Be sure your sins will find you out…

My Mom was always able to tell when one of us kids was in trouble. But she wasn’t the kind of Mom that tried to catch you doing wrong. She didn’t need to. I believe her theory was that one way or another, sooner or later, whether it was her or my dad that found you out, or it was just the final come-uppance that you could count on from God, you could always be sure your sins would find you out!
And yet, I still tried to pull off the monkey-shines. There’s something in the teenage genome that made me believe I was invincible, impregnable, impervious to the consequences – and just a little too tricky for my parents to catch me. Armored by those teenage “defenses” and a really thick skull, I rode out to do battle against my parents’ wits, only to keep losing and being found out. I never seemed to learn. It never occurred to me that teenagers since the time of Cain & Abel have been trying to fool their parents, and there is little evidence that I should be more adept at this lost cause than any of my predecessors. I wonder if it isn’t true that half the fun of shenanigans comes from the fear of getting caught.

I skipped my last year of high school because my college of choice had a program where you could get in just by having enough (and the right kind of) credits. I did OK grade-wise in high school, but I kept getting kicked out (the Academy had some pretty strict rules, but the shenanigans were nobody’s fault but mine – I knew the rules.) So, I thought I would do well to by-pass the drama of getting kicked out in my senior year. In retrospect, I realize that I could have forgone the drama by just behaving myself. But that didn’t occur to me then, which proves that I probably wasn’t really ready for college as I was just too busy having fun. In fact, I was having a lot more fun than I was having study time. I did have a part-time job doing some sort of paperwork for the music department, but it was a breeze. Classes were pretty easy – I took almost exclusively music classes and didn’t even type my own papers. I left that chore to this cute blonde farmer’s daughter I had met for the first time the year before at Band Camp. (No, seriously! And then a couple years later we were married and talking about kids.)

When it came time for Thanksgiving break that first year, I told my folks that I was going to stay in Lincoln and work at school instead of coming home. I knew that if I came home for break, I’d be working for my old man with no time left over for fun and games – and that’s just not fair; not when you’re 17. So, once again, I tried to pull a fast one on Mom and Dad.

I didn’t work at my music job at college that week. Instead, four of us piled into Jack’s VW van and headed to Colorado to ski. The van was just barely reliable enough to make the trip with a lot of crossed fingers, and was sorely deficient in the heater department. It was freezing cold as we drove all night to get to Colorado. I remember that Dan and Suzie (the names might have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent) spent almost the entire trip to Boulder in a sleeping bag in the back of the van trying to stay warm. It must have worked because the van’s windows fogged up very badly. Jack & I stomped our feet and wished we had a couple sleeping bags in the front seats too so we could stay warm. Suzie offered to share theirs, but there wasn’t really room for three people in it and I could tell by the look in Dan’s eye that he wasn’t going anywhere.

As I recall, it was mostly a miserable trip, but we didn’t care – we were off on a fabulous adventure. Just a quartet of kinda-hippies living wild at the thought of having no one to tell us what to do. We got to Boulder on Tuesday and headed up to the Lake Eldora Ski area. Cheap, close and not so high in the mountains that we couldn’t survive a night or two in the drafty, cold van. My brand new, perfectly fitted skis were at home in my closet. Since I was not supposed to be within 500 miles of home, I rented skis that first day. Bet you can’t guess what happened next…

Second run; feeling good; high on life and skiing as fast and recklessly as you might expect from a kid with no one to tell him what to do. I low-bottomed a dip in the moguls and went flying through the air to land in a damaged heap amongst some rocks and logs. Though it was a jarring, twisting landing, my rented too-tight skis hadn’t come off. After a moment of being stunned, I reached down to unbuckle my skis and that’s when I noticed something amiss. Oh yeah, that’s it: my foot is pointing the wrong way! I’ll just take off this ski and turn my foot around to the front. There, that’s bett…oh holy $%*#($. And then I think I went into shock.

Boot-top fracture, both bones, non-compound, but seriously messed up. Lake Eldora in 1971 didn’t have anything in the way of a medical unit. In fact, they could not even get me an aspirin for the pain. They DID duct-tape my shattered leg onto a folded piece of cardboard and took me down the mountain on the stretcher of shame. I climbed into the back of the van as I pondered my options. Finally, I figured that since my parents would eventually find out my nefarious scheme and I would have to ultimately take my lumps, I might as well head on home to Loveland to the hospital there. So, we headed down Boulder Canyon to catch the Diagonal to Longmont and then home.

The VW POS Mini-van broke down on the Diagonal.

No cell phones in those days, so we hitch-hiked with a mother and teen-age girl to the hospital in Longmont, where a welcome shot of morphine came none too soon, and a humble call to my Mom happened way too soon. Besides being in a lot of pain, I think I finally realized just how selfish I had been and how pulling one over on the old folks wasn’t as cool as it had seemed just the day before. I was pretty doped up for the next few days, but I’m still pretty sure that Mom never said anything. I was in a constant state of foggy horror at the thought of being confronted by her about my lie. I think she may have sensed that the pain I was going through might actually slap me into having a clue.

I was in a hip-to-toe cast for 6 months; on crutches for 6 weeks. My leg itched so bad I had a specially bent clothes-hanger that left gaping holes in my bleached-white skin from my constant, aggressive scratching. I had only 2 pairs of pants that would fit over my cast: a pair of overalls (shucks, garsh, I’m just a country boy) and a pair of Red, WHITE and Blue jeans (what a radical, eh?). When I finally got out of that cast, my leg was the size of a baseball bat handle. I’ve been overeating ever since trying to fill that leg up to its original size! Well, I exaggerate a little, but that puny leg looked more like a T-Rex appendage than anything else, and actually has affected me the rest of my life. Wearing the walking cast for so many months caused my pelvis to tip sideways, which, in turn, caused my spine to twist, which eventually paid off the school loans of more than one chiropractor.

But, no, Mom never chastised me for my lie. I know she was disappointed in me, but more, I think, she was hurt. Hurt I’d lied to her, then hurt because she knew I was going to be hurt by my own actions. And great moms hate more than anything to see their kids get hurt.

Mom, it’s your birthday in a couple of days. I just wanted you to know how much I appreciate the way you handled this epic adventure in one of the time periods when I was most trying to you and Dad. I appreciate your love too, through it all, and I know that’s why you’ve done so much for me; it’s all about the love. And I love you more than words can ever say.

Oh, and thanks too Mom, for teaching me words that I not only believe but am quick to use to admonish others not as lucky as I was to have a phrase that, once taught, didn’t have to be overused in order to be effective: Be Sure Your Sins Will Find You Out.

Happy Birthday, Mom!

Valentine's Day equals Romance

They say that Valentine’s Day is a made-up holiday. Created and perpetuated by the evil card company Hallmark and aided and abetted by those corrupters of souls, Russell Stover & FTD Florists. It’s a holiday fashioned by retail companies solely for the purpose of capitalizing on the fact that humans are hungry for romance. But you can’t really blame them; it’s just business, and the fact is that we need Valentine’s Day. Made up or real, it is a very important day for couples and wannabe-couples.

Valentine’s Day is all about the “romance.” This is why it has lasted so long and, I suspect, will never fade away. However, there are two distinct definitions of “romance,” and this causes a disconnect for just about every couple at one time or another. You see, “romance” means a very different thing to the inhabitants of Venus than it means to us Martians. To the fairer sex, “romance” means the validation of their value to their mate; the proof that their men love them and cherish them and want to dote on them and protect them and honor them forever and always – with gifts and treats and (horrors) conversation! To the male of the species, “romance” means sex. Period. All the machinations that we go through to prove our undying love on Valentine’s Day (or any other day for that matter) are just a bunch of peacock feathers spread out in a display to attract the female; just a puffed out throat to impress her into saying yes; just a hopeful set of abracadabras and magical flourishes in our too-thinly veiled attempts to make her objections disappear.

Unless, of course, you’ve been faithfully married for 36 years and really DO want to show nothing more than your undying love and reaffirm your promise to “love, honor and cherish till death do us part.” Then, “romance” means the same to both of you. Really! Honest! No, really – I’m not just saying that! This year will be the 37th Valentine’s Day that I’ve shared with my best friend, Marcia. 37 times I’ve picked out a card – usually 3 of them: a funny one, a romantic (to her) one and a romantic (to me) one. 37 times I’ve wondered if dinner and togetherness says enough or if I should buy her something special. 37 times she’s said she doesn’t want “anything.” 36 times I’ve not been fooled by that line. (There was that one year when I was young and naïve and thought that “don’t get me anything” meant she didn’t want anything. What I found out it meant was that if I wanted “anything,” then I better get her something, no matter what she says!)

You’d think that love and romance would get old after that much time, but this is not the case for me and my Baby-cakes. We still hold hands when we take a walk or a drive. She still blows me kisses from the couch to my barca-lounger and I still catch them. We still watch romantic movies together and are still touched by the stories. We can talk about anything or we can talk about nothing and still feel comfortable. We enjoy sports together; we watch American Idol together; we do housework together; if I cook, she cleans and visa versa; we go on hikes together; we sit around like couch potatoes together. I play love songs on the guitar for her while she does her needlepoint. We so often finish each other’s sentences and have the same idea for dinner that it’s actually a bit spooky. Before long, we’ll probably even start looking alike. Yes, folks, I’m a lucky man indeed to have married my best friend and found a mate for life. So many couples we’ve known don’t stay together for so long – with or without a ring.

I once told Marcia that I thought the reason we’d been together so long was that I had no ego. After the swelling went down from the roundhouse slap I got when I didn’t clarify my remark soon enough, I explained myself – slowly and carefully. What I meant is that I think that with a soul-mate/wife/lover/partner, happiness and harmony come from not letting your ego require you to be right all the time. This goes beyond just simple compromise which is certainly important in relationships; this thought process actually requires you to acknowledge that someone else is smarter, more logical, better informed and more reasonable than you are – at least part of the time. Our natural inclination, even when it goes against someone we love, is to desire to not be in the wrong. Following this natural inclination is a recipe for marital disaster or frequent dust-ups at the very least. At its worst, it kills “romance,” no matter what definition you adhere to.

You must realize that two people living in close proximity to each other (and desiring to keep up said living arrangement) cannot both be right all the time. Therefore, my advice to my kids and any other couple who asks about the secret of our longevity is to stop being a baby and give in and give up – more often than you think you should. What can it possibly hurt to let your loved one be right more often than you? This is especially good advice to the men out there who wish there was more “romance” in their life, but don’t quite seem to comprehend that their egocentric arguments cause a direct INVERSE relationship to the amount of “romance” that they enjoy. An equally true state of affairs is that a woman who must always be right is a woman destined to have her man rarely show her the kind of “romance” that she desires – unless of course, he is accommodating her desires solely to get the kind of “romance” he desires.

Oh, it’s a vicious circle boys and girls and this is where Valentine’s Day comes in handy. The giving of the cards and candy and flowers and jewelry and pajama-grams takes the focus off our egos and puts it squarely onto the shoulders of Hallmark and Russell Stover and the Vermont Teddy Bear company where it belongs.

That way we can all get what we want for Valentine’s Day: ROMANCE!

For Marcia – I love you babe!

The Passing of Man's Best Friend

My best friend (not counting all my human BFFs) died yesterday. Suddenly. Quietly. Alone.

He was only a little over 7 years old and seemed to be the picture of good health – strong, muscular, agile, confident, alert. We spent the morning together – eating breakfast, watching the birds at the feeder, and then reading the paper before we went our separate ways to carry out our normal routines. I never saw him alive again…

Marcia (my other best friend) and I came home yesterday afternoon to a bad odor in the house. Thinking that Starbuck had had an accident, we started looking for poop, but found instead our big black cat sleeping for the last time under the bed.

There are Cat People and there are Dog People in this world. I’m told that there are people who (horrors!) swing both ways, but we won’t speak of them in this G-rated eulogy. I believe that Dog People like dogs because they are unfailingly faithful and will love their owners even if they are ax murderers or child pornographers. Cats, on the other hand, know what’s in your heart and will disdain and abuse you for the slightest perceived mistreatment. They will hold a grudge for months merely because you bought the on-sale cat food instead of the Fancy Feast.

Still, as a species in total, I don’t care much for dogs, although I’ve been fond of a few special canines over the years. Dogs, I find, are way too much trouble – all the walking and poop-scooping and bathing and grooming. They drool and they smell, and this despite the fact that they seem to like to lick themselves, but maybe because they only lick certain parts of their body. While this private-area licking may seem desirable, I actually find it extremely distasteful, (pun intended) particularly when you factor in the drool effect. You see where I’m going with this?

While I don’t really buy in to the theory of dogs being man’s best friend, I do understand the comfort and companionship that a pet brings. Which is why many Dog People berate Cat People – how much comfort and companionship can you expect from a cat? After all, cats are aloof and snooty. They won’t chase a ball, and you can’t train them to shake hands. Eccentric Cat People sometimes say that this is because cats are actually more intelligent than we humans – sometimes even claiming they are a superior race from another planet who merely abide our existence due to their inability to operate a can opener, since it was their brains that evolved and not their opposable thumbs. These people are nuts. But then, so are the Dog People who allow their dogs to French kiss them (see note above regarding licking + drooling.)

On our block, it’s easy to know every neighbor who has a dog. Partly because of the barking, but mostly because you see them walking the dogs, day and night, rain and shine. On the whole, I prefer to see them walking their dogs in the daytime and in the sunshine as they are far less likely to bend down and fondle the feces of the frou-frou poodle when it’s cold and dark and raining outside. It is after those bad nights that I find myself prospecting the front yard with a shovel before I mow the lawn. Give me a litter box and scoop any day of the week. I like to reserve my grass for wrestling on with my grandkids!

I’m sure there are other cats on our block, though we never see them since they don’t require – verily, they will not tolerate – being walked, and the coyotes and bobcats and great horned owls in the scrub oak prevent even the most callous owners from risking their pets’ lives in this neighborhood. I bought a cat leash once and tried to walk Starbuck outside. Though the leash was attached to a body harness made especially for cats, he Harry-Houdini’ed it off in about 3 seconds and ran wildly into the house to hide under the same bed that I found him under, lifeless and cold, just yesterday.

So, we’ve always been Cat People, Marcia and I, with a long succession of best friends over our last 37 years together. First, there was Ajax, the white tornado (named after the bathroom cleansing powder tag line and due to the fact he was a pure white Iowa barn kitten – read feral – who tore gaping holes in my hands when I first chased him down in the hay and picked him up.)

Then, there was Ajax II (we may have been overly influenced by TV ads at the time) only he wasn’t new and improved like the cleanser. He was dumb and stubborn, although just as white as Ajax the first. The dumbest cat we’ve ever had, he would get up on the sofa beside me and look at me with eyes that said, “Please don’t hit me,” and then would pee on the sofa. Over and over again. Day after day. His term as best friend did not last long.
We had a cat named Ptolemy who don’t remember much about, which is strange given his (her?) name. You’d think I’d at least remember why we named it that…

But, we definitely remember Frank. He was the first cat that we ever had for any length of time – about 15 years. He was a Man’s Cat. An un-neutered Tom with all his claws and an attitude of swagger to go with it. He was the meanest sonamabitch on the block and often came home with small farm animals clenched in his massive jaws and drop them on our porch, showing off his hunting prowess to “his humans” before he devoured his prey. We didn’t spend much money on cat food in those days as we backed up to an open field and Frank went wherever he wanted to whenever he wanted to. With all his toughness though, it was probably Frank that turned us into Cat People for good as he was also the most loving cat we’ve ever had. He would sit and purr and rub his nose on my chin and give me the look that said, “You, for a human, are very cool to live with.” It was a sad day when Frank finally had to be put to sleep after contracting inoperable cancer.

While we had Frank, we got Beans – our first black cat. Beans didn’t last long, so she was replaced with Ernest. (Get it? Frank & Beans. Frank & Ernest. We cracked ourselves up!) Ernest didn’t last much longer than Frank and so we started all over again with George and Gracie. Gracie was a demur, tiny lady that had been abused before we found her, so was skittish all of her 13 years with us. George was a hulking pig of a cat that would spend hours lying on his stomach with his front paws and nose buried in his food dish. He eventually weighed in at 22 pounds of pure flab – his belly flap alone was as big as Gracie. His claim to fame, though, was that Chelsa and Bryn liked to play “clay kitty” with him. As fat and lazy as George was, they would arrange him in all kinds of crazy positions and then see how long he would stay that way. Usually, the only thing that made him move from the “clay kitty” positioning was gravity – and that happened very slowly.

Lastly, we had Eddie McCattrey and Starbuck. They were the best buddies ever, even though Eddie was 3 or 4 years older and weighed about 2/3rds as much as the younger Starbuck. Eddie was named for the great Bronco wide receiver as he was “predominantly orange” much like the PR agency for the Broncos promised the new uniforms would be even though a color-blind dog would’ve easily seen they were all blue and very little orange. I ran into Eddie McCaffrey, the football player, in the local King Soopers and actually pulled him aside and told him the store of the naming of Eddie McCattrey and how we made him stand up and lift his arms while we shouted “Touchdown, Broncos” before every game. He said he was honored, although I suspect he was a little bit scared.

We always called Starbuck a black cat, but up close and in the light, he was actually a deep dark espresso coffee color. But that is NOT why I named him Starbuck, or at least not the main reason, although my love for Grande Americanos was a factor. Sometime before we got him, I gained the nickname “Cap’n.” This is a story unto itself and I’m already waxing a bit too eloquently, so we’ll save that story for another day. In Moby Dick, Cap’n Ahab’s first mate is Starbuck, thus by new BFF became MY first mate, Starbuck.

Starbuck was, like Frank, a Man’s Cat. Huge headed and fierce looking, he really was a pussy at heart. He was a great mouser and kept our home free of any critters seeking refuge from the wild open spaces behind our house. He scared the grandkids and awed anyone else who he deemed worthy of his presence. He didn’t much like to be held, but when he chose to sit his 20 lb. bulk in your lap, you KNEW it. He sat in my lap that last day he was alive – something he rarely did, especially in the morning. I choose to believe he knew it was time to go and wanted one last ear-scratching before he used up the last of his 9 lives. I’ve also got to believe that he’s happy now in kitty heaven with his best buddy Eddie. The two of them are probably sleeping like spoons on the great comfy bed of the Cat Lady in the Sky.

Good night Starbuck. Sleep tight.

Where This Old Dog Learned His Tricks...

I mentioned in a previous post how I owe my love of the open road to my dad and the road trips he “foisted” on us kids in our formative years. Since his 82nd birthday is just a few days away, I’ve been thinking about all the other ways that he has affected my life and how much I owe to him. My dad recently told me how much he enjoys reading my bloviations. I suspect that the satisfaction he takes in my overwrought ramblings is as much driven by the vicarious pride that fathers take in observing their sons (and daughters) as it is by pure journalistic appreciation. In any case, I began thinking about how I could thank him for the lessons he’s taught me, while providing more grist for his reading mill. There were a lot lessons and they have shaped the way I act and, in many ways, have made me the man I am.

Art Cushing was an x-ray technician until shortly after I was born. Then he decided to build houses, so he bought a set of blueprints and did just that. With no training, with little help, he just up and changed his career because he wanted to. And he didn’t do it half-heartedly either. He became one of the leading developers of our home town, even getting interviewed on the radio for his contributions. We all sat around the living room listening to the disk jockey compliment Dad on his company slogan “Every Home a Work of ‘Art;” and then signing off with the classic line of all time, “Lay a brick for us, Art.” Lessons one, two and three: 1.) you can do anything that you put your mind to; 2.) if you’re gonna do something, do it right; and 3.) you can’t take yourself too seriously.

I was a pretty boisterous kid growing up. Always in trouble; always breaking things; the second kid is always the wild one, right? Growing up in a more practical era when the rod was not spared in order to spoil the child, I had my fair share of spankings with the ol’ Pratt & Lambert paint stir stick. But, either the punishment wasn’t severe enough, or I was just incorrigible, because I know my folks got pretty tired of how often they had to discipline me. One day I broke out the window in the front door right after I’d been told to simmer down. Sent to my room, I knew I was in for it and I steeled myself for the worst. But I didn’t feel the stir-stick sting that day. Dad came into the room shaking his head and said, “What are we going to do with you? Believe me son; giving you a spanking hurts me more than it hurts you.” I don’t remember exactly what I said, but I think it must have been some sass-talk. Then Dad said, “You have to see how hard this is. So, I’m not going to spank you; you’re going to spank me.” He then handed me the paint paddle and bent over the dresser. Oh boy, I thought, now’s my chance to get back! But, I couldn’t do it. I cried harder from that punishment than I ever had from the piddly paddle sting on my own bare butt. I can’t remember ever having another spanking after that (except for the principal’s belt I got in the 7th grad for fighting, but that’s a different story.) Obviously, it wasn’t that I suddenly became a perfect kid, but I did begin to see the importance of minding my parents. Lesson four: it really does hurt your parents more than it hurts you.

Summer nights in the sixties were spent outside. We ran through the spray of the mosquito truck as it rumbled down the alley behind our house. (Insert your choice of a long-term-effect-on-my-brain joke here. We used to play with a vial of mercury too, so feel free to draw your own conclusions, but kindly keep them to yourself. We’re quite happy in our little fantasy world here…) We played hide and seek in the pitch black back yards of our neighborhoods, (without cell phones to keep track of us.) In the fading light of our ½ acre back yard my dad hit grounders and fly balls to my brother Stan and me, coaching us to use “Two hands! Two hands!” and not try to be cool by catching the ball with one hand – which really meant being lazy. A good lesson in and of itself, but the lesson that really stuck with me is the one to go all out. Give it everything you’ve got. Work hard, play hard. That lesson was driven into us night after night, hit after hit. A phrase that predates Nike’s “Just Do It” by 30 years and that our family still uses to this day when we talk about really going for it: “Dive for that, Cushing!”

On Sabbaths, the only approved fun was Bible games and nature rides and hikes. Any games were a blast with our family – we love to play. But our favorite after-church activity was taking a drive “uppa-mountain” and a hike through the mountains west of town. We were very lucky growing up that Rocky Mountain National Park was just uppa-mountain from our home in Loveland. This little slice of heaven is arguably proof to even the hardest core atheist that there is an intelligent design to our world. We were taught that God is in everything and has entrusted man with this amazing Earth; that we shouldn’t take our stewardship lightly; that we should appreciate all of nature. Whenever I feel the need to spiritually rejuvenate, I just get outside. I believe that God speaks to us through the sounds of nature. He whispers through the sighing of the Ponderosas; he shouts through the roar of Ouzel Falls; he speaks through the shrill of the Whistle Pig on Trail Ridge Road, and holds his tongue so we can meditate surrounded by the silence of the aspen grove. The bite of the thin air above 11,000 feet clears your mind and brings you closer to heaven, if not into heaven itself. The wildflowers on the tundra are the decorations of heaven. I’ve learned to appreciate and protect these things and they bring me peace.

Friday nights were a time for music, but we weren’t listening to the Beatles or the Beach Boys (that was every other night of the week, but only through the transistor radio under the covers once the lights were out.) Friday music was either classical or homemade. Beethoven was the classical composer of choice. We listened to beautiful sonatas and exciting overtures played on the old Hi-Fi. The 5th symphony and Eroica were musical pieces that would literally transport me, and still do. I would close my eyes and “watch the movies they created in my head.” On more energetic evenings, we’d strike up the Cushing band – Dad on the marimba, Stan and Lisa on the clarinet, me on the trombone, Janis on the piano, Roger on the drums, and Mom singing along. Oh what a joyful noise we made! We were taught that it was a special talent to be able to make music and appreciate music, and to use the talents we were given.

That’s not all I learned from my Dad. I learned to shingle a roof, pour concrete, pound a nail, fix a washing machine, restore an old car, ride a motorcycle, drive a stick, mow a lawn, ski on water and on snow, carry a handkerchief, a knife & Chapstick at all times, and, yes, lay a brick. I learned to appreciate Alfred Hitchcock and Rod Serling on one end of the spectrum, and Carol Burnett and Red Skelton on the other. I learned how to play volleyball and mumblypegs, Rook and chicken foot. I learned how to break a sweat and keep my cool. I learned how to give to those less fortunate than me and to not complain about what I have. I learned how to laugh at myself and to be careful how I laugh at others.

I learned to not waste – that if something was broken, you don’t just throw it away and buy a new one; you fix the old one! I learned the value of a dollar and that saving is better than spending. I learned that while money can’t buy you happiness, it can buy you cool stuff; and that if you accumulate too much stuff, you can put it out at the end of the driveway and someone will haul it away for you – for free!

I learned how to love my wife and be faithful till death do us part. I learned that the greatest success I can ever have comes from being able to watch my children grow and succeed. I learned that loving your family and spending time with them is the greatest joy I can ever hope to have.

Thanks Dad – for these lessons and all the others that you’ve taught me. Happy Birthday!

Only 358 days until Christmas...

It was back in October – the 25th I think – when I knew for sure that it was coming. Oh, I knew intellectually that it was on its way, but it was far enough off that it still didn’t feel like a threat just yet. I was blissfully salivating over the Halloween treats and had not even thought about the emotional, spiritual and financial ramifications of its stealthy approach. I thought I had plenty of time to get ready and hadn’t started making any plans at all.

We were down at the “general store” picking up supplies for the week to come, when what to my wondering ears should appear but Bing Crosby, that mellow-toned harbinger of the Yule season. He was crooning over the Target Muzak, b-b-b-bing-ing his way through the ritual song of colorless winter precipitation which, puzzlingly enough, angers some warm-climate transplants who seem to believe that the singing of White Christmas somehow is responsible for every blizzard that rides the jet stream. (How else could you account for all this cold weather when the “science is in and global warming is a fact?”)

But I didn’t sit down to write about the socio-economic ramifications of a manufactured world crisis, or my personal belief that we puny humans don’t have a snowball’s chance in – well – Helsinki, of actually causing irreversible harm to Mother Gaia with our pathetic attempts at civilization. (By the way, while I believe that we ought to tread gently and do our best to preserve nature, I also believe that She’s more than capable of dealing with our worst.)

No, I sat down to lament the passing of time and how it unfairly slows down and speeds up in reverse proportion to how much enjoyment or how much distress we’re experiencing. The pain and misery of the Christmas shopping crowds seems to go on interminably, while the elation and delight of Christmas itself is over before you can even find batteries for all the toys. There is something very wrong with this equation and so I wonder if something can be done – if not to change the reality of the physics, to perhaps change the reality of our perception.

My first thought as I listened to The Bingster croon about his snowy dreaming was that it was WAY too early to think about glistening treetops and listening children. Too soon to hear sleigh-bells in the snow. But then I remembered, “I LOVE CHRISTMAS!” Who cares if it starts early? Just more time to enjoy the warm, fuzzy feelings of the season. My second thought was that stores ramp up the commercialized Christmas machine earlier every year and we barely have time to enjoy Halloween, let alone Thanksgiving before the Santa Express requires all our attention. But then I realized that I love to buy gifts and I love to get gifts, and the engine of capitalism needs this time of year so I’m okay with the commercial aspect too.

I read that time appears to pass more quickly as you get older, ostensibly because each passing year is a smaller percentage of your whole life. Makes sense to me. That’s a different case though than the phenomenon of the fleeting moment know as the Yuletide. In fact, with stores seeming to constantly work to expand the season, you’d think I’d be ready for Christmas to be over and take its long vacation, but this is not the case.

I spent a lot of time and effort hanging lights in the trees in the yard! I want to enjoy the colors another week or two before the outside world is reduced to shades of grey and brown with the occasional white covering that El Niño brings. The artificial tree in our living room is cheery and bright and several years away from losing its needles! Can’t I leave it up a little while longer?

But more than anything, I want to keep the Christmas Spirit longer. Maybe this year I’ll keep it all the way through to the next Rudolph sighting. That is, if I can fight off the bah-humbug drudgery of ordinary life. Yeah, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll take down the mistletoe and holly, but the spirit stays by gosh, by golly. So, don’t be surprised if you hear me whistling about chestnuts, open fires and Jack Frost next time you see me. It’ll just be my way of fighting the inexorable progress of time and putting aside some peace and joy for the next hard day’s night.

When our girls were young, one of our favorite Christmas movies was the Sesame Street Christmas. The song at the end made me choke up every time.

“Keep Christmas with you all through the year
When Christmas is over, spread some Christmas cheer
Each precious moment – hold it very dear
And keep Christmas with you, all through the year”

Peace and Love to you all…

Declaration of Independence

I saw a car covered with anti-American, anti-Bush, conspiracy theory rhetoric the other day. Every window and most of the body of the car was covered with sloppy, rambling and apparently maniacal handwriting. White paint spelling out in gruesome detail how many deaths have been caused by the US since 9/11 (allegedly); how many refugees have been displaced by failed US policies (ostensibly); how many countries hate us (purportedly); why it was all Bush’s fault (hypothetically). I didn’t have time to read the writing at the time as we were traveling side by side at 60 mph on I-25. I did have time, though, to grab my camera and snap a couple of pictures that I just got a chance to look at. Back at home, the barely-legible writing became a manifesto of hatred and paranoia that did not present its author in a very lucid light.

I remember thinking at the time that the driver must be a nut-job without even knowing that he was blaming my beloved country for all the ills in the world. Though I’m even surer of his status as a top-notch whack now that I’ve had the time to study the photographic evidence, another curiosity has occurred to me that is even more intriguing than his nut-job-edness. That is, the propensity of Americans to project their feelings, beliefs, stature and status through their vehicles. Not only do we identify with our cars, but we force them to identify us through the statements we make in them, on them and with them.

Forget the conspiracy whacko. Forget the peace-nik I photographed recently whose car was literally covered with peace/love/harmony/co-exist bumper stickers. (He, no doubt, wanted to save the world and thought that if he could overwhelm enough other sheep into walking the green path of righteousness by virtue of witnessing the plethora of witty, pithy bumper stickers he bought at the local Circle K, nirvana would be one step closer the whole barnyard.) Forget the born-again proselytizer with Bible verses painted on the fenders and crucifixes hung in the window who wants to save our immortal souls (or does he just delight in flaunting his soul being more saved than yours or mine?) We discount all of these fringe dwellers as being just a bit outside and rarely give their arguments for peace or government transparency or soul-searching much credence, and thus neutralize their ability to change the way the rest of us see the world.

The vehicle propaganda that probably affects us more is the more subtle statements that are made via more traditional methods. Where else but in America can you bribe the government to advertise your social standing by giving them extra money for a personalized license plate? The aptly named vanity plate is everywhere you look and is a testament to the American ego and the American creative spirit. Don’t get me wrong, I love the vanity plate! I enjoy the creativity that you often see, the messages conveyed, and the statements made through the intelligent use of just 7 letters and numbers. My plate should say “L8ASUSL.”(For further evidence of creativity, see www.coolpl8z.com)

Personally, I’m too cheap to pay for a vanity plate and too subdued to go for the painted-on manifesto. (or it could be that until the truck is paid off, any painting done by anyone other than Maaco makes for a poor investment.) But that doesn’t mean I don’t want others to know who they’re messing with when they cut me off on the T-REX. My “Native” and “Mountainman” bumper stickers clearly prove to the world that I am a higher (pun intended) life form than they are and deserve their envy and respect as one born in God’s Country. I feel somehow inadequate, though, as I don’t have any really witty bumper stickers although I know I shouldn’t feel that way. I mean, it isn’t as if the guy with the bumper sticker that says something cool (like, “Just say NO to negativity”) made it up himself. He just happened to find it as he stood in line at the 7-Eleven waiting to buy a Slim Jim. (For more fun, check out www.funny2.com/bumper.htm)

Funny or not, I am identified as a skier by my “Loveland 216” highway logo window sticker (the “216” denotes the I-70 exit to the humble resort that is the hardy local’s choice for skiing and boarding.) Not only does it prove I’m an outdoorsman, but it shows, I’m afraid to say, a bit of reverse snobbery as this is NOT the tourist’s preference for powder hounding and those of us who ski there like to make that clear! (It’s higher and colder and windy-er and cheaper and offers no frills for the out-of-state crowd, and that’s the way we like it!) In addition, I can be recognized as a Broncos season-ticket holder by the sticker that is only given to one of the 50,000-ish fans who fork over a month’s pay for a year’s worth of Bronco-mania.

The fact that my not-so-funny bumper stickers are plastered on a Ford truck is another statement – irrefutable evidence of my toughness and hard work ethic. Or so I imagine. Don’t most of us judge others by the vehicle they drive? The VW Beetle with the dashboard flower, the Subaru Forester, the Mazda Miata, the Monster truck with the requisite ladder to reach the running board, the “fast & furious” Japanese coupe, the Ford F-1 pick-up, the Beemer, the Escalade – all of these personal conveyances give the outside observer a distinct insight to the personality of the driver. That insight may be stereotyped and it may sometimes be wrong, but more often than not, it’s either correct or, at least, the image the driver wishes to convey.

Now that I think about it, I guess I don’t have any room to be criticizing someone who paints John 3:16 on his hood. We’re all just trying to be noticed and to tell the world how we’re special in some small way. Ironically, we’re all alike in wanting to show the world that we are somehow unique and different. That we often choose our vehicles as the way to advertise our individuality is as American as baseball, hot dogs, apple pie and Ford Trucks. (So, you think that should be Chevy? Just my way of being different…)

Top 10 Things I'm Thankful For...

10. The Internet & Electronic Social Media – What did we do before we had the internet when we needed a trivial answer to an obscure question? Sure, for important stuff, you had your World Book or the Britannica. But you could dig for a week and not find the name of, say, the owner of the Cavern Club where the Beatles got their start. (Just now it took me exactly 33 seconds to find out it was Alan Sytner via www.ask.com) As if Wikipedia wasn’t special enough, along came Facebook, Linked-In and Twitter. Although I still don’t tweet (I predict that Twitter will go the way of My Space,) FB and L-I are sites I am on multiple times every day. It all started a year ago when I got laid off and realized that I had been woefully inadequate about building a network. I joined FB and L-I to help myself find a job. What I found instead was that the people I had either brushed aside or forgotten in the past, I now have more in common with than some of the people I thought were my friends but now find they have disappeared. Now, connecting with friends is the main purpose of my social networking, and the job hunt is secondary.
9. My Teachers – My Dad, who taught me the value of the dollar and that if a thing was worth doing, it was worth doing right; My Mom, who taught me to love and laugh and be a peace-maker; Archie Devitt, who taught me that music was not only fun to listen to, but fun to produce; Cleon White, master geek, who taught me to love math – including trig and slide rule; Barb Cain, my first female boss who not only taught me to manage people, but to do it while smiling even though I thought I was too cool for that; Steve Ortiz, who taught me that I could give up drinking and still survive; Doug Snyder, who taught me how to separate my emotions and write objectively, and challenged me to learn more every day. Being a college drop-out hasn’t hurt me as much as you might think and I believe that is because I had teachers in my life that taught me to be curious and questioning, so even without school, I kept learning.
8. My stove and refrigerator – can you imagine catching a chicken, wringing its neck, plucking and gutting it, and starting a fire with two sticks so that you could eat that chicken after turning it on a spit over that pile of embers for so many hours that you missed lunch and now it's time for dinner? It’s hard to envision the hassle of people who lived a hundred years ago when I’m able to go to the freezer, grab a chicken breast, throw it in a pan and toss it in the oven to cook while I google a recipe for peach cobbler.
7. Life – what an amazing coincidence! I look out my window and see deer and coyotes and porcupines and elk and red-tailed hawks and blue jays and rabbits and lizards and spiders and ants and snakes and big black beetles that walk with their tail ends lifted high in the air. This all evolved from the primordial slime?! What a coincidence!!! And then a monkey evolved into me!? Wow, am I lucky! I’m also thankful that I am at the top of the food chain and recognize that I must occupy that position with nobility and concern. I must be a steward to the lower creatures. I must not take a life lightly. I’ll eat a cow or a chicken or even that elk, but I’ll do it with gratitude and reverence.
6. Living in America – where else can you vote your conscience without fear, berate the government officials without reprisal, buy anything and everything you need at a Wal-Mart or on Amazon without standing in line? And where else can you go out and drive on 4-lane highways and bridges across the flat prairies and majestic mountains of this great country, and do it all while you drink Mountain Dew, eat a Slim Jim and listen to Stevie Ray Vaughn? No country comes even close to America!
5. The view out my window – it is a privilege to live in Colorado. Clear blue skies, white snow, bright sun, majestic Ponderosa Pines. God is good. Colorado is where he lives. I'm grateful that he shares it with me.
4. My racquet-ball buddies – men need other men to bond with. We need guys to laugh with; to talk politics with; to talk smack to; to compete against. My racquet-ball buddies are all that and more. They are my best friends.
3. My sense of humor – I love it that I can laugh at anything, including myself. I love my silly streak. I like to cut up, especially with my siblings and parents, who taught me and nurtured my odd sense of humor. You should see us around the holiday table – napkin rings around ears, spoons hanging from noses – no utensil is safe from this bunch of comedians.
2. My health – My parent’s passed on their strong genes and taught me a healthy lifestyle that has kept me mainly healthy my whole life (along with a little luck and the fact that I used to eat dirt as a kid and thus built up some keen resistance to germs.) As I grow older, my body doesn’t always want to cooperate the way I think it should, but for the most part, it’s in pretty good shape.
And the number one thing I am thankful for is
1. My Family – I know that I am the luckiest boy in puppet-land because of the family I have. I’ve seen families that can’t agree and snipe at each other about all things, big and small. Though we certainly have our differences, we are as tight a family as you can imagine. My parents, my brothers and sisters, my kids, my aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces, nephews and all the peripherals and step-relatives and extended families – they are the best and I love them all! And most of all, I love my wife, Marcia. After 35+ years, the spark is still there and the love is still strong. She is my rock and my foundation. She’s given me a very good life and I’ll be eternally grateful.