards the door, sobbing. He doesn’t turn back around, and nor should he. He should face a new adventure head-on, ready for a taste of life outside these Ozarks. In a few moments his mother texts me to let me know he’s fine now, exploring the wonder that is the airport massage chair. She doesn’t, can’t, know that I’m pulled over just down the street, letting it all out as the sun rises, crying and not knowing why or how to stop it, and this text is my release. He’s okay, of course he’s okay. I don’t know if I can say the same for myself. But I’ll be all right, too, and anxious for their return soon enough. He should come home with tales of white sands, potential shark attacks and a fishing trip or two. And he should know that no matter where this life takes him, no matter the miles, his old man will always be here for him to come home to, grinning like an idiot, tears of joy on my face and appreciating the beautiful tragedy of watching my children grow into men, all of it, playing out right before us.

Come home soon, son, and tell me a story. I’m all ears.

Even The Elf On The Shelf is dubious of my early nude modeling photoshoots. Reason to Purge Things #32

The usual litany of excuses as to not posting continues unabated. The accompanying litany of excuses is faring worse, I’m afraid, so I just won’t apologize any more. That’s the thing about creative spurts: when your energies are directed at dancing on the precipice of sanity and chaos, sometimes the the workers go on strike at the Creative Juice Factory. The beauty of being an unpaid observer of these times is that there are no deadlines nor expectations in this realm, so really, I’ve just been wantonly neglecting you three readers with reckless abandon. Feels pretty good too.

So let’s talk about it, fulfill your morbid wonderment as to what’s happening. Lots and nothing all at once, if I’m being frank. And I haven’t been Frank in a long while. Normally, I try and dazzle you with witty bullshit, putting lipstick on the hog that is my life. If you kiss her, that’s your deal, friend.

It boils down to this: life doesn’t suck. It just takes a while for me to appreciate that every now and again. Here’s  what I mean:

1.) The Heathens have taken their new school in stride, getting into their own delicious blend of trouble that therapists would characterize as a result of a home breaking up, a change in housing and schools. Minor trouble or not, they’re my boys, so I’ll get their back in public, then withhold their meals and affection when they get to my house as a form of passive/aggressive punishment (RELAX, psychos, and realize I’m joking. Kinda). Overall? They’re incredibly good kids taking a emotional hurricane in as much stride as they can muster. They make their old man proud with this display of fortitude in a storm. I’m sure they’ll repay me by strapping me to my wheelchair and shoving me into a deep pool when the moment is just right.

2.) Moving from a house that was over 3X bigger than this current cozy little crack den is something of a good thing. SOOOOO much less room to hoard all of those treasures I collected from 1987-now. Rather than looking at renting a mini-storage unit, I think a wiser investment might be to rent a 40yd. trash dumpster for a week or two. But don’t NOBODY touch that life size photo of my mother, father and I in 1976, they in turtlenecks and cigarettes, I in what looks to be home-made leiderhosen. That could come in handy some day, I think. See above photo for another treasure I stumbled across. You’re welcome.

3.) In a time when people are without jobs, roofs over their heads or people to love them, I am relatively incredibly wealthy. The bank got our house, the haters got a public forum to criticize those foolish choices I made which all came to a head when my marriage crumbled and the righteous got a chance to exercise their judgment skills. All roads for which I am responsible, but ultimately, choices that lead me to where I am. I wouldn’t trade this time I’ve been given with my boys for anything. I’ve learned a little about grace and a lot about humility. I seek forgiveness from those I’ve wronged, and if they choose to offer it, I’m grateful. If not, that’s okay, too…..they’ll have plenty of other grist for their mills soon enough.

So, the holidays are here now, and while it’s become painfully obvious why they can be such a boon for the anti-depressant industry, I keep looking for the good that surrounds us. And? I keep finding it.

I have a neighbor who is a cop. He doesn’t talk much. I have another neighbor who is a drug dealer. He’s friendly, but I chalk that up to the fact that he’s in sales. My own house is a mess. But, it is our attempt at home and from this corner of our neighborhood, it looks pretty good.

Mudders & Beer: a story of survival

Running is, for me, like having an uncle who’s a psychopathic alcoholic but no one in the family is rude enough to discuss it in polite company. I KNOW runners, but I’m not one. I’m DATING a runner but that doesn’t make me one either. I’m involved in a CrossFit Running Group in the sense that they’ve included me in their Facebook discussions. So I don’t really discuss, much less THINK about runners in polite company, either. I think I COULD run if enough cops and rabid dogs were chasing me furiously. And outside of a 5k or two under my belt, I’ve never been able to label myself a runner. Real, actual RUNNERS go long distances, look like starving refugees, wear short shorts and tend to keep something of a superior look on their faces, as though they and they alone are privy to physical pain and future knee surgeries. Frankly their smugness can be a bit intimidating, since those who inflict self-harm on asphalt roads have probably actually earned it. I’ve always felt both incapable of surviving the training it takes to become a distance runner and frankly, too lazy to follow through with effort.

The only running that I’ve felt mildly competent doing is on the trail. I think it’s because my short-attention span is constantly being stimulated by the topographical distraction; I won’t be forced to just look at a sidewalk or an oval loop and go mildly insane at the monotony. It’s the same reason I refuse to set foot on a treadmill. I can’t achieve an alleged high while thundering on a rotating rubber band like a hamster. So, without even the discipline of a bored hamster nor the desire to drink gooey-paste and have raw nipples in the name of long-distance “fun”, I was surprised by my own willingness to sign up for, and fork over a significant chunk of change, the 2012 Missouri Tough Mudder held in Poplar Bluff this past weekend. In a nutshell, it’s 11.2 miles over hills, trails, cow-paths and the like with 25 military-style obstacles scattered throughout with catchy names like “Arctic Enema” (described as “eating ice cream and getting punched in the balls, all at the same time), “Electroshock Therapy“, and “Everest” . It’s a suffer-fest of Biblical proportions (not exaggerated…okay maybe a little; there’s no famine) and the only real award you win for completing the damn thing is an orange headband and survival-bragging rights. It’s brutal, I recommend you follow the links and watch the video clips.

They start the race with your heat having crawled over a wooden wall to separate spectators and begin your descent into physical madness. To add to the insanity, one couple at the start of our group was actually married by a local preacher at the starting line, which of course lead to rampant speculation at the end if it had been annulled. There are no clocks, there are no fancy shoe-timers, no goo-belt wearing exoskeletons to intimidate you with their apparent ability to survive without solid food for 26 miles. You are there to gut out an endurance test with teammates, relying on incapacity for rational thought, ability to tolerate stupid amounts of pain and sheer force of will. The strongest aren’t favored, the fastest gain no glory and it is only those with the stubborn resolve of a mule that will truly enjoy this event. In other words, it’s perfect for a stubborn jackass such as myself. Firefighters working on ladder truck companies are already built for this kind of work, as we are the plow oxen of the fire service, “lift this, swing that, no questions, you’re just big, dumb animals” kind of thinking. As the miles began to rack up and the knees began to swell and the taste of mud was wearing the enamel off my teeth, I felt as though I’d stumbled into my kind of heaven.

So there we were, four firemen and a friend, slogging/jogging/walking/crawling through a monster-truck-style park with woods, creeks and near-vertical hillsides, mud entering all orifices, plunging into ice and getting shocked in the face by 10,000 volts. And somewhere around mile 7 or 8 it hit me: “I’m going to actually finish 11.2 miles.” I’ve never run more than 9 miles in my life. As well, I’ve never been smacked in the face with electric fence, so it was a crazy day of firsts all around. Never before have I been able to embrace the whole “mind-over-matter” thing, always believing that my own body would give out LONG before my ADD-riddled mind. As we rounded another corner and stumbled into yet another long track of submerged-in-mud, ankle-snapping pits and holes, it really got driven home. We WERE going to finish. We weren’t there to encourage someone else racing, content to put medals around our friend’s necks, no we were IN this thing. An orange head band and two free beers is a slight thing to anticipate with such crazy joy; outside of becoming a father and becoming a full-time fireman, this was likely the single coolest, toughest thing in which I’d ever participated. My mind would finally, for one of the rare times in my life, allow my body to be pushed that much further. It gave me permission to succeed. To enter a formidable challenge without failure as an acceptable option. Stumbling through those last few obstacles, only to push through the last round of legal electrocution with a mouth full of sweet, nasty mud I saw the Dos Equis people at the finish line with orange headbands and beer waiting to greet me; they had no way of knowing that under all that dirt, blood and twitchy, bruised muscles was a runner who had finally, at last, won the brutal and lonely race taking place in his own head.

Innocence, defined.

How do you describe your perfect morning? For some of us perfection comes in the olfactory senses being jarred to life, waking up to the smell of a loved one frying bacon in the kitchen and coffee gurgling re-assuredly out of a percolator and into oversize mugs. Some like to awaken in a tent overlooking a glacier and a magnificent sunrise while for the rest of us, we might wake up being spooned by a 90lb. lap dog-Boxer with the breath of someone who regularly kisses raccoon carcasses for sport. We all have our own little versions of dawn rituals, washing fire trucks or screaming at our children that they’ll be the death of us if they don’t get up and at ‘em RIGHT THIS VERY INSTANT.

Lately, I’ve taken up running again, albeit at a pace that might win me awards on the nursing home circuit and no where else. I ran the other morning with my “work wife” and we wound through four miles of paved trails, catching up and waxing foolish about his brother’s wedding, about the state of our livers and our lives, all good things. My nose was overpowered with the scent of wild onions on the trail while he told me of the various methods of killing all the birds we encountered along the way, me content to chuff like the old plow-mule I am and take in his company and friendship for a brief moment. I needed this, the human connection, the chance to appreciate the comfort of a boon companion’s relentless pace alongside your own. Four miles of freedom counts as a top ten good morning for me.

Fast forward to today, where at our local CrossFit, the day’s workout was dedicated to a three year old little boy named Landan Bland who lost his battle with brain cancer on August 29th, after having been diagnosed just last March. His story will make you bawl, but you can get a look at an incredible family, right here. A child’s passing always leaves vacancies in the hearts of anyone who hears about it, not to speak of the emotional devastation that the family must endure daily, forever. I never met Landan, but that’s not really important. He symbolizes innocence and love and when we see those things destroyed so unjustly, we’re left to question everything else around us. We wrap our own children up in our arms ferociously, terrified and filled with love all at once, praying to whoever it is we pray to for mercy and strength, that their own journeys through life keep them safe.

Simply doing pullups in the name of someone seems, at best, inconsequential, but like Landan, it’s about more than the physical effort. When our communities bond to raise funds for those who need it, or support, or love, the effects can overwhelm the senses and offer us once again some faith in the goodwill of our neighbors and friends. Bankers and cops, financial planners and firemen, nurses and attorneys, it seemed like everyone stopped on their way into the gym and stuffed the folder with what they could. This wasn’t to build copper spires on a mega-church; this was meant to help a family with their needs so that they could properly grieve the greatest loss known to any parent. The coaches took a moment to properly honor an innocent soul departed, and the athletes took their places, put aside their egos and personal issues and focused on the memory of Landan while grinding their way through an hour of physical depletion. I can say with confidence that although I couldn’t complete the workout exactly as prescribed, it still counts as one of the more grueling hours of my life. Each thought of quitting was met with a barrage of images of this boy in my mind, sweat and tears mingling from my lowered head as the thought of losing a child overtook me and was only countered by getting back into the routine. I was grateful for the chance to face the fears that haunt us most, while dragging my body through three thousand meters of running in the rain, getting pelted in the face by the drops and grateful just to experience THAT.

Divorce is survivable. Some car wrecks are survivable, as is the breakup of Guns N’ Roses. But to lose a child can take you to a precipice from which you might never return. My thoughts and heart are with Landan’s family; my soul wishes for them to discover the strength to survive this pain. Their little boy gave them so much happiness, no doubt, and beyond that, he gave thousands of others a chance to focus on what’s important, to appreciate their own time on this planet. I am grateful to Landan for giving all of us that. I’m grateful for my own life and the joy brought to my life by my children and close friends and family, all. I even appreciate slogging through that hour of hell to reflect on Landan and his battle.

Good mornings can come in forms we’d least suspect, really. I hope your morning is good, too, wherever this finds you. Rest in peace, little Landan Bland, and thank you.

My new pad. Well, not quite, but…..

Yeah, I’m a crappy blogger for many reasons, not the least of which is that I seem to only update once every three months. Had a lot going on; I apologize.

So, I moved into town; the rent is relatively cheap, the house is “cozy”, which is how people crammed-in try to church up their living situations. It’s cramped, to say the least, especially when you consider that this entire house is approximately 1000′sq. SMALLER than my SHOP back out in the sticks. But, I love it. There’s a school one block over, and the Heathens went over there today to stomp about on the playground equipment. At night I can hear the sirens of Rescue 1 and Engine 1 as they traverse across Center City, the bleary eyed firemen irritated and groggy and pumped up all at once.

I can walk to a Starbucks, a Korean Presbyterian Church, Bass Pro, McDonald’s, a rare coin shop, local Democratic headquarters, a tattoo joint, a bar that opens at 7am, a delicious BBQ place, several stink-laden thrift shops and a place that offers to put “fake duels” on my vehicle’s exhaust system. I had no idea that false dual-exhaust systems would be capable of dueling one another. I have a neighbor named “Randy” who rolls his own smokes, works in the heating and air conditioning business, and who’s wife apparently insists that he partake outdoors, based on the frequency with which he is sitting on his stoop, angrily smoking like a freight train. I have another neighbor named “Gary” who is a self-described “jacked-up cripple” due to the unfortunate set of circumstances that led him to fall out of a tree; I suspect he has a lot of help from prescription medications to deal with the pain, whether or not they were prescribed for him. He also has a lovely bass boat, all sparkle painted up, parked in his back yard. He seems like a nice guy. Across the street is an old recluse who has availed himself of the opportunity to glare at me each time he lurches out into his driveway to collect his mail; I suspect we’ll be best friends by Thanksgiving. The neighbor to my north seems utterly uninterested in anything going on here, which suits me to a tee. Across the street is the standard West Side thugtastico: he has a rusted out weight bench on the front porch, an unhinged hound that barks like a maniac most of the day and, despite all the crap and detritus in the yard, is sporting THE FINEST set of wheels on his beater of an SUV.

I think I’m gonna fit in just fine here.