Ten or twelve small mouth bass looking much like pale green mini-torpedos shot out from beneath the dock as our sandalled feet slapped across its aluminum surface. After placing our small blue cooler in the shadows next to the pontoon boat I carefully rigged up my fishing pole as my wife dangled her calves in the cool blue water. Another great day to be retired.
Of course it wasn't long before the non-fisher questions and chatter began;
"Do you think we should angle the lift out a bit?" the foot dangler almost immediately asked as I cast my lure. "Do you think Rich needs to move his out a bit?" she continued, "He said he wanted it out deeper".
Still nursing her small glass bottle of some sort of pre-mixed tequila, she also sweetly inquired if I had noticed her shiny red toenail polish as I whipped a lure back over my shoulder and out into the lake. Smiling with the understanding that comes from nearly forty years of marital bliss, I replied with complete honesty, "You look really hot, baby!" Lord knows, she still does to me.
Not all that many years ago I wrote a song about the things I would miss if either myself or the love of my life were no longer around. Even with the seemingly never ending questions there is no doubt nothing would ever be the same. There are so many things I would miss:
WHATS OUT THERE?
Whats out there? I haven't got a clue,
But I know what I'm gonna miss
When my old Nikes ain't
Runnin down the roads anymore
Out on the front porch, with a tall cold drink
And the softest lips that I know,
And the way your breath kinda tickles
The inside of my ear...
After the years, go by.
I like the way that you look in the tub
And the bubbles look like islands
In a stream and we're thinkin about
Maybe sailin on over to the bed,
Yeah thats a good dream, inside my head
And I know that someday its gonna end,
Maybe in heaven we can do this
All over again...my best friend,
After the years, go by.
After all the years have come and gone,
Will our memories still live on and on,
Or just fade away like footprints in the sand?
It would seem so sad to me,
If for all of eternity,
All we'd done was nothing but...a memory,
After the years go by.
And so, with the admonition that we remind ourselves of each day we are fortunate enough to see another vibrant red sunset sinking behind the pines; "Enjoy life because you never know what will happen tomorrow". I truly did enjoy today honey. Hope you did too, even if I was a bit quiet at times.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Thursday, May 13, 2010
THE HOME OF THE BRAVE
Jacob took the eight pound metal ball from my hand, concentrated with all his might and flung it...backwards and over his right shoulder where it thudded to the dirt about four feet from where he stood. One of the first Special Olympians I was helping supervise had just completed his initial attempt at the shotput.
Part of the Special Olympics motto goes something like this; "Let me win, but if I cannot win then at least let me be brave in the attempt". For the second year in a row I got to witness tremendous bravery, innocence and above all...unbridled joy and enthusiasm during this wind blown, chilly day on a local high school football field. Once we got Jacob facing the right way, he made two more throws that were ten times farther than his first attempt and I think he was excited but its hard to tell sometimes with special needs "students".
Another contestant was led over by her teacher, Michael. Unable to walk on her own without a steadying hand to guide her, "Helen" shuffled into the small circle to attempt a throw. Of undetermined age, skinny as a rail and wobbling badly, I wasn't sure if she would even be able to hold onto the six pound shot. Michael held her steady as we placed the small grey sphere into Helen's gnarled hand.
"Alright Helen, lift her up and let it fly!!!" Michael yelled.
Surprisingly, she lifted her arm up shoulder high, stepped six inches forward while gripping tightly to her instructor's elbow and heaved mightily. The shot landed perhaps two and a half feet away. A loud chorus of cheering filled the air.
Helen giggled excitedly behind her darkened sun glasses and beneath her floppy hat. It suddenly occured to me that she either couldn't see at all or was at least extremely visually impaired and we enthusiastically cheered again as she completed her next two tosses. Brave in the attempt indeed.
Later on as I tried to assist my wife at the "prize table" (face painting, sand sculpures in tiny empty coke bottles, and assorted other crafts), we watched some of the Olympians groove to the music provided by a guitar strumming musician. As he launched into a rousing rendition of "Little Red Riding Hood" an eerie echo of loud wolf-like howling filled the air beneath the bleachers everytime he reached the chorus.
A young man in a black windbreaker rested his fingers on the blonde wooden surface of the guitar players instrument. His mother who had been searching for him after he had wandered away from her exclaimed, "There you are Jimmie! I knew I would find you wherever the music was!" Jimmy's mom explained to us that he loved to put his hands on the guitar so he could feel the vibration of the guitar's strings as it was being played. Doing this was his way of rocking out.
As a final memory on this most excellent of days, we listened to loud and enthusiastic cheering as contestants were awarded their ribbons. Not saying a word, a heavy-set young man wearing a bright colored Nascar racing hat, smiled a secret smile as he approached my wife and I. Slowly unzipping his jacket, he revealed to us the red second-place ribbon he had just won. The proud look that spread a mile wide across his beard stubbled face said more than any amount of words could as he slowly wandered off to show others his prize. To my delight and that of the crowd, "Helen" also won a ribbon but then again, I think that probably everyone did.
In this age of budget cuts, downsizing and a lack of funding for projects like the Special Olympics, I can only hope that activities such as this track meet continue to be held on a regular basis. My wife and I so much treasure the memory of this wonderful day and I cannot begin to imagine how much it meant to these special, special "competitors".
You were extremely brave dear athletes and God willing, I sincerely hope to see all of your joyful, smiling faces again, year after year after year. Winning is definitely not...everything.
Part of the Special Olympics motto goes something like this; "Let me win, but if I cannot win then at least let me be brave in the attempt". For the second year in a row I got to witness tremendous bravery, innocence and above all...unbridled joy and enthusiasm during this wind blown, chilly day on a local high school football field. Once we got Jacob facing the right way, he made two more throws that were ten times farther than his first attempt and I think he was excited but its hard to tell sometimes with special needs "students".
Another contestant was led over by her teacher, Michael. Unable to walk on her own without a steadying hand to guide her, "Helen" shuffled into the small circle to attempt a throw. Of undetermined age, skinny as a rail and wobbling badly, I wasn't sure if she would even be able to hold onto the six pound shot. Michael held her steady as we placed the small grey sphere into Helen's gnarled hand.
"Alright Helen, lift her up and let it fly!!!" Michael yelled.
Surprisingly, she lifted her arm up shoulder high, stepped six inches forward while gripping tightly to her instructor's elbow and heaved mightily. The shot landed perhaps two and a half feet away. A loud chorus of cheering filled the air.
Helen giggled excitedly behind her darkened sun glasses and beneath her floppy hat. It suddenly occured to me that she either couldn't see at all or was at least extremely visually impaired and we enthusiastically cheered again as she completed her next two tosses. Brave in the attempt indeed.
Later on as I tried to assist my wife at the "prize table" (face painting, sand sculpures in tiny empty coke bottles, and assorted other crafts), we watched some of the Olympians groove to the music provided by a guitar strumming musician. As he launched into a rousing rendition of "Little Red Riding Hood" an eerie echo of loud wolf-like howling filled the air beneath the bleachers everytime he reached the chorus.
A young man in a black windbreaker rested his fingers on the blonde wooden surface of the guitar players instrument. His mother who had been searching for him after he had wandered away from her exclaimed, "There you are Jimmie! I knew I would find you wherever the music was!" Jimmy's mom explained to us that he loved to put his hands on the guitar so he could feel the vibration of the guitar's strings as it was being played. Doing this was his way of rocking out.
As a final memory on this most excellent of days, we listened to loud and enthusiastic cheering as contestants were awarded their ribbons. Not saying a word, a heavy-set young man wearing a bright colored Nascar racing hat, smiled a secret smile as he approached my wife and I. Slowly unzipping his jacket, he revealed to us the red second-place ribbon he had just won. The proud look that spread a mile wide across his beard stubbled face said more than any amount of words could as he slowly wandered off to show others his prize. To my delight and that of the crowd, "Helen" also won a ribbon but then again, I think that probably everyone did.
In this age of budget cuts, downsizing and a lack of funding for projects like the Special Olympics, I can only hope that activities such as this track meet continue to be held on a regular basis. My wife and I so much treasure the memory of this wonderful day and I cannot begin to imagine how much it meant to these special, special "competitors".
You were extremely brave dear athletes and God willing, I sincerely hope to see all of your joyful, smiling faces again, year after year after year. Winning is definitely not...everything.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
I CAN'T GET YOU OUT OF MY MIND
DO DO DUNH! DO DUNH! DO DUNH! DO DO DUNH! DO DO DUNH DO DUNH! MY SHARONNA!!!
Someone had written a story for Runners World magazine back in the early eighties, complaining that they just could not get that song out of their head while jogging. Immediately after I read the column, "My Sharonna" became permanently etched in my own noggin for several years, while running or not.
Why is it that music takes such complete control of our subconscious mind? What makes a simple tune about a sexy girl dominate a man's feeble brain for thirty seconds of every hour of every day, week after week after week? As usual, I have a couple of theories to offer on this subject.
Mostly, popular music is feeling related. I vividly remember when a song called "The Duke Of Earl" came on the air sometime back in the early sixties. At the time I had a huge crush on a sweet little thing with blonde hair and blue eyes who didn't even know of my existence and by the time whoever sang it (my older brother will know the answer to this immediately) finished, I had big salty tears rolling down my cheeks. I guess it was because I realized that this girl would probably never "walk through my dukedom" or ever in fact "be my girl".
In addition to stirring up impossibly achey feelings regardless of lyrical content, songs simply remind us of our mortality. This has become increasingly evident as I edge further and further from that hot asphalt playground where I heard the "Duke Of Earl" tinnily playing from a friends transistor radio. Now, thanks to the miracle of color t.v. and very creative advertising, I have a more age-appropriate visualization to occupy my mind for almost every waking moment.
DA DA DA...DA DA DA DA DA...DA DA DA DA DA DA DA DA, DA DA DA DA!
The camera pans slowly right and shows a balding, pleasant looking old fella with dozens of liver spots speckling his shiny dome. He has a red napkin tucked into his shirt and is smiling very contentedly as he clutches a fork in his right hand, preparing to dig into a large, delicious looking slab of meat. A trumpet song from the forties provides background music.
An unseen woman begins to speak;
"Forty two years with this character", she says.
"The whining...my gosh all the whining", as the music continues play softly, "And the snoring! Every night with the snoring!!!"
"Forty two years with this character and yet...", (long pause)"He still loves me!"
The camera shows an equally lovable, elderly lady on the other side of the dinner table who finishes by saying, "Happy anniversary, darlin!".
Soon it will be time for this old timer to head for his bed. Somewhere in the space of my crammed up cranium, the haunting lyrics of at least two of my all time favorite songs and one t.v. commercial will echo endlessly as I search for sleep. I simply can't get them out of my mind.
Someone had written a story for Runners World magazine back in the early eighties, complaining that they just could not get that song out of their head while jogging. Immediately after I read the column, "My Sharonna" became permanently etched in my own noggin for several years, while running or not.
Why is it that music takes such complete control of our subconscious mind? What makes a simple tune about a sexy girl dominate a man's feeble brain for thirty seconds of every hour of every day, week after week after week? As usual, I have a couple of theories to offer on this subject.
Mostly, popular music is feeling related. I vividly remember when a song called "The Duke Of Earl" came on the air sometime back in the early sixties. At the time I had a huge crush on a sweet little thing with blonde hair and blue eyes who didn't even know of my existence and by the time whoever sang it (my older brother will know the answer to this immediately) finished, I had big salty tears rolling down my cheeks. I guess it was because I realized that this girl would probably never "walk through my dukedom" or ever in fact "be my girl".
In addition to stirring up impossibly achey feelings regardless of lyrical content, songs simply remind us of our mortality. This has become increasingly evident as I edge further and further from that hot asphalt playground where I heard the "Duke Of Earl" tinnily playing from a friends transistor radio. Now, thanks to the miracle of color t.v. and very creative advertising, I have a more age-appropriate visualization to occupy my mind for almost every waking moment.
DA DA DA...DA DA DA DA DA...DA DA DA DA DA DA DA DA, DA DA DA DA!
The camera pans slowly right and shows a balding, pleasant looking old fella with dozens of liver spots speckling his shiny dome. He has a red napkin tucked into his shirt and is smiling very contentedly as he clutches a fork in his right hand, preparing to dig into a large, delicious looking slab of meat. A trumpet song from the forties provides background music.
An unseen woman begins to speak;
"Forty two years with this character", she says.
"The whining...my gosh all the whining", as the music continues play softly, "And the snoring! Every night with the snoring!!!"
"Forty two years with this character and yet...", (long pause)"He still loves me!"
The camera shows an equally lovable, elderly lady on the other side of the dinner table who finishes by saying, "Happy anniversary, darlin!".
Soon it will be time for this old timer to head for his bed. Somewhere in the space of my crammed up cranium, the haunting lyrics of at least two of my all time favorite songs and one t.v. commercial will echo endlessly as I search for sleep. I simply can't get them out of my mind.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
RETURN FROM THE BIRTHDAY BASH
Driving down an almost deserted stretch of highway at dusk, the top half of the trees lining the road were ablaze with light from a bright orange sun seeking it's sleep behind the hills for yet another night. And after a great day of celebrating my wife's 60th birthday, we were trying to make it to the beach in time to witness what would be a lovely end to this already wonderful day...a spectacular lakefront sunset.
"Don't you want to be with me?" she asked as if offended by a bit of husbandly musing that I'd just offered off the top of my balding little head. I had to think a bit before I answered my wife' question.
Earlier in the week as we drove home from playing golf, my brother-out of the clear blue sky, wondered if I had any plans for disposing of my body when I eventually leave this world. He has already brought a plot in the same familiar cemetary that so many of our friends and relatives rest eternally in down near the railroad tracks of our small hometown. Presumably, my elder sibling and his wife will be cremated and lie together forever beneath the shade of the elms, oaks and maples in that most peaceful of places. I, on the other hand am not so sure where in the heck I want to end up. Too many variables.
My wife has told me more than once that she wants to be cremated and stored inside a little box next to the one her mother has. As much as I love my wife and also cherished my mother in law, the thought of spending perpetuity inside the wall vault of her mom's favorite church doesn't exactly thrill me. This was what I was trying to explain to my spouse without hurting her feelings too much.
My brother brought up another important reason for not coming to a concrete decision on that final resting spot: What if our spouses outlive us and end up with someone else (knowing our family history, there is more than good possibility of this happening)? Which one of their husbands/boyfriends would they pick to be with? I can almost say with complete certainty that if my wife meets a handsome stud who loves nothing better than doing home improvement projects and playing Scrabble, I know who she will end up with after my departure from this planet.
In the end (literally), I think I will want to be in the most places possible; a little with my wife if she still has fond memories of my time with her; perhaps a small jar of my ashes scattered among the wildflowers bordering the dirt road of my favorite jogging route; the rest of me sprinkled among the sun-speckled memorial stones that watch patiently over my mom and dad's final place of rest. It isn't that I don't want to be with you alone honey and there will lots of me to go around. Does that answer your question?
As we pulled into a nearly empty parking lot facing the lake, the golden half-globe of a brilliant sun was sinking behind a row of pine trees and sending a shimmering walkway of light across the lake toward our car. My wife and I held hands while giving thanks for yet another day of feeling blessed and I expressed a fond hope that when I got to be her age, I would have an equally good birthday.
OWWWW!!!
"Don't you want to be with me?" she asked as if offended by a bit of husbandly musing that I'd just offered off the top of my balding little head. I had to think a bit before I answered my wife' question.
Earlier in the week as we drove home from playing golf, my brother-out of the clear blue sky, wondered if I had any plans for disposing of my body when I eventually leave this world. He has already brought a plot in the same familiar cemetary that so many of our friends and relatives rest eternally in down near the railroad tracks of our small hometown. Presumably, my elder sibling and his wife will be cremated and lie together forever beneath the shade of the elms, oaks and maples in that most peaceful of places. I, on the other hand am not so sure where in the heck I want to end up. Too many variables.
My wife has told me more than once that she wants to be cremated and stored inside a little box next to the one her mother has. As much as I love my wife and also cherished my mother in law, the thought of spending perpetuity inside the wall vault of her mom's favorite church doesn't exactly thrill me. This was what I was trying to explain to my spouse without hurting her feelings too much.
My brother brought up another important reason for not coming to a concrete decision on that final resting spot: What if our spouses outlive us and end up with someone else (knowing our family history, there is more than good possibility of this happening)? Which one of their husbands/boyfriends would they pick to be with? I can almost say with complete certainty that if my wife meets a handsome stud who loves nothing better than doing home improvement projects and playing Scrabble, I know who she will end up with after my departure from this planet.
In the end (literally), I think I will want to be in the most places possible; a little with my wife if she still has fond memories of my time with her; perhaps a small jar of my ashes scattered among the wildflowers bordering the dirt road of my favorite jogging route; the rest of me sprinkled among the sun-speckled memorial stones that watch patiently over my mom and dad's final place of rest. It isn't that I don't want to be with you alone honey and there will lots of me to go around. Does that answer your question?
As we pulled into a nearly empty parking lot facing the lake, the golden half-globe of a brilliant sun was sinking behind a row of pine trees and sending a shimmering walkway of light across the lake toward our car. My wife and I held hands while giving thanks for yet another day of feeling blessed and I expressed a fond hope that when I got to be her age, I would have an equally good birthday.
OWWWW!!!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)