Mr. Spaceman is a song written by Jim McGuinn of the Byrds and included on their 1966 album Fifth Dimension. The song is about extraterrestrial visitors coming to earth.
Space was big in America in the 1950s and 60s.
Last night, Kim and I sat with my mom and watched the Artemis II splashdown off the coast of San Diego after their trip around the dark side of the moon.
When we arrived, however, my mom was having a moment, missing my dad. Grief rears up on its own schedule. Not surprised, though, today, April 11, would have been my dad’s 97th birthday, and she was missing him.
My dad was a huge fan of the space program.
It was President John F. Kennedy who proposed the goal of sending an American to the moon before the end of the decade.
It was the “space race.”
And the Soviet Union was winning.
I remember being in my early years of elementary school, and with great American pride, we followed the space race in our “Weekly Readers,” a current event newsletter we reviewed “weekly.” As young kids, we knew all the astronauts’ names and their accomplishments.
And before the end of the decade of the 60s, on July 20, 1969, Neil Armstrong stepped on the Moon surface declaring “That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.”
Kennedy, as we know, wouldn’t live to see his goal achieved.
It was a big deal for the rest of us.
So I think it’s great to see the space program being resurrected with a new goal of establishing an American presence on the Moon.
In the 1950s and 60s people were proud to be American, even democrats.
The times have changed, however.
There are days I could hope for aliens to take me along for a ride.
Things are getting pretty weird down here on earth.
Who knows, maybe the extraterrestrials are already among us.
That might explain some things.
Anyway, it’s nice to see a renewed effort to get back to the moon.
Maybe it’s something we can all get behind.
The New Frontier.
Something we could be proud of.
I know my dad would be.
Postscript:
The photo above is of my father at Cape Canaveral or Cape Kennedy as it was known then. Its from a slide so the reproduction is poor.
Valentine’s Day is often a challenging event for someone at my stage of life. I have referred to it in the past as “Enigma Day” due to the puzzling nature and the difficulty in understanding how to react to its expectations when you have been together for 25 or 30 years.
This year, Kim and I were able to get away for a few days, prompted by a meeting Kim had to attend in Richmond on the Thursday before Valentine’s Day. We looked at it as a good excuse to extend our time in the Richmond and Charlottesville area over a long weekend.
On the drive down to Richmond on Wednesday, Kim admitted she had not bought me card.
There it was, that acknowledgment that Valentine’s Day was just another day at this point in our relationship, though okay, I have learned that sometimes, that can come back to bite you.
Every day in our relationship was Valentine’s Day.
So, I, too, confirmed that I had not purchased her a card either.
Now, without any expectations, we could enjoy the weekend without any guilt.
That said, however, while Kim was at her meeting on Thursday and I was out and about, I decided to go into the local Kroger’s and I purchased her a card to surprise her.
I picked one out that was kind of lighthearted and humorous, nothing too heavy and romantic. Then I turned to glance at the Valentine’s Day gifts that were on display behind me.
And there it was.
The perfect Valentine’s Day gift.
The one that screams, “I love you and will love you forever!”
The one that immediately drew me towards it, knowing that Kim would love and cherish it.
No sir, I was not leaving the store without this gift.
Fate brought me to this place, and it was meant to be.
So, I grabbed it.
It was the last one.
Not surprised, I thought, as I headed for the self-checkout lines, gloating over the fact that I was the last lucky bastard to be able to gift one of these to his wife.
It was…
“The Valentine’s Day Three Piece Oven Mitt and Spatula Set.”
That’s right, you read it.
“The Valentine’s Day Three Piece Oven Mitt and Spatula Set.”
Once back at the car, I cleverly hid my “Valentine’s Day Three Piece Oven Mitt and Spatula Set” in the bottom of a spare duffle bag I had brought to pack some extra sweatshirts.
Then, since it was only Thursday, February 12, I had to hide my excitement and wait for Saturday to arrive.
Now it’s Monday, Presidents Day, and we are back home. Kim had to go to work.
Needless to say, Kim loved her card and her “Valentine’s Day Three Piece Oven Mitt and Spatula Set.”
Sadly, I suppose I could lament that my luck ended in the aisle of the Kroger’s store, but still we had a very nice weekend.
But that’s not really true.
The luck part.
Kim’s mom used to tease Kim that she got lucky when we got together.
Of course, I used to counter that it was me who got lucky finding Kim.
Maybe more true is that we both got lucky many years ago.
But I don’t really think luck had anything to do with it.
Hey, anytime a guy can get away with gifting his wife a “Valentine’s Day Three Piece Oven Mitt and Spatula Set” after all these years, I suppose it truly does scream forever.
Fate brought us to this place; it was meant to be.
Seventy-two years ago, on January 29, 1954, the weather, according to my mother, was similar to what it was like today. My father was driving her to the hospital because, apparently, my brother Carl was ready to join the party.
In addition to the bad weather, however, the other problem was the car, which was having issues.
My father was afraid that if he had to stop, he would risk the car stalling, and my mother would not make it to the hospital in time. At one point on the trip from Oceanport to Monmouth Medical Center in Long Branch, he had to evade a train blocking a crossing, keeping the car moving and finally delivering my mother to the hospital. Shortly after dropping her off at the hospital, the customary practice at the time, the car broke down.
While my father worked on getting the broken car back home to Oceanport, my brother Carl was born.
Now, seventy-two years later, this week’s bad weather is the reason I am spending my brother’s birthday with my mother.
I have been in this situation before.
Like in September of 2023, when I had to contemplate letting my then 89-year-old mother navigate her way alone through Tropical Storm Ophelia.
Of course, I couldn’t.
This week, with record low temperatures, snow, sleet, and freezing rain blanketing the Washington, DC, metro area and the Eastern Shore, I was facing the same guilt.
After days of many phone calls and many requests for her not to leave the house, I finally got some information out of her on a Wednesday evening phone call that seemed to indicate maybe the situation in Woolford was worse than I had previously thought. I decided to go out the next morning.
I arrived this morning to find branches down and everything covered with ice. Ice thick enough to support the weight of my truck as I entered the driveway.
This was a weird storm, and once again a weather event I had never experienced before.
Like my first ice storm when I was sixteen; the Derecho in the summer of 2012; the “Sting Jet” we experienced with Tropical Storm Isaias in August of 2020; this was a new one for me.
Never before had I ever seen accumulating snow change to hours of accumulating sleet which is what we experienced in Northern Virginia, different than the freezing rain event here on the Eastern Shore.
Accumulating sleet is different than snow, it’s slippy, hard to shovel, it’s heavy, and when it freezes, it is almost impossible to remove.
So, Monday, after chopping a few inches at a time with my long-handled ice scraper and removing the chunks with my snow shovel, I managed to clear my driveway and my sidewalks.
On Tuesday however, the snowplow decided to make another helpful pass on my side of road blocking my driveway again, only this time with literal boulders of frozen sleet and snow. The normal implements of snow removal were no match for what was blocking my driveway. So back in the garage I went to get my axe and proceeded to chop the ice boulders up into quarters and eighths so I could pick them up and move them out of the way.
With everything in Herndon seemingly under control, it made the decision to shift the focus to my mother’s ice storm easier. The timing couldn’t have been better. Sharing my brother’s birthday with my mom was nice. And she was quick to share stories.
On a quick trip to the post office on Monday afternoon, I saw a woman attempting to clear her driveway using a dustpan. Yup, nothing but a dustpan.
I guess things could be worse; I should quit my complaining.
I often hear people say, “I can’t wait for it to snow so I can just sit in the house and watch the snow fall and not worry about going anywhere.”
That works, I guess, until you have to go somewhere.
Which is most of us most of the time.
Because just like my father trying to get my mother to the hospital and needing to keep moving or risk having a baby in the car, we feel like we need to keep moving, keep doing, or face some consequences.
Someday maybe.
Someday, maybe we won’t feel the need always to have somewhere to be, always to have something to do.
A day when we can clear our driveways with dustpans and not axes.
And if we feel the need to go somewhere, how about we get there by revisiting stories.
The blogger Kathy Glow on her “Kissing the Frog” Facebook page posted a meme: “Sometimes Grief is a whisper, sometimes it’s a roar, but we never get to choose the volume.”
Her comment with her post was “today it’s pretty loud.”
Kim and I are on the Eastern Shore again.
Not at our usual Woolford digs, but out on Hooper’s Island and Fishing Creek.
We rented a little bungalow on the water for a couple of days and a quiet New Year’s.
Our Christmas was “pretty loud.”
Kathy Glow is a blogger and writer who lost her son Joey to cancer when he was six.
Hayley introduced me to the writing of Kathy Glow some years ago when she wrote a blog titled Pictures Can Lie in December of 2012 describing the challenges of sending out a Christmas card with a happy photo when someone was missing.
And then, how to sign that card.
I have shared those challenges.
Long before I was introduced to Kathy’s writing, we always tried to include Donny in our Christmas photo, one year or two we even Photoshopped him in with one of us holding his photo.
But it wasn’t always possible.
Because maybe the only family photo that year was at a wedding in July in New Jersey or something like that. As the kids got older it became harder to nail them all down at the same time.
And most of the letters I wrote were signed…”and Donny too.”
Because that was our family.
It’s been ten years today since I decided to create this site to write and share.
And I am learning it gets harder.
Much was written about the challenges and the joys and the dynamics of our family.
Not that we are different from other families, all families share their days of joy with days when you don’t want to get out of bed.
(end of the thought)
That was New Year’s Day.
Today is January 9th.
Fast forward to today when I decided maybe I would revisit those thoughts from New Year’s Day, and I again returned to Kathy Glow.
A very wise person once said to me, “Life is one long process of grieving. We begin by grieving the loss of possessions and relationships, and we move toward grieving the loss of people or of our own physical or mental abilities that were once so natural. We grieve the loss of dreams and a former way of life.
This is the natural progression of grief and one that is to be expected as we navigate through our lives.
But there is also unnatural grief, and this is perhaps the hardest to accept. Sudden, gut-wrenching, life-altering grief – like a fatal accident or a fatal heart attack. Or slow, torturing grief that cannot have a good outcome. Like terminal cancer.
Nobody gets out of this life without experiencing grief. The one guarantee in this life is that you WILL experience grief in some way. We can’t change this, but we all must find a way to live with it.”
“How true this is,” I thought, as I experience getting older and facing new challenges associated with it.
I am not sure I would have always associated those challenges with grieving, but why not?
Our unnatural grief has been hard enough, but acknowledging the presence of our natural grief makes some sense and contributes to its weight.
That is part of what we are experiencing.
Giving up long loved possessions as we downsize to fit the less cluttered future we expect to face.
The downsizing of social interactions as friends and family become more distant geographically and contact less frequent or not at all.
Recognizing the physical and mental changes occurring as we, as I, get older.
Things that were once natural, now get harder.
And I think we do grieve the loss of dreams, as I realize in retirement that time may be running out for those second, third, or even fourth chances in life; and the sometimes longed-for memories of our former happy times when we were all together.
And then there is the loss of people…family members and friends.
It’s the “pile on” effect.
Surely, having to spend this holiday season less another parent after losing Kim’s mom last June, made these holidays that much more “louder.”
And we can’t escape the reminders. The social media “memories” that pop up, and of course , Google.
As much as I love those “ten years or five years ago” Google collages and reels, sometimes they are bittersweet.
Today is Donny’s birthday. He would have been thirty-nine years old today had our unnatural grief event not occurred. I can’t even imagine what Kathy Glow or Kim or even my mom goes through, moms losing their sons; mom’s and dads losing their children, as they search for their ways to “live with it.” I know it’s that much more harder this time of the year with the holidays. And though it is often said, it gets easier, I am not so sure I agree with that anymore.
A sign on the wall of the little house on the water we stayed at over New Year’s read:
If Storms Should Come, Then We Shall Just Dance in the Rain.
A nice thought, easier said than accomplished.
I have never been much of a dancer, in the rain metaphorically or otherwise.
As a result, I don’t like dancing.
I kind of dance like Donald Trump.
My memory of dancing to over seventeen minutes of “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida” at an eighth grade dance make me cringe.
It was torture.
Like a marathon of dancing humiliation.
I have read that In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida was the song writer’s drunken slurred pronunciation of “In The Garden Of Eden” as his band mate tried to capture the interpreted lyrics on paper the best he could. In the Garden of Eden came out as In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida.
A nice thought to mitigate a horrible memory and to find some comfort in our grief.
In The Garden of Eden.
In Paradise.
Jesus said, “Today you will be with me in Paradise.”
I imagine a day when we will all be together in Paradise, dancing maybe, but not in the rain; and this time I will be dancing more like Michael Jackson and doing the moonwalk.
And I can also imagine Donny lovingly taunting me with his little giggle, like he often did from Happy Gilmore: “You like that old man? You want a piece of me?” as he out moonwalks me into eternity.
So Happy Birthday bud, in Paradise.
Postscript:
As I mentioned, it has been ten years of writing here.
It’s been my way of finding “a way to live with it.”
And I thank you for letting me share.
In January of 2023 I wrote an essay titled “Happy New Year”and explained that in our house January 10th is real first day of our new year.
So let me today wish you all an early Happy New Year from Kim and I, the kids, “and Donny too.”
We hope your holidays were memorable and not too noisy.
Somewhere along the way this week I made a note of this scripture from John 14:27:
Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid.
Sounds like good advice.
And remember…
We have In-A-Gadda-da-Vida to look forward to.
And thanks to Google we have collages:
Matching Christmas Jammies
And by the way, Sunday is my mom’s 92nd birthday, Happy Birthday Mom!
Soon many of us will be celebrating Christmas and the birth of Jesus.
Well, I suppose many will be celebrating Christmas, not all the birth of Jesus.
But many hundreds of years before the day that we celebrate as the birth of Jesus, the prophet Isaiah foretold of the event in Isaiah 9:6:
For to us a child is born, to us a son is given, and the government will be on his shoulders. And he will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.
Prince of Peace.
Many years before I became familiar with this passage in Isaiah, my familiarity with the Prince of Peace was from an early 1970s Leon Russell album.
I was a big Leon Russell fan back in the 70s.
Leon Russell’s song Prince of Peace was recorded on his debut solo album titled “Leon Russell” in March of 1970.
“Never treat a brother like a passing stranger
Always try to keep the love light burning.
Listen only to this song and watch their eyes
For he might be the Prince of Peace returning.”
The blog post “Reading Between the Grooves” describes the idea of the song: “is that you better treat an individual like you want to be treated, because that person might be “the Prince of Peace returning.”
I am sure some of you may have heard this before, the one you least expect could be an angel of the Lord or the returning Christ. I remember some years ago walking Baltimore’s Inner Harbor and encountering a homeless person. Kim gave him a twenty-dollar bill if I remember correctly.
Of course, me, I freaked out…”Kim why did you do that?”
And she said something like:
“Because” she said, “you never know, this could be a test, that could be Jesus.”
And last Christmas I wrote about a young boy who schooled his cheap grandfather in generosity and giving.
I have to admit, I quickly fell back into my comfort zone as a stinge, because thinking back now I haven’t given up too much since.
There is an old woman who is a regular fixture sitting outside the Herndon Post Office.
I say old, but who knows, the weathered skin, squinting eyes, missing teeth, she could still be younger than me.
Disheveled, in a knit cap, and a worn coat, sometimes asleep, but most of the time greeting you with a question:
“Sir, do you have cash today?”
I am at the Herndon Post Office often, sometimes twice in the same day, and my general response is “no I don’t have any cash” avoiding the question, the look, and those eyes.
Typically, it is true, I don’t carry cash, and besides, as often as I encounter her, setting that precedent could get expensive.
It’s been a cold December, the coldest I can remember since living in Virginia. On a recent morning it was 22 degrees, yet there she was, sitting in her folding chair next to the entrance and exit doors of the Herndon Post Office. On this day she had a heavy coat on and hood over that knit hat, and a scarf, and she was wearing a pandemic style mask covering her mouth that she pulled away when she spoke.
I went around the corner to the bank, took out some cash and returned to the post office.
I told her that I was in and out of here all the time and she was always here.
“It’s cold,” I said, “where do you stay?”
“In the shelter on Jefferson Highway” she responded, “I used to stay at the shelter in Reston, but you can only stay there a month, though I was there a year. I had to leave.”
“Jefferson Highway is far away; how do you get here?” I asked.
“I take the bus, with money that I get here.”
So, I explained to her again that I don’t usually carry cash, but I went to the bank and took some out.
With that I handed her the two twenty-dollar bills, and told her, “Merry Christmas” and went on my way.
It was my “look at all the children living in the streets’ and “love the blind and wounded as you love yourself” moment and realizing there was a lot of wisdom in this song that was wasted on a young teenager in the 70s.
On September 17, 1972, Leon Russell performed at the Roosevelt Stadium located in Jersey City in the great state of New Jersey. My only memory of that show now was that at some point in the day, I remember being pressed up against the stage security fence with a pretty good view, and of course I had fun. I would see more shows at the Roosevelt Stadium in Jersey City over the next couple of years, as I skipped the light fandango through the rest of my teenage years. It would be many years though, and ultimately Kim, that would bring me back to the church and the prophet Isaiah.
It’s true, not everyone has bought into the prophesy of Isaiah Chapter 9:6.
Not everyone believes the birth we celebrate in a few days was the Messiah.
Not everyone accepts the notion of Jesus on Earth, the second covenant, Jesus’s blood shed and body broken to save all, Jew and Gentile alike this time.
Not everyone believes Jesus will come again.
Nevertheless, we can at least agree that giving is a special part of this season.
Maybe setting a precedent is not such a bad thing after all.
And forgiving too I would say.
And either way I suppose there is still a good message in the song:
Never be impatient with the ones who love you…it might be yourself that you are burning.
Never treat a brother like a passing stranger.
Love the blind and wounded as that you would yourself;
Because like my wife said, you never know, it could be a test.
For that broken soul might just be “the Prince of Peace” returning.
Postscript:
Kim and I hope that everyone has safe and happy Christmas.
Give and forgive.
Pray for peace and understanding.
And for those who are hurting, especially during holidays.
When I was in the seventh or eighth grade, I thought I was a pretty good sprinter. I remember a track meet that was held at the Shore Regional High School, between the four elementary schools that fed into the regional high school. My event was the 100-yard dash (and maybe a 400 relay as well, not sure I remember). I was in the second group of runners, sort of the “B” team who were not quite as fast as the “A” team. I remember sitting in the bleachers waiting for my event. The week before I had heard or read something about how sugar can give you a burst of energy, and so thinking this was a good idea, I snuck a couple of Hershey bars in the waist band of my gym shorts with the plan of ingesting them prior to my event. This was brilliant, I thought, kind of like giving a racehorse Lasix before their big maiden debut.
The problem was that when I went to get my Hershey bars from the waist band of my gym shorts, I discovered they had melted and as a result my plan was foiled. I had to throw my Hershey bars away.
Ah, it probably wasn’t a good plan anyway.
Though I am not 100% sure, I believe I won my heat but got smoked in the finals running against the “A” top finishers.
I came out of it with a medal anyway, and a lesson on stuffing Hershey bars in the waistband of my gym shorts in June.
In high school, I let my athletic aspirations be second to growing my hair long, listening to music, being interested in girls, and doing other things I shouldn’t have been doing.
I suppose there was a lesson in that as well.
Later in life, I picked up running again.
Which came in handy when I met Kim because she was a runner too.
I think our running peaked in 2014. I would be turning 58 years old that June and had a goal of completing a half-marathon. That Spring and Summer, we did as many ten-milers, 10 Ks, 15 Ks, and 5 Ks as we could find. And I completed my half-marathon that April, participating in the Long Branch Half Marathon in New Jersey.
It was great, but I think the best thing to come out of that experience that year was that I finally got over my fear of writing and having someone other than me read the words I had written. That year I wrote a weekly blog called “A Happier, Healthier Me” as part of the job I had at the time. This led to my Musings starting in January of 2016.
I haven’t run much at all in the last ten years. Walking, maybe, but not even walking as much of that as I should.
This week, while driving through downtown Herndon, I saw a sign for the Herndon Turkey Trot on November 22 at 4 PM. I thought the 4 PM time was a little odd, it started to get dark around 4:30, but when I got home, I decided to look it up online, thinking it might be fun for Kim and me to do.
I learned the race was open to ages 4 and up.
The first 400 pre-registered got a long-sleeve T-shirt.
Registration cost was $40 each.
But here was the kicker…runners had to complete the course in 45 minutes or less.
I thought, well, I don’t really need another T-shirt.
And $40, $80 for the two of us is a lot of money on my current budget.
But, here was the real issue, I didn’t think I could finish the course in less than 45 minutes.
The 5 Ks Kim and I have done the past few years, we have walked.
And though I know there is all that pre-race adrenaline, with the gear on, and the number, and the pre-race stretching going on, there is also the possibility of humiliation.
But let’s face it, it’s not the tee shirt, it’s not all that camaraderie, it’s not the post-race bananas and free Gatorade…it’s the self-satisfaction you get when you just finish.
So, I thought, who needs all that?
I just needed to prove to myself I could complete a 5K in 45 minutes.
I heard a sermon this week with a guest speaker who was a successful businessman, and he was talking about failure and the rewards one gets from the lessons learned from failure.
He only admitted to failing twice in his lifetime, which I thought was a bit of a stretch.
But good for him.
I thought, gee, if failing was the ticket to success in this life, I should be the King of the Universe right now.
But I understood his message: don’t let failure stop you, don’t give up, keep striving, and in the end, you will be a winner.
So, this morning, I went up to my closet, dug out the running tights that used to make my kids cringe, put on some running layers, got my running gloves, and my hat, and like a gladiator leaving the tunnel and entering the Colosseum, I opened the garage door, and strutted out into the public.
But before all that, remembering the Hershey bars in the waistband of my gym shorts, I ate one of the Baby Ruths and the Butterfingers my son-in-law Leon had sent me packing with in a zip-lock bag the other evening.
Now, using the stopwatch feature on my smart watch, I hit start, and off I went.
Kim and I had already established a three-mile route so I knew where I needed to go.
Through the neighborhood and down to the Sugarland Trail, I thankfully only encountered one neighbor.
Crossing the creeks carefully, I plodded along, breathing heavily, one foot in front of the other.
Checking my watch, just a few times, it seemed my pace was too slow, but picking up speed seemed like a long shot.
“Who has the Lasix?” I thought as I was approaching the last creek crossing and facing the all uphill last quarter mile back to my garage door.
Taking small steps, but moving steadily, I approached my driveway.
Not to be deterred by failure this time, I thought I would just take the weekend to recoup and as the message said, try again on Monday.
When I hit the garage door, I looked at my smart watch stopwatch and the time said…
Forty-three minutes and seventeen seconds.
There was no big timer waiting for me, no cheering crowds behind the string of flags and traffic cones, nobody to take my photo crossing the finish line…
But it was all good.
Breathing heavily, my heart pounding, a little pain in my chest, through the garage door I went into the house, while I waited for the ambulance to arrive.
No, just kidding about the ambulance, I actually felt pretty good.
And proud of myself that I proved I could run the Herndon Turkey Trot in the required time, and since I didn’t need another tee shirt and I don’t want to spend the fory bucks, I no longer had the need to run the Herndon Turkey Trot 5K.
Because today, November 21st, at approximately 12 PM:
This Turkey…
Former member of the “B” team…
Not the King Of the Universe..yet
And definitely qualifying as “ages 4 and up”…
Trotted.
Happy Thanksgiving!
That’s me in 2014 with my Team Move For Hunger teamates at the Long Branch Half Marathon
And realizing that some of things that I thought were important in the past,
Maybe they aren’t so important.
Because I can.
And because you know…
the day will come when I can’t.
Postscript:
Halloween in Oviedo was fun. Ethan was Toad from Super Mario Bros and Christian was a Jim Cantore like CNN Weatherman. Me? I was a Breeder’s Cup fan in a Brewery Shirt. Every day is Halloween for me, I guess.
Earlier this summer, I wrote about my phobia of going to the dentist. And in that writing, I mentioned Kim’s fear of snakes.
Despite her ophidiophobia, I was really proud of Kim one day, a few weeks back.
While sitting on the deck enjoying a glass of wine, I watched a black king snake about 15 feet away drop from a tree branch next to our deck to the top of the patio canopy, also adjacent to the deck.
I said,“Kim, look,” and pointed towards the snake, expecting the worst.
She looked.
But when she saw the snake, she didn’t freak out.
She didn’t run to the shed to get a hoe or a shovel or run upstairs to get the shotgun.
She sat calmly and observed the snake.
And for the next forty-five minutes, we watched the snake change its mind and go back up the tree branch, then up and down another branch, and eventually down to the grass and disappear.
The most important thing was, the snake remained safe.
Unlike most snakes my wife has encountered in the past.
Fear.
It’s about 9 am.
Normally, I would already be at work.
But not today.
Because I just retired.
And like the fear of snakes or going to the dentist, I am experiencing fear again, this time, retirement fears.
I read something recently online, one of those memes that pop up on your social media:
Time is more valuable than money.
You can get more money
But,
You cannot get more time
Don’t waste your time.
I get that. I have lived through that in my past.
I remember the times when I went through major changes in my life: career changes, marital changes, financial mistakes, and not worrying about it.
Because I had lots of time.
Midlife, I had to start all over again, building a new career.
Midlife, I had to start all over again, building a marriage and a blended family.
But it was all good.
Because I had time.
And I could make more money. I could get a new job, I could get two jobs, or even three jobs.
I could deliver pizza.
It would all work out.
And it did.
But this time, I must admit, I am a bit fearful of the future.
You may be familiar with the story of Jonah from childhood, as Jonah ends up in the belly of a big fish.
But before the big fish, Jonah had to reckon with his fear.
God asked Jonah to do something he didn’t want to do because he was afraid.
So instead of going where God wanted to send him, Jonah dipped out and took the next boat in a different direction.
As a result, God hurled a powerful wind at the ship, and the sailors were afraid and wanted to know who could have caused such a storm.
Finally, Jonah said to the sailors, “Pick me up and throw me into the sea,” he replied, “and it will become calm. I know that it is my fault that this great storm has come upon you.”
And so, they did, and the sea became calm.
Jonah knew “…throw me into the sea” meant put me into the hands of God.
And he would be safe, and the sailors would be saved.
God didn’t ask me to retire.
I just assume it is part of my plan.
And I am not running away from anything as a result of fear.
I guess I am more running towards something I just don’t understand yet.
But I can relate to “throw me into the sea.”
That’s kind of how I feel right now.
Throw me into the sea.
Calm my fears.
Make me safe.
Put me into the hands of God.
And not the belly of a big fish.
And it will all work out.
Postscript:
Kim and I spent Labor Day kayaking on the Shenandoah River, taking two vehicles and dropping our kayaks upriver. We pretty much floated for three hours. We didn’t have any powerful winds hurled at us, nor heavy seas, or encounter any huge fish. The photo above was at the end, where I locked up our kayaks while we went back to get my truck. I thought the contrast of the graffiti and the boats was pretty cool.
“Curt, you don’t have a great but, you have a great butt.”
“Why thank you, you have a nice but too.”
“No, it’s not but, it’s butt.”
“Okay, okay, butt don’t you think I look great in my new genes?”
“Those are jeans not genes.”
“Okay don’t you think I look good in my new American Eagle jeans?”
Silly, right?
The world seems to be getting sillier and sillier, doesn’t it?
We have the Sydney Sweeney controversy, an ad deemed as fascist and the convoluted argument that “great jeans” really meant “great genes” and because she is an attractive white human being American Eagle had to be subliminally promoting the concept that Sydney’s genes had to be superior.
An ad for jeans featuring a pretty girl, how novel, and how sinister.
Forgot about Brooke Shields and Calvin Kleins?
And how about Marla Maples and No Excuse jeans?
And what about Beyonce’, another attractive human being, and Levis? She takes off her jeans in a laundromat recreating a Levis ad from the 1980’s featuring Nick Kamen, and revealing she is wearing what?
WHITE UNDERWEAR!
Seriously Levis, what kind of messaging is that?
Don’t we have better things to do and more important issues to worry about?
The truth is, this is all misinformation.
Because the truth is I don’t have a nice butt at all.
I don’t even have a butt.
In fact, describing my butt as a “but” with a little less “t” might be more accurate.
Yup, mine qualifies as a “but” but maybe not a full “butt.”
Butt, I do like my new American Eagle jeans, though.
And my favorite jeans of all time, those that I wore at all three of my daughters’ weddings, were American Eagle genes, I mean jeans.
And speaking of genes, I am happy with those too. I didn’t get the nice butt genes, but nevertheless I am proud of the ones I got.
Your sweet lips are the sweetest of all. I love every inch of your heart, your mind, your soul. I love the ground you walk on, the air you breathe.
I am longing for you dear, longing to be able to whisper my true honest love into your own precious little ears.
I could tell you I love you once for every hair on your precious head, and then I would not have expressed one half the devotion I feel for you.
Obviously, I didn’t write that.
There aren’t any “maybe’s” in there.
The author of that piece was a young lady named Marguerite Fadeley, and it was written around 1907.
One of the cool things about buying and selling other people’s stuff is that sometimes you find a treasure buried in a box of junk.
A treasure that may not even have any monetary value to anyone, but a window to someone’s heart and soul, and therefore might even be priceless.
I wrote in my dad’s obituary, in the words of Nichole Spector, we are all stories:
“…the fact that in the end, we all become stories. Ashes to ashes and dust to dust, sure, but also: words to words.”
I don’t know much about Marguerite Fadeley.
But I am finding her words fascinating.
From what I could find:
She was born May 12, 1891.
She died at the young age of 59 on March 29, 1951.
She would have been about 16 or 17 when she wrote the words above, the first passage in her notebook dated 1907.
Apparently, she lived in Leesburg, Virginia and married William Carlton Whitmore in 1921 who was the Leesburg Virginia Postmaster.
She was survived by one son, William Carlton Jr. who also has since passed.
To the best of my knowledge this may be the first time her words have been published in any form for others to read.
Today is my 25th wedding anniversary.
And though I love every inch of Kim’s heart, her mind, and her soul; and I love the ground she walks on, the air she breathes, I don’t think I could have written those words to her.
Maybe.
But maybe not.
We have shared many joys, and we have faced many challenges.
Some of those challenges have been known to have destroyed many marriages.
Yet our relationship prevailed.
Got stronger even.
Oddly enough, finding Kim at that time in my life, I found some parallels in Marguerite’s words.
Like the first time I saw her:
Eyes have met,
Lips are not yet,
But oh, you kid,
I will get you yet
(Marguerite Fadeley)
And I did!
And now it is twenty-five years of marriage later.
And I am sure we will share many more joys, and face many more challenges…
but we will continue to do that together.
May I love you?
Thankfully, you said yes.
Happy Anniversary Kim!
I have shared this one before, that was us July 1, 2000
