Just Once
The pessimist is adamant that his glass of pink lemonade is half empty. The optimist counters that the glass is clearly half full. I’m a pacifist who doesn’t want another atomic war in the nuclear family, so I pour the liquid into an empty glass that’s half as small. “There, now the glass is full so there’s no room for argument.”
Geez, can’t we just once have a summer barbecue without all the drama?
It’s Time
The day I found an ounce of self-respect, something that had been lost, sequestered in the junk drawer of my soul, was when I knew it was time to be free from my dependency.
This year I vow to shed my lifelong addiction to Thanksgiving leftovers. I can do it by myself and without a prolonged delay. So, on November 29th, I’m gonna quit…cold turkey.
Digging in the Dirt
If I dig too hard, I fear that Madness lies on the other side.
But if Madness is on the other side, it doesn’t matter if I dig too hard or barely scratch the surface with my shovel. It will be revealed, despite the degree of force I apply. And why would I want to release Madness from its terra firma tomb? It was buried for a reason by someone, maybe even me. What’s the ultimate benefit of letting out Madness? And is it even there? Why am I digging in the first place?
I am fully aware that I’m standing in a hole, apprehensively removing earth. I know if I proceed, the hole will become so deep I won’t be able to climb out of it. And if I keep going after that, the hole will consume me. I’ll be buried alive. Yet, I’m still digging. Is making my own, inescapable depression in the ground a way of avoiding any curable depression I’m facing above the ground? Avoidance has piloted many round-trip flights to nowhere for me. Or is probing what’s beneath the compact dirt, even if it could be Madness, a better substitute for the reality I left exposed on land? Both seem like losing trade-offs, but I’ve already started. I rationalize I should keep going so I can find an implied Madness that may or may not present itself.
I’m digging knowing there’s a possibility I’ll come across Madness on the other side. This is like chasing fog. At first, it seems tangible because it’s physically obstructing my vision. Then I’m immersed in the nothingness. Disorientated, I’m unsure where I came from or which direction to pursue. If I wait long enough though, it gets burned off by the light of day. Keeping this information handy would help me for when the fog reassembles, or similar predicaments arise in the future. But I forget it.
That’s why I’m digging now. My fear-driven, uncorrected actions are also preventing me from realizing that not all the dirt I toss over my shoulder is escaping the ever-rising rim of the hole. Some of it hits the interior wall before avalanching back towards my feet. I’m oblivious that portions of my extracted dirt are ending up in holes of adjacent people, adding to the accumulation around their legs. And vice versa. We all fear Madness but continue performing the same repetitive motions in anticipation of finding it. We’re kindred spirits in the Brotherhood of Insanity.
So, why am I digging? Is Madness really lying on the other side of the hole? What exactly is on the other side of a hole? More dirt? Isn’t the other side of a hole just an extension of that hole? Or the terminus of a now completed tunnel? If so, there was never an other side for Madness to be on after all. Maybe it’s been beside me the entire time masquerading as fear, coercing me to keep digging knowing I’d never find it. This is the kind of manipulation Madness craves. It creates an illusion based on distress so you’ll ignore reason.
I’ve dug enough. I’m getting out of this hole and shaking off the dust covering my body. I’ll go stand on the excavated mound that used to fill my hole. There I’m elevated, not obstructed. I’ll have a better view and understanding of my actions. I will drop my shovel, leaving the fear of Madness behind. That’s why I’m not digging any more.
The Hills to Die On
Everyone has a hill (or hills) they are willing to die on. At least we should. Because having a hill worth dying on adds to a purpose-driven existence by bringing commitment into your life. These hills offer a plateau with unobstructed exposure so we can cast out a beacon of wisdom to shine for those in the shadows.
Some hills are universal and meant to be shared. These hills have an expansive surface allowing many to gather. Here the focus is on a unifying idea. Some hills are personal and meant to be kept private, providing us with a setting for quiet introspection. Then we can lead by example, motivating others to seek out their own hills.
Some hills battle a herd mentality. These hills of solitude are important to occupy when the mentality’s goal is keeping the herd in line as it is being unknowingly led to slaughter. These hills are difficult to occupy due to the constant barrage of pummeling, gale-force winds fueled by “public opinion” and “common sense.” Both doctrines serve important roles in society but need frequent reviewing so as not to become entrenched in senseless dogma or permanent obsolescence.
The hill I’m willing to die on has two peaks. One involves striving to live a better life today than I did yesterday. The other is to give more than I take.
What terrifies me are the hills not worth dying on. I try with all my might to avoid these hills. But no matter where the compass of life directs me, they remain a pervasive component of the landscape. I ignore them as they disappear over the horizon behind me. Then, like the decorative panels on the hub of a carousel, they reappear in my periphery. These are the hills known as Should of, Could of, Would of.
It’s easy for me to get misdirected onto the primrose path leading to these hills. That’s the danger. Even though they’re familiar, I’m still susceptible to their siren’s song. They welcome me without any blatant alarms to grab my attention or an imposing gate to arrest my momentum. A red “ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK” placard is absent. This ensures an unimpeded beginning. My diversion of hiking to the summit, although not something I want to do, seems manageable. Why not? The destination looks promising.
After a while, the terrain becomes uneven. It’s still navigable, just annoying. My shoelace loosens. Then my left sock bunched up around my toes. No problem. I stop long enough to resolve both issues. Again, more an inconvenience than a premonition. I accept that the path now has treacherous stretches. I proceed, convincing myself I’ll be okay.
I follow the trail as it ascends through the woods. Whereas I used to take in the lush foliage and scenery, I’m now constantly glancing at the ground to avoid tripping over the large stones in my way. Being forced to look downward, my eye catches sight of the missed opportunities strewn about the forest floor, cast aside during previous excursions, like snapped branches from past storms. They’re omnipresent. Some are fresh while others have already become detritus.
The hike now takes on a different vibe. Although concerned about why others failed attempting this trek, I continue taking measured steps. I won’t succumb to the pitfalls they couldn’t see or didn’t avoid. I’ll be fine. It’ll be different for me. I march on, albeit at a slower pace. Nearing the crest as the sky comes into view, it’s apparent I’ve made a mistake. Then I face the harsh realization that it’s too late to do anything about it.
Those venturing here before me didn’t reassess their plans and turn around at the first sign something’s wrong. They didn't take an alternate route when this one veered off in a different direction. Or not taken this route at all. They didn’t stop and cut their losses. They didn’t do any of these. And neither did I. So, I’m now standing in their presence, sharing a fellowship of failure.
I thought this summit would offer a panoramic view with awe-inspiring sights destined to be showcased on travel websites. Instead, I’m teetering on a lonely, foreboding precipice. I was conscientiously responsible for each stride I took to reach this perilous drop-off. Yet I still ask myself, “How did I get here?”
How did I get here? Well, by traversing a solid foundation of denial which rose to dizzying heights of regret. Now I’m inhaling uncertainty over the best way to leave this perch. I must bushwhack to find a different, possibly more perilous, route back to the trailhead. I have delayed reaching a goal by offering excuses for my missteps instead of learning from them. By not dealing with reality, my forced behavior resulted in a dead end. I have wasted time and resources all the while squandering the progress I was making. Moving forward has been sidetracked.
These are the hills I fear dying on.
Listen Up, Genie
Walking on a secluded beach one day,
Seeking inner peace and an outer tan.
I noticed a brilliant glint of sunshine,
Reflecting off an object in the sand.
I bent down to see a distressed lamp
With a strange, ornamental design.
Imagining I was Aladdin,
I began rubbing it to a shine.
I relentlessly buffed.
And much to my surprise,
A bizarre mist appeared,
Swirling before my eyes.
The gaseous cloud morphed into
A legless, floating effigy.
It spoke to me in a low voice,
"I now grant three wishes to thee."
I was shocked and stunned
By this gracious ghost,
This is my big chance.
I best make the most.
"Hurry now, time is fleeting,"
Genie said with a faint plea.
"Since I am old, worn out and
My hearing is leaving me."
Speak up, I reminded myself,
And rapidly, no time to stall.
This ailing vision may expire
And with it will go my windfall.
Think, think of what you want the most.
Don’t choke or crumble. Make it known.
Pick three objects, name them right now.
Things you do not already own.
I was nervous, panicky,
Anxious and filled with much dread.
The pressure sent many thoughts
Racing through my spinning head.
Genie started vanishing,
Dissipating in the breeze.
I had to say something now,
I had to state my three pleas.
Starting with the first thought that came to my mind,
"I wish for, ah, perfect fame," I said with clout.
And followed that up with the most obvious.
"I wish for gold and money," I shouted out.
Now don't start getting greedy,
Don't ask for a magic wand.
Oh no, I’m drawing a blank.
Should I just request a blonde?
"And lastly," I conclude,
"I want, I’ll stick with um..."
Then there was a bright flash,
My whole body went numb.
Genie was gone from my world
Leaving objects at my feet.
It soon became apparent.
I needed to take a seat.
The first item was a picture frame.
The next a jar of golden honey.
The third was a stick of chewing gum.
These results were not very funny.
Then I accepted,
Much to my chagrin,
These were my wishes.
I had been done in.
For these are not things I wanted.
They’re not due to some deception.
Alas, they were the result of
Poor auditory reception.
My genie with compromised ears
Did not understand the order.
There was a misunderstanding.
The result: My abject horror.
The three pedestrian trinkets,
Gave little monetary gain.
I did not emerge much richer,
Just feeling the regretful pain.
But I will learn from this encounter.
I shall not harbor a lot of hate.
For I was taught a priceless lesson.
And that’s to always enunciate.
The First First Day of School
The first first day of school was terrifying and in 1968. I know I have to start school. My brother and sisters did, now I’m next. I got pep talks from them and encouragement from my parents. “You’ll learn so much.” “It’ll be fun.” “You’ll be okay.” But even with this support, the first first day of school presented the angst of separation compounded by the disquiet of the unfamiliar tightly wrapped with the fear of rejection.
Turned out, it was actually the first step in the long journey of shedding my adolescence to become the person I am today.
Clear the Floor, I’m Dancing
I hope I am ten when we receive the invitation to a hoedown-themed party hosted by a family up the road. They live on a farm but are not actual farmers, just wealthy enough to have bought a farm. So, all us residents in the Leighton Estates development, a predominantly nonagricultural neighborhood, are invited to this gathering. It’s an evening of socializing, eating (the event is billed as BYOV - Bring Your Own Vittles) and square dancing. Western-styled attire is recommended, “Yeehaws” encouraged.
I’m against going to this hootenanny. I’m not keen on mingling with adults, the majority of which I don’t know. My lack of maturity compounded by their lack of immaturity creates a generational chasm. Without legal documentation declaring myself an emancipated minor, I am forced to accompany my parents for a night of rubbing elbows and kicking up heels. I don’t know how my brother and sister got out of it, but they did.
In full regalia, we enter the barn serving as the dance hall. Ladies in vibrant gingham dresses and men in crisp blue jeans exchange heartfelt “Howdy” greetings. There’s minimal air circulation in the venue as the doors and windows are closed, keeping out the early October chill.
Folding chairs line the right and left interior walls. The far wall has the square dance caller’s audio equipment on a riser, overseeing the middle area which is designated for dancing. Situated along the final wall are long tables that creak under the strain of the home cooked, calorie infused buffet. This is the 70’s. Gluten is not a four-letter word. Everyone’s food pyramid is built upon a solid foundation of lard. And a day without sugar is like a day without juvenile diabetes.
The enticing aromas of baked beans with bacon, potatoes that had been scalloped or mashed or au gratined, ham, chicken, meatloaf, stuffing, mac and cheeses, hearty casseroles and fresh baked breads seep out from their respective containers covered with aluminum foil. The smells commingle in your nostrils, greeting each other like old friends at a high school reunion. Decedent cakes and pies along with an array of puddings and whipped cream concoctions round out the dessert section. A side table is dedicated to beverages, including apple cider, my seasonal favorite. Finding solace knowing my belly won’t be empty, I load up a plate, fill up a cup and stake my claim to an empty chair closest to the food. It’s 6:30.
A steady flow of people arrives and by 7:30 the evening is in full, boot scootin’ mode. Dancers follow the caller’s (probably named Tex) unbroken, nasal warble. To me it sounds like gibberish. But to the discriminating ear it is directives, and the middle of the room pulsates in unison.
I recognize some faces while ignoring others as I attack my replenished plate of fried chicken, baked beans and cornbread saturated with butter. A cider chaser follows every other bite. I’m in my happy, gluttonous place when some lass feels that this satiated wallflower should blossom. The unfinished eighth course is dislodged from my greasy fingers. I am uprooted from my chair and interjected into the undulating sea of adults synchronized with Tex’s instructions. What just happened? Since I still haven’t mastered the “pat your head” portion of the “pat your head whilst rubbing your belly” brain exercise, dancing is out of the question. There’s a distinct possibility it could lead to my premature death.
The innate Flight or Fight response presents itself. I opt for Flight because I am outnumbered, unarmed and only four feet tall. Being small in stature but big on leaving, I formulate an exit strategy. I will shimmy my way backwards, hoping to get enveloped in the throng of bodies and via a form of group peristalsis, be dumped out on the perimeter.
However, my attempt at reverse navigating the bevy is misconstrued as dancing. This triggers encouragement from the gals. “You go, little man” and “Whoa, look at those moves” are lobbed my way. These solicitous, yet unfounded, accolades transform my attitude towards dancing. I believe their judgement is genuine. I arrived a shy tot happy to sit by myself and eat but am now convinced I’m a dancing prodigy.
My sullen demeanor evaporates. The contentment of stuffing my face is replaced with the need of whirling my dervish. Like a transformative experience, I morph into a social butterfly and clumsily flap my wings. This newfound confidence fuels more praise from my fellow two-steppers. Again, just the females. Not hearing any support from the guys. Jealous of the talent on display I suspect.
Gyrating to my own fractured meter, I unveil a set of moves destined to amaze. I incorporate a part mimic/part improvisational series of wild gesticulations. In my prepubescent mind I resemble Fed Astaire floating across the floor. In reality I resemble an epileptic kangaroo trying to exit a partially deflated bounce house.
As the revelers perform the choreographed dance, I’m stationed front and center delivering a spasmodic rendition of the Hokey Pokey. I flail my arms up and down as my feet remain embedded in the floor. Then gravity locks my arms against my body allowing my legs to quiver in response to the short-circuiting, electrical impulses emitted from my cerebellum.
There’s no patterned logic for my movements. This complete disregard for cadence is apparent to everyone with the obvious exception of me. Doesn’t matter, I’m “dancing” and that’s all that counts. I believe everyone is spellbound by my moves. In fact, a good portion of the folks are, but not because I’m talented. Some people watch with incomprehension, some with bafflement, some with disdain and some with a combination of all three.
The song ends. The ladies applaud my feeble attempt. Strutting back to my chair, my chest is swollen with self-infused confidence. I attack the remaining congealed fixins on my plate then toss back the residual, tepid cider. I need carbs to cut a new rug. Then comes the very specific announcement: “Grab your PARTNER for this next dance,” and I think, “Oh, don’t you worry Tex, I’ll grab my PARTNER alright…as soon as I get out there.” I lick my fork and scurry back to the assemblage.
My return is not greeted with the same enthusiasm as my inaugural appearance because I have failed to recognize the original invitation was a limited time offer, expiring when the first song concluded. Nobody emphasized this stipulation. I thought I had carte blanche access to the middle area for the rest of the evening. My assumption was so very wrong.
This dance has the fellows form an outer circle looking in while traveling counterclockwise as the women form an inner circle facing out and traveling clockwise. Each pair is to interlock their right elbows, complete a half-rotation, then reach out to the next person in line and repeat with their left elbows. This continues until, when instructed, the partners twirl each other around multiple times. Then everyone reinitiates the interlocking elbows/rotating sequence. The dance ends when you weave your way around the circle, rotating the others until you end up twirling your original partner. It’s sort of a platonic, wife-swapping do-si-do.
As a newly minted Casanova, I take my rightful place with the girls. My presence is a colossal mistake. I am not so much the third wheel as the 23rd wheel; a unicycle in a procession of bicycles. I don’t realize this and even if I did, I wouldn’t have cared. I need to trip the light fantastic. Dancing is my new, lifelong passion.
Disrupting the rhythm is bad. Getting in line with the womenfolk is worse because it means I’ll be paired with menfolk. Menfolk who have tired of my presence and resent dancing with some snotty nosed kid reeking of cider. My existence is a burr in the boys’ saddles. Who knew jockeying for attention to receive accolades from the dames would create animosity from the dudes? Well, everyone. Everyone except me.
The dance begins and immediately the flow is off kilter. The locking elbows is skipping a beat because I am an extra tooth on the cog. And me having a partner during the twirling portion forces the lady I’ve bumped out of position to stand aside, uncomfortably clapping to pass the time before rejoining the dance. Befitting the aggressive nature of Alpha Males with a vendetta, an unspoken competition of “Who can spin the kid the fastest?” begins. There’s no gentle twirling. I’m spun with pronounced gusto. The dance has transitioned into “Crack the Whippersnapper.”
I enjoy the rush of spinning. It’s fun. It’s fun until it’s not fun. It’s fun right up to the moment my stomach decides that’s enough of this nonsense and begins the irreversible muscular contractions needed to jettison the accumulated food which has been sloshing about in my belly.
When kids get sick, there’s not always an advance warning that an unholy, gastronomical event is about to transpire. There’s not always a “T minus ten seconds to lift-off.” Or more appropriately, “splashdown.” That holds true tonight. The interval between the onset of the telltale percolation in my gut to when I recreate that iconic scene from The Exorcist feels like nanoseconds. I have just enough time to turn my head 90 degrees outward in an evasive maneuver so as not to Jackson Pollack my tormentor, who is still spinning me at terminal velocity. Centrifugal force takes note and says, “Hold my beer.” Then I proceed to cast a wide net of spew over a fair portion of the dance floor. Thankfully, nobody is in the splash zone.
And thus concludes the Leighton Estates’ hoedown.
The distinctive sounds of retching followed by chunky liquid hitting concrete signals the end of any party, I don’t care how great a time those in attendance are having. Silence storms the barn. The once bustling scene grinds to a halt. Tex stands atop his platform as the hand holding the microphone peels away from his face. With eyes dilated and mouths agape, those nearby appear frozen in a unified, perpetual scream.
After being escorted away from the biohazard slick and back to my original chair (the same chair I would have content sitting in the entire night, by the way), I feel someone holding a damp cloth against my forehead. That someone is Mom. Without hesitation, she’s tending to me after witnessing the purging debacle. She is there like she has been many times before and like she will be even more times later because that’s her. She never shirked her parental responsibilities, even when bodily fluids were involved. That’s the role she embraces. She and Pops are a good team. Mom tends to Pukey McPukester as Dad brings the car around front.
I don’t recall details after administering the party’s deathblow. My brain must have stopped recording the remainder of this historically embarrassing night. Retaining an epilogue to humiliation of this magnitude for prosperity is not needed. I am certain though that we didn’t get a “Thanks for coming” pleasantry or a “See you next year” reminder on the way out.
This wasn’t the first or last time I did something that would be edited from the family’s Year in Review letter mailed to friends and relatives during the holidays. Despite my blunder, life continued, as it always does. My ego was bruised but not shattered. The sun rose and set the next day. Then a new day was again gifted and then another and then another after that. Each a clean slate, presenting opportunities which were navigated with varying levels of triumph and defeat.
We must embrace our setbacks and persevere knowing if the present isn’t allowed to become the past, then the future will never become the present. And we will thrive in the present. Overcoming our gaffes is how strength is built. If we can reflect on and take something from our victories as well as our misfortunes, we will experience growth.
From that evening, I can reflect on the fact I know the genesis of why I don’t like dancing. And I’ll always take a cup of cider. In moderation.