Dirty Fingernails

Dirty, grimy fingernails. That’s how I  knew I was into you. That’s how I knew you were someone for me. Sure, we had moments prior. Mostly me admiring you from afar. Mostly me mesmerized by those impossibly white teeth, behind an impossibly addictive smile, beaming invitations to my imagination, impossible to ignore. Mostly me hypnotized by that delicious laugh surrounding me in an aroma I'd yet to swoon under. Mostly me enthralled with that little lilting step that glided you down hallways with friends always in tow. You were rich with friends, and I wanted in. But it was those dirty, grimy fingernails, stained green by fresh, cut grass on a cloudy, stupid-hot day, that did me in. Who knew chopping thin green shards off at the head with a maniacal, twirling blade could draw one in so helplessly pure.

I fell for those fingers while kneeling down together, side by side, heads hovering in shared space over your mower gone dead, uncooperative in any way other than to puff clouds of white smoke from a carburetor spoiled of gas. Those short, funny fingers, dirty but pristine, tanned to perfection with summer’s love. I wanted those fingers locked in my own, sunken tight against my ugly knuckles, resting in my palm, transferring warmth, melting new shapes. I wanted one fist forged. One force. One reason. I wanted those fingers passing circles in my hair. Winding paths down the length of my jaw. I wanted the mystery those fingers possessed. 

Why you invited me to mow, I may never know. No girl had done so before. None has since. Maybe you were desperate, and I was available. Maybe you were as curious of me as I you. Maybe you sensed I was prime for devotion. Ripe for conviction. Whatever the reason, I didn’t care. Who was I to refuse an afternoon of mauling grass with you? Who was I to deny hours together, carving symmetrically perfect lines in God's lawn, drenched in toil's sweat? Who was I to pass on long drags of water from the same blue-and-white jug, fighting for breaths of the same air too dense to swallow?

We cut perfect rows. We made perfect turns. We dodged trees, bushes, and bees. We paced ourselves but left nothing undone. In the end, I wanted to cut more. I wanted to refill the gas tanks. Empty more bags. Sneak glances at your brown legs, flowing upward from white tennis shoes faded all shades of green. I wanted to forever load mowers on that rickety wood trailer, hitched by chain and hope to the silver Camaro you called a friend. I wanted forever to flip those Police cassettes while sharing the highway, singing about dinosaurs and their footsteps, kings of pain, and synchronicity. I wanted to never detach my sweaty thighs stuck on that vinyl seat. Never think once of wearing a seat belt or laughing too long or too loud. Volume up. Inhibitions down. Mowers rattling in rhythm. Dirty, grimy fingers wrapped around the only steering wheel I've ever envied.

I wonder where those fingers are now. What roads they've steered down. Do they still try to fix sour mowers? Do they still press Play for The Police? Do they still lift jugs to swallow drinks? Is someone else folding those fingers into his, locking them tight, squeezing them full, knowing them like I used to? Do you still cut grass?

Five Thoughts On Chuck Berry From A Fan

My first interaction with Chuck Berry was "My Ding-A-Ling." We weren't off to a good start.

Chuck Berry, though, was shrewd and smart. Much smarter than that dumb song that I heard on my blue transistor radio as a kid. His songs were masterpieces in setting the scene. Presenting intriguing characters. Setting landscapes. Chuck was an artist. And where business was concerned, Chuck took matters into his own hands. Was his own boss. His own accountant. His own deal-maker. He determined his own destiny. He decided that he knew the type of music that people of all colors wanted to hear. And buy. That last part is key. Where popular music was concerned in the 1950s, Chuck saw the future. Riskier. More provocative. More daring. More suggestive.  He also knew there was a lot of dollars waiting there.

Chuck was lean and mean. And dangerous. As a kid, he got my attention upon first sight. The hair. The shirts. The jackets. The belt. The rings. The shoes. The moves. The showman's smile. The glorious arrogance. The occasionally crazy eyes. But most of all, the guitar. That big, fat, fire-breathing Gibson guitar. Slung low. Ready to aim. Ready to fire. One blistering lick. Then another. Then a memory-carving riff. Chunking. Pulling. Tugging. Back. Forward. Back again. Then stop on a dime. Bam! That fucking guitar cracking waves as Chuck soloed hard and fast, lean on notes but heavy on attitude. Chuck was no spring chicken by the time I was introduced to him, but power is power, and an alpha male will be noticed. I noticed. Guys like that don't age. They season.

Chuck was no saint. He did time. He made enemies. He wasn't as generous with the success and attention he got as he should have been. Johnnie Johnson's fingers on the piano keys in Chuck's best songs was the sugar in Chuck's coffee. One doesn't taste quite right without the other. Chuck's live playing could be painfully off key and uninspired. He also liked the ladies, despite being married. He had a mountain-sized ego, didn't apologize for it, and basically could be an unpredictable prick. There are some valid reasons for the paranoia and hair-trigger temper he demonstrated. Growing up black in St. Louis in the 1940s, dealing with cheating promoters and fighting for royalties, run-ins with the law, and more would turn anyone a bit sour. Still, he was a tough pill to swallow. Despite the flaws, though, all of us have certain people we give a free pass. Chuck Berry was such a person for me.  The good outweighed the bad. And the good was really good.

Chuck Berry didn't just forever alter pop music by making rock and roll dynamic, fun, universal, interesting, entertaining, and infectious. He forever altered pop culture. Little Richard had sass and class. Buddy Holly had the smarts. Elvis had the presence and voice. Chuck Berry, though, he had real "swagger." Not pretend. The kind that doesn't apologize. The kind that laughs at timidness. The kind that's based on being a bad ass. A real gun-toting, matter-of-fact, back-the-fuck-up bad ass. Not fabricated or manufactured. Based on talent, desire, and drive. Chuck Berry also made the guitar a very cool piece of equipment. Whether they know it or not, Chuck Berry helped spawn a legion of guitarists that will continue to do his bidding long after he's gone, and that's making electricity dance and sing. Chuck Berry was a poet. A musician. A rebel. An intellect. A demon. A crooner. A storyteller. A charlatan. A force of nature. As much as I love Elvis and Jerry Lee and Bill Haley and Rufus Thomas and Buddy Holly and every other person who contributed to rock and roll's roots, Chuck Berry to me is the true creator.

Five No-BS, Non-Feel Good Tips For Being A Father

Some guys are fathers by default. Some guys earn the title through blood, sweat, tears, sleepless nights, hurt feelings, and surviving the teenage years. If you're fortunate, you'll come out the other side with gray hair and dark circles around the eyes but with a smidgen of sanity still intact. If you have what it takes, it's a small price to pay. Upon Father's Day, here are five bits of wisdom for new and expecting fathers I wish someone had shared with me. (Disclaimer: Take this advice for what it's worth and know it comes from a guy who has screwed up more times than he'd care to admit but will anyway. If you're not screwing up, you're not trying.)

1.   Be prepared to sacrifice. Your days as No. 1 are over the minute your kid is born, friend. Same goes if marrying someone with kids and becoming a step-dad overnight. I don’t care if your 18 or 50 when this day arrives. I don’t care how immature or mature you’ve been up to now. I don’t care what your educational or financial situation is. When that kid enters the world, your priorities immediately change, and that’s the way it should be. You come second from that point on. If you’re not doing everything possible to embrace this, you’re an ass. If you’re not changing diapers, you’re an ass. If you’re not feeding your kid, you’re an ass. If you’re not giving your kid a bath at night, you’re an ass. If you’re not reading your kid books at night, you’re an ass. Just because your momma did all the “woman’s” work back in the day doesn’t mean shit now. Different age, different time, fella. If you’re the guy who spends money on his “toys” before spending it on toys for his kids, knock it off. Right now. Your needs and wants don’t matter until your kid’s needs and wants are met. Period. End of story. That goes for your money, time, and happiness. You’re serving a new customer now, and it’s your kid. If you need “alone” time, get up early or stay up late to get it. Had a long night? Too bad. Feeling worn out? Suck it up. Had a bad day at the office? Don’t bring it home. The world is being unfair? That sucks, but it’s not your kid’s fault. You have a duty above all others now, and that’s bringing joy, knowledge, and experiences to your kid’s world. If that overwhelms you, so what. Plenty of men have done the job under a lot worse circumstances than yours. Step up and do it.
 

2.   Be kind to your kid’s mom. Hug and kiss your wife. Praise her. Stick up for her. Build her up. Encourage her. Apologize to her. Serve her. Wipe her tears away. Do all this in front of your kids. Make a point of it. Demonstrate what love is daily in front of them. If this embarrasses you, get over it. Visually and verbally show them how love plays out in the real world and not on TV or in movies or in songs that manipulate it. Give your kids a concrete, definite, unmitigated example of what care and trust and companionship and mutual respect is. Show them what faith in a partner entails. Show your kid the value their mother possesses. Don’t demean her. Don’t slight her. Don’t patronize her. Don’t cut her down. Don’t ignore her. Don’t take advantage of her. Don’t abuse her. Act decently and with pride and honor and there’s a good chance your son will as well. Further, do and mean this in front of your daughter and chances are better she’ll demand as much from her spouse.

3.   Play with your kid. Put your damn phone, remote control, joystick, computer mouse, or whatever else it is you like to stick in your hand away and pay attention to your kid. Devote time to your kid with no distractions. Play with your kid. If you’re spending all day Saturday, every Saturday, playing 18 holes, stop. Take your kid fishing instead. If you’re stopping at the bar after work every day to have a few pops with the boys, skip it. Play catch with your kids instead. If you’re missing your kid’s games, school plays, and anything else they want you there for because you’re not interested, get interested. Playing with your kid isn’t a chore. It isn’t a burden. It isn’t something you should have to find time to do. It’s a privilege, and the opportunity is all too fleeting. And don’t fake it, either. Don’t go through the motions. Don’t say, “OK, but just for a few minutes.” Don’t whine the entire time about how tired you are. When you get to the park, don’t plop your ass on a bench and say, “OK, now go have fun.” Engage. Be in the damn moment. Get in a swing. Go down the slide. Get your hands dirty in the sand and build some roads your kid can drive his Hot Wheels on. Play dolls and school and zoo and hospital with daughter. Let your imagination go and don’t curb hers. Let her take charge. Let her decide where the story goes. Stop bringing reality into the picture. Don’t be a killjoy. Just shut the hell up and learn a thing or two watching your kid’s mind at work.

4.   Be a teacher; don’t be a dick. There are a million teachable moments during any given day to share with your kid. Don’t let them slip by. Take advantage. But don’t be pushy and demanding; be informative. A simple, “Hey, did you know that. . . .” followed up with whatever information you can lend will suffice. A touch of “Hey, let me show you how and then you can try” will go miles and miles toward making your kid a better person who can take care of himself one day. Show him how to hammer a nail. How to crack an egg. How to says "please" and "thank you. More than anything, teach him how to have a good time. Teach her how to dance. Teach her how to set up a tent and camp with her in the backyard. Teach her how to make a snow fort that will still be there the next morning. Teach him how to ride a bike and then go for rides over and over. Teach him how to use a video camera and make a movie that he wants to make. And when you’re teaching, don’t be a dick. When your kid breaks something, which she will, show her how to clean it up; tell her “it happens”; and move the hell along. Don’t scream. Don’t yell. Don’t dwell on it endlessly. Your kid is your responsibility, not something that was put here to make your life more difficult. Take this seriously, teach her well, and then turn her loose trusting she’ll use what you’ve presented.

5.   Learn to say “I’m sorry.” You’re not always right. Far from it. You might act as if you are. You might even want to believe it. But you’re not, and deep down, you know it. Stop being an ass and perpetuating the myth. If there’s any intellect floating around in your head, you know this already. If not, there’s little hope for you ever being a truly complete father until you grasp this fact. And not just grasp it but practice it. When you tell your kid, “You know, you’re right, I’m wrong,” you’ll be twice the man you were before. When you tell your kid, “I apologize, I was out of line,” you’ll expose yourself for what you truly are, a flawed but real man who has the balls to man up and take responsibility. Saying sorry, especially to your kid, is a beautiful thing. Truly. With no bit of exaggeration, it’s about the most powerful gift you can give your kid. And when you do it, don’t attach a bunch of bullshit to it. Don’t blabber “I’m sorry but. . . .” or “I wouldn’t have done that if. . . .” or “I’m sorry for everything except . . . .” That crap is hallow, meaningless, and paper-thin. Just man up and do the deed the right way. Just use this simple template and you’ll be fine: “I’m sorry for ­­­_____. I hope you can forgive me.” Done and done.  

Above everything, if you really care about your kids’ well-being, you’ll let go of the grudges, disappointments, resentments, and anger you’re going to feel along the way when your kid messes up and you'll do what a good dad does: accept his kid always.  

Five Drawings Inspired By Bathroom Flooring

Yeah, you read that right: bathroom flooring-inspired drawings. So what of it? An artist (I'll dub myself one because no one else is going to) finds inspiration in all sorts of places. Just so happens my muse show up in vinyl bathroom flooring now and again. Some people see but a flat, meaningless surface; I see faces and patterns and possibilities and my sanity slipping away. Better crazy than dull, I say.

Now, back to my day job.   

 

Five Observations All Made Before 8 a.m.

1. You can tell a lot about a person by watching him eat. And that's all I want to say about that.

2. The world is a great big, beautiful place with lots of room to roam. There's no reason your front bumper needs to be touching my back bumper.

3. Waking up next to someone you love always trumps waking up next to an empty space and a pillow.

4. 30 seconds of a silence watching a sunrise is better for the soul than a cup of coffee in the dark, but it's a close call.

5. There are some really interesting, introspective, genuine, giving people you'll cross paths with throughout any given day. Too bad it's the blowhards that seem to effect you most. 

An Ode To Working Parents & Their Retirement

During all the years I lived in my parents’ home, we ate supper together every night without fail. That was the way. At the table. Seated as four. As a unit. As a family. Together. Same chairs. Same arrangement. Same faces. Same routine. They saw to this. They saw that their son and daughter had a meal prepared, cooked, and presented each night, steady and true. They instilled this structure and certainty. They created this predictable pattern. They cooked up a big helping of belief in reliability every night. I was never left feeling empty or in need of more. When I pushed my chair away from the dining room table and set about washing the dirty dishes one by one by hand, I did so with a belly that was full. That was due to their hard work.

During all the years I lived in my parents’ home, they woke each morning, and off they went to face a full day of responsibilities at jobs I’m certain they wouldn’t have chosen if living in a perfect world. Day in, day out. Year in, year out. Decade after decade. Labor and toil for eight hours at the least but usually longer. When they returned home, they did what good parents do: tend to their children with a purpose. See to their needs. Ease their pain. Relive their days. Prepare them. Toughen them. Fuel them. Inspire them. Correct them. Humble them if necessary. Build them up if  broken down. They did all without a reward waiting on the other side. All without expectations of repayment. All without complaints or dissatisfaction hanging in the air.

During all the years I lived in my parents’ home, I watched them grow up practically at the same time I was. At just 17 and 18, they were mere children in charge of children, responsible for shaping and defining lives. They forged paths they’d never been down. They directed traffic they never saw coming. They were quick to deal out punishment, but quicker to forgive and forget the transgressions that brought it on. They disciplined with resolve but also with a purpose. They demanded but did it responsibly. They thickened my skin. They opened my eyes. They insisted I do for myself. They hung the importance of owning a worth ethic high above the mantel. With few resources, little guidance, and all the fright and uncertainty that youth is apt to pour down the throat and make your swallow, they did what good parents do: provide.

During all the years I lived in my parents’ home, they continually taught skills that would keep me standing later. To finish a job started. To compete. To battle. To seek answers. To respect a dollar earned. They taught me to cook. They insisted that I clean. They taught me to sew. They insisted I wash my own clothes. They taught me how to seek employment. They insisted I get a job. They taught me to value my possessions. They insisted I clean up my own messes. They taught me about self-worth. They insisted I show respect. They taught me appreciation. They insisted I pitch in without being asked. They did what good parents do: teach their children to be self-sufficient.  

Upon my parents’ retirement, upon their well-deserved rest, upon their days ahead filled with freedom and choices, they should know their efforts in the past didn’t go unnoticed. Their work wasn't unappreciated. They should know the hours and days and years of sacrifice weren't made without tremendous gratitude. They should know I learned well in my surroundings, and I would not change a thing.

Upon Your 16th Birthday

Do you remember our camping trip that one early summer, spread across four gloriously peaceful days? You were fresh off another year of grade school. I was desperate for silence. I never knew time could stand so perfectly still. You walked on child’s legs, bounding and bouncing through a wild, sprawling world fenced in by massive, aged oak trees nestled tightly around the muddiest of lakes. You searched out perfect sticks to poke holes deep into the earth. You uncovered the flattest rocks to skip on repeat. You transformed into a forest angel before my eyes—the most serene creature I would ever encounter.   

Do you remember the flimsy hotdogs we snaked onto wired forks. The canned chili we sizzled over an open flame in our trusty blackened pot. A $5 meal with a $100 taste. In between meals, you spit sunflower seeds so religiously, I expected holes to burn through your sweaty cheeks. Watching you churn out spent shells sitting in our America red, white, and blue lawn chair, I knew there could be no better companion as my child, snuggly resting in furniture built for an adult's body. There was no adult I would have had occupy that chair.    

Do you remember the impossibly long nights we slowly gave into? The blues fading into oranges fading into purples fading into pinks? Do you remember soaking up the lilting beams easing down from the stars, multiplying before our eyes? Our conversations danced in circles, stirred up possibilities, created ultimate scenarios, defined our time infinitely. Coyotes serenaded the lulls of silence, their lungs happily drunk on moon drops, picking up steam with night's arrival. I’d give all I have to see your growing face again under those night shadows.

Do your remember trudging the canoe through reeds tangled and twisted in the water? Our paddles sticking thick in the green sludge? Bullfrogs berating us, taunting us, mocking the strangers who dared glide through their space? You took the lead, paddling eagerly to move us ahead, arms burning force, breaths soaked in sweat, sighs seeped in satisfaction. I admired your persistent strength, too young to be undone by water plants and lazy frogs. Too determined to merely float aimlessly. You had places to be.

Do you remember the heaviness of regret while packing our tent? The hope that we bottled to unpack it soon? Do you remember the long road that took us out of those woods? Away from the lake waving goodbye in the rearview mirror? The miles we crossed returning home with remorse buried in our lungs? Often, I wish we’d never traveled home. Never rejoined the race. Never returned to familiarity. Often, when I’m unsettled, lacking faith, diminished complete, I imagine unrolling our sleeping bags, crawling inside, telling nighttime stories without pause so could never grow old. Often, when I watch you walk away, I imagine you’re off to find the perfect stick. I imagine you’re off to catch fireflies. I imagine you’re off to hide so I will seek. Often, when I see you sitting in a chair you now fill as an adult, I still see my beautiful forest angel.   

It's The Sweet Faces That Haunt Me

“Friends will arrive, friends will disappear.” – Bob Dylan

I’m thinking of you today. I have been since your demise. You were my child's friend. You were a welcomed presence in our home. You were a laugh I heard from down the hall. An extra dinner plate at the table. Another bike in the driveway. You were a period of time. And now you're gone. Buried. Beyond. You should be witnessing possibilities. Instead, you saw none. I fear you’ll be forgotten. The dead often times are. 

“Quiet down, damn it!” That was the wisdom I imparted. That was the introduction I made. That was my contribution to the moment. That was the presence I made. Words ignored. Words dead. Wasted, weak words. Teenagers snicker at demands. But not you. You were a sweet-faced boy. You were of a different kind.

At the top of the steps is where I tried to play parent, barking directions into a basement gone dark. A space where teenagers gravitate, congregate, migrate. A space where the confused share secrets, plot schemes, devise theories, escape parents, rearrange pressure, flee expectations, mock pretentiousness, dare time. There, high above all, on the ledge of impatience, I gave instructions with authority I abhor. That’s where I stood upright, tight-lipped, actively aging, irrelevant, a nuisance. That’s where I saw your sweet face. That’s where I saw those sad eyes. I knew you were doomed. You were bound for pain. You were too respectful. Too kind. Too decent. Your face spoke your future.

It’s the sweet faces that haunt me, break me down, tunnel deep, trigger sentimentality into motion. It’s the sweet faces that give me worry, make me anxious, leave me desperate, sap my fight. It’s the sweet faces that drown me. It’s the sweet faces that don’t fight back, won't fight back, can’t fight back, won't survive. It’s the soft eyes that do them in. That give them away. They see but aren’t seen. That know but aren’t understood. I’d seen those eyes before.

I wish you’d escaped that basement before it was too late. I wish you'd realized then that youthful bliss can last. That it only softens you more. It only leaves you farther behind. The world is cold. People are unforgiving. Thoughts are wicked. I wish your eyes had turned cold. I wish you’d learned to fight. I wish you’d lifted your words. I wish you’d stepped forward, not to the side. I wish you’d known independence. Felt the power of survival. I wish your sweet face had grown to become weathered, stained, hardened. But such a face would have betrayed your nature. One that moved me. Deepened my love for my own children. That haunts me years on.  

The Internet, The Bluejays & Coming Home

 “2:20 left. Ashland-Greenwood up 28-23. Second and eight. Wilber gets nothing! Oh my! Oh, my!” Timmy was always like this. Excitable. Amped. Always on. Always replaying the moment, sizing up the one to come, and gathering up witnesses with his voice. Timmy was always about the big moment. Searching for it. Listening to it. Embracing it. Ingesting it. Describing it. And people wanted more. Not because Timmy’s voice is the picture of beauty. Not because it's smooth or golden or a velvety revisor. But because he knows how to use it. He knows humor. He knows insight. He flavors with clichés but peppers with originality. Sitting in my dark living room, occupied by only my increasing interest and tension, I stare into the harsh white light that is my phone’s screen, giving myself over to the Internet radio station I’ve digitally dialed into. I breathe in Timmy’s voice calling this game that boys growing up in the same town Timmy and I did so long ago are playing. Timmy was made for this moment. He could have been a star. Hell, he is to his town. More than most of us become.

“1:18 left. Fourth down and three!” Wilber-Clatonia’s last chance. Our Bluejays are holding their ground for dear life. Digging in. Clamping down. Winner reaches the state quarterfinals. Loser goes home to “could have beens” and “oh so closes.” This is unfamiliar territory for Ashland. So much at stake. Timmy is talking expectations. Talking stress “on the ole’ ticker.” He talking to us, but he’s living the moment with his broadcast partner, Barry, another friend from long ago. Another voice long unheard through my ears. Together, they move easily with their words. Sincerely. Their admiration for one another is genuine and easily detected. They share the past. Memories. Wins. Losses. Tragedies. As the seconds slip away, I’m struggling to decide which I’m enjoying more, the game or the words from these souls I once knew so well. These souls who share a love for their hometown and what sports provides its people.

If Timmy is chocolate, Barry is vanilla. Reserved. Less words. Straight-ahead. Economical. But so pure. Quick to laugh. Quick to shake a hand. Authentic. Humble. Faithful. Father. Stalwart. Respectful. Respected. He’s arguably the best football player this town has seen. Certainly Top 10. But he’d tell you that's crazy, unnecessary, not required. He played in college. He came back home. He coached his school. Lifted it from doldrums to success. I’m listening to this team's success due largely to Barry's good work. And although you wouldn’t know it by listening, he has a fighting interest in this game. His sons are playing. Like Timmy, Barry’s a star in his town. If Timmy is “The Personality,” Barry is the “All-American Boy,” and more towns could use people like him. 

“Wilber lines up in the wishbone,” Timmy earnestly tells us. For an instant, I can’t help but remember the fascination my friends (including Timmy) and I had with the wishbone as kids. In our pickup games in the park. On the Bowman’s side lawn. On the playground’s gravel rocks. I can’t help but recall how that wishbone broke our hearts year after year. That damn wishbone that Barry Switzer swung like a sword, stabbing Nebraskans another death blow. Ruthless. Quick. Lethal. I can’t help but remember running that wishbone in our pickup games, Timmy at quarterback, me in the backfield. Would Wilber deliver the same heartache?

“Incomplete! Incomplete!!” Timmy screams. Wilber’s last ditch pass falls dead in the end zone. The clock is running empty. Realization is settling in. Stress ebbing. Joy abounds. “Blitz! They blitzed!!” Timmy tells us of the Bluejays' counterstrike. “Craven off the edge caused a lot of pressure!” Barry elaborates in a voice threatening to lose its calm for the first time tonight. “Heart medicine.” “Slugfest.” “White-knuckler.” “An amazing thing to watch.” These tidbits from Timmy—so like him to bring the moment the justice it deserves. Barry says the Wilber folks were “as gracious as could be” and the players gave us “a clean game”—just like him to point to the positive. They’re happy together in the afterward, Timmy and Barry. I’m happy listening to them. I’m happy for knowing them back when. I’m happy for their company tonight. I’m happy for the town I come from. I’m happy for those who surrounded me there. I’m happy that I’m still moved when someone from the land I walked makes good. “You get a feeling this team isn’t done,” Timmy says. I get the feeling he’s right.

Your Funeral

I wish I’d known you better. I wish I had spent more minutes in your presence. I wish we had swapped more details about our journeys. I wish you had expressed more sentiments about our different generations. I wish you were here, but I know that you are. I know because I feel comfortable here at your funeral. I feel accepted, despite knowing you just well enough to cross the line that separates “yes, I will pay my respects in person” and simply stating “oh, that’s too bad, he was a good man” and carrying on.

I did step. I did cross. I am here, propped up formal on this hard slab of wood, polished skillfully yet splintered, faded, decayed, permanently misshapen by countless others who collectively pressed their weight down prior. Fidgeting. Visiting. Singing. Clinging. Wondering. Pondering. Searching. Fearing. Regressing. Repressing. Contemplating only God knows what. Regrets? Sins? Expectations? Trust? Dedication? Decay? Purpose? Time?

Yes, time. Always time. Sitting here among your wife now alone, your children now without father, your friends now one less, all so vocal in loss, so demonstrative in expressing joy for a life well lived, I’m contemplating time. What is it? What has it brought? What will it bring? What will it allow?

I’m not afraid. I’m not confused. I’m not lonely or without hope. I’m not drifting. I’m not defeated. I’m not drained. No, you’re lifting me. You’re signaling me. You’re showing the way. You’re teaching. You’re gifting answers. You’re amazing in death. You’re all-knowing. Completely logical. Your freedom is liberating. The tales, the jokes, the tears in your honor are beacons. Steps. Pathways. Roads. You’re a pioneer.

I'm motivated. You've fueled my internal fire. Set me straight. Pointed the way. Provided dimension. Shape, form, and function. You've held up the mirror. Forced examination. Forced conclusions. Forced intentions. You should know I’m thankful in your death. You should know you’re teaching still. You should know I’m still benefiting from your wisdom. You should know I’m still learning about you. You should know we're still spending time. You should know I had no choice but to cross that line. 

Weed

“What the hell is that, man? It smells like a skunk in here?” “Dude, it's weed.” And so it was. Me and bud occupying the same room for the very first time. “Ah, so that’s what it smells like.” Once smartened up, instincts kicked in. Suddenly, I was cool. I was hip. In the know. Experienced. Weathered. Hardened. Only I wasn't. I was nothing. Nowhere. Never had been. Standing there against the wall in that dingy upstairs apartment, shades pulled down, cheap-ass speakers spewing shitty southern rock, dirty carpet tolerating beer-soaked teens looking half-dead but never so alive, I was never more a child, looking to escape, looking to disappear.

It's a funny thing trying to act unaffected. Trying not to gawk at the baggie stretched out before you. Trying to hide a stupid-ass, gaping grin etched across my face. Trying to hide the obvious fact I was a naive cherry nowhere ready to be plucked? But oh how I wanted to learn. How I wanted to pull out a notebook and take notes. How I wanted to whip out a camera and document the moment to study later on. How I wanted to pretend the faces of the older kids that I had managed to avoid pissing off for years in the hallways and in the alley across from school sharing their cigarettes in tight, little circles weren't now mugging me mean. These faces now forming an army, hard, ugly, and unforgiving. Poking holes in my bones with beady, dilated pupils. Sizing me up to chop me down. Testing me knowingly. “You aren’t cool, man,” their eyes declared. “What the hell are you doing here?” those eyes asked. “You better not have a big mouth,” those eyes threatened. 

Me? A big mouth? I wasn't even supposed to be here. Not anywhere close to here. If they thought I was about to put myself at the scene of the toking, they didn’t know my dad or the power he possessed at all. They didn’t understand the capabilities he held. They didn't know the unnecessary pain I'd be subjecting myself to by turning rat fink. They didn't know I was too scared to squeal. Scared of them. Scared of my old man. Scared that I was never going to be the same by seeing what I was seeing. 

But oh, I too intrigued to turn away. Mystified. Enraptured. Spellbound. By the smell. The process. The aftermath. The paper. The delicate sprinkles. The art of the roll. The tongue licks. The breathe held. The pass to the right. The great exhale. The pleasure produced. The circle of the stoned. No one invited me to enter, and I wasn’t about to ask in. I’m not even supposed to be here. Nowhere close to here. But I was there. Watching. Observing. Absorbing. Enthralled. Captivated. Grown up. A big boy now. Only I wasn’t. Not even close. I was a pup, shaken, frightened, a runt. I wasn’t ready for this. I wasn’t prepared. I swallowed too much too soon. Too much defiance. Too much freedom. Too much regard lacking. Too many words. Too many bodies. Too many possibilities. Too much uncertainty. Too much that couldn't be unseen.

It’s a funny thing, seeing too much too soon. You can’t give it back. You can’t slow it down. You can’t predict the response. What is seen is seen. Doesn’t matter if you're supposed to be there or not. Doesn’t matter what your old man might do if he finds out. Once you’re smartened up, there’s no dumbing yourself down. You're exposed. Enlightened. Changed. You're a child no more.