Day 153: Garage Sale Person

This morning, as I started off on my run, I passed several garage sales going down in my neighborhood, all of which had already attracted a quite impressive group of people poking and prodding the goods strewn about on the grass and the driveway in front of them. I love garage sale people, or at least I love that trait concerning  garage sale people that allows them to see the value in used goods. It's an interesting notion that the things that one person no longer sees value and want to do away with have intricate value to someone else who is willing to pay for them, but only pay so much. I love the idea of seeking out a bargain. Of finding a pearl in the rough. I love the idea of wondering what memories and history are tied up in the furniture and books and paintings and clothes on sale. I wonder if the people selling those items feel pangs of regret or mountains of joy as they watch them leave their premises forever. I wonder if they're happy to be rid of this stuff cluttering their houses or sad to see them go. I suppose their emotions fall on both sides of the fence.

I bought my first guitar at a garage sale. Well, actually, my mom bought it for me. I loved that guitar, despite the fact that it was beat up and probably not worth the $10 or so she paid for it. But it came with it's own little plastic case, it has six strings, and it was all mine. That guitar put a lot of thoughts of possibilities in my head, and eventually when I learned to play, that guitar was the impetus for a lot of joy for me. I've bought a lot of books at garage sales over the years that poured a lot of knowledge into my brain. I learned a lot of words and traveled a lot of paths and lead a lot of lives in those books, most of which I might have paid maybe a quarter for. I've stored my personal belongings in tables that I picked up at garage sales. Stored my writings in crates. Stared into paintings. Listened to hour after hour of music that floated out of albums and tapes and CDs I lifted from the previous owner. I've bought my kids toys they "just had to have," and I've bought myself a few, as well.

I wish I had the time and ambition to roam from sale to sale more often. I wish I had a family member or friend who shared that passion for seeking out some used treasure on Friday and Saturday mornings, who shared that longing for bringing another collected item into the home that wasn't really needed but was just too good to pass up.

The notion of garage sales is a romantic one to me for some reason. It's American. It's authentic and real and ground in reality. It's people communicating with other people in a personal atmosphere that has nothing to do with long aisles in overly big, stale, stores filled with nothing but newness. It has nothing to do with exchanging money with disinterested sales clerks. It has nothing to do with lining the pockets of some corporation that pushed a local five-and-dime out of business to make its mark. Garage sales are real people doing commerce with real people, maybe haggling a little bit, but both sides appreciating a good deal and a fair exchange. No markups. No coupons needed. No "for a limited time" only scams. Just good business. 

Day 152: Meeting The Other Me

Last night I met a guy, who I swear, if I'd have taken a few different paths in my life previously, could have very easily been me looking back at me. It was bizarre how much we had in common and how similarly we thought and how very much alike we even spoke. Seemingly the same dispositions. Seemingly the same hobbies in our downtime. Seemingly the same mannerisms. 


As I sat there contemplating this chance meeting, I wondered how many other mes there are out there? What do they do? Where do they live? What would it have taken for me to wind up in their positions rather than the one I'm in now? In many way, looking at this "me" sitting across from me last night made me envious of his existence. I realized all the while, though, that what my alternative "me" was missing were the very things I love so much about my life, namely a wife and kids. So, although we share a passion for the same music, documentaries, golf, language choices, and probably a lot of the same morals and ethics, I have a few things that other me doesn't, and for that I'm thankful. Still, it would be nice to meet more of the other mes and walk a few steps in their shoes to see the sights I may have missed. 

Day 151: The Frosty Treat vs. The Dairy Cone

You know what my kids have been missing all their lives? They’ve been missing that on-the-corner greasy spoon they can comfortably walk to along with their friends during the day or night and call their own. They’ve been missing the succulence that is a mystery meat sandwich whose ingredients some enterprising woman concocted in her mind with big aspirations to feed the local citizens galore. They’ve been missing that certain place they call go to, sit in a booth as long as they want to escape the summer’s heat, and get caught up on their town’s gossip as told straight from the mouths of the teenage girls working behind the counter. They’ve been missing piping hot French fries and onion chips, big-ass malts and milkshakes, pinball machines in the corner, Ms. Pac-Man at the ready, and a welcome alternative to the grub the school is serving for lunch that day all with the knowledge that every penny they spend there goes straight into the pockets of their neighbors, not The Man. My kids have been missing a Frosty Treat and Dairy Cone in their lives.

If you live in a small town or grew up in a small town, chances are damn good you know of what I speak. You know the tasty vibe I’m spreading here. You can smell the loose-meat sandwich right now. You can taste the bit of pickle that’s mixing with the ketchup and mustard in your mouth. You can feel the hotness of the chicken strip you just bit into burning your tongue, and you’re reaching for your chocolate shake to cool it down. You know what I saying, but my kids don’t. My kids know Dairy Queen (boring). My kids know McDonald’s (ugh). My kids know Burger King and Wendy’s and the whole other slew of run-of-the-mill craptraps spread across the country and world for that matter. What they don’t know is the homegrown magic being spun daily at a local dive. My kids are city kids, and city kids are brainwashed into seeking out the ordinary. What a travesty.

I was lucky enough to have two such places to escape to: The Frosty Treat and The Dairy Cone. Now, family allegiances pulled me to the Frosty Treat. My aunt worked there forever. Countless cousins worked there, too. My cousins owned it at one time, in fact. My dad played for the Frosty Treat softball team along with a bunch of other relatives when I was a kid. To this day, my relatives keep the Frosty burger alive by cooking up a batch for various occasions, and all it takes is one bite for the memories to start clogging my arteries again with the most welcomed acceptance. But here’s a secret, despite the vast amounts of ice cream I devoured at the Frosty Treat, and despite the most glorious of onion chips consumed, and despite spending many a lunch hour there, I actually preferred the beef burger served at The Diary Cone. I always felt a sense of betrayal and guilt from my taste buds’ preference, but not enough that it kept me away for long durations or from ordering three beef burgers at a time. Here’s another secret, my mom preferred the beef burger, as well. (By publicly stating this, I’m sure I’m putting her at all sorts of risk.) Thus, when the two of us were left alone to fend for ourselves at supper time, it wasn’t uncommon for us to covertly make our way to The Dairy Cone, place our order, and make tracks before we were seen. But oh, was it worth it. I can just picture that wonderful sandwich right now, wrapped ever so well in wax paper and secured with a toothpick, just waiting for my mouth.

Sadly, the Frosty Treat is no longer. In my opinion, there should be a landmark where it once stood, but I may be in alone in that thinking. At any rate, I’m beyond grateful for the memories that the place provided, not just food-wise but socially and historically, as well. I’m glad I didn’t have to resort to a chain restaurant to get a hot fudge sundae, and I’m glad that the first place I got my little cup of ketchup was from a mom-and-pop and outfit. I’m glad I have memories of sitting in my parents’ car, watching intently as my mom ordered ice cream cones from the back screen window, and made her way back to make my day. I’m glad for the three or so blocks I could walk to the Frosty Treat from school over lunchtime with my friends and talk about the talk. I’m glad I could sit at the counter at the Dairy Cone and make fun of my friend Chris as he tried in vain to make another ice cream cone. I’m glad for the grease that still courses through my body. 

Day 150: Living What You Believe vs. Settling

“Are you doing what you believe in, or are you settling for what you are doing?”

That’s a question I read in an article entitled “30 Questions That Will Change The Way You Think.” It’s a question I’ve actually been pondering in one way or another for, seemingly, ever. Even if not thinking about the question as it’s specifically worded here, I’m still thinking about it, wondering if I could better be using my time, questioning if I’m wasting my time, thinking about how I could better serve the time I’ve been given, etc.

This has been particularly true as of late. I’m turning 45 in a few days. I know that I probably won’t live until I’m 90, which means I have fewer years ahead of me than I do behind. That fact has me feeling as if I’m in a pickle or sorts. Given all the responsibilities and obligations that I have to myself and others, how do I get done the things I really want to get done? For example, I don’t want to ever mow my lawn again, and I wouldn’t if it wasn’t an expected obligation that society has placed on me. So I do it once a week or so for a couple hours at a time, along with too many other similar obligations than I can count. Performing all these obligations takes time. A lot of time. A lot of time I could otherwise use to, say, climb a mountain or walk the Appalachian Trail or live a monk’s existence for a few months or read every book that I’ve ever wanted to read or spend day after day learning martial arts or spend all my energy and time fighting to win every fight I deem worth fighting. That last item alone would easily take up every second of the rest of my life, and I’m quite certain even if I did, the possibility of even winning one battle, say, endless homelessness in America, would be a miracle.

I totally get why some people check out. Just decide one day that they’ve had enough and escape all the pressures and worries and start doing only what they want to do. I also understand that to do so successfully requires a massive amount of selfishness and willpower to abandon anyone and anything you previously were responsible to, but I understand why certain people have a breaking point and do it. I don’t particularly admire or condone such a decision, but I understand it. The people I really admire are those who can manage to live up to their obligations but still live life according to what they believe in, whatever that might entail. Sure, there are all kinds of sacrifices we have to make day in and day out, but how many of us ultimately just settle? Just throw up our hands and resign ourselves to believe that “this is as good as it gets?” Some of us make peace with that resignation. Some of us let it eat us up little by little until we become nothing but bitter shells of our former selves. But the best of us, the best of us find the middle ground where we don’t settle and don’t abandon responsibilities and live deeply personal purposeful lives.

Ultimately, I have to believe that doing what you believe in is possible, even if done in small increments. It could mean putting an extra $5 in the collection basket or keeping the gym open five extra minutes for the poverty-ridden urban kids who don’t have much of a home to go to or just walking down a stretch of road and picking up the damn trash. As for myself, I firmly believe I have a duty to live out the next half of my life responsibly and productively and use whatever skills I’ve acquired to better those things that I can. Change can happen at any time and in any place and take any form. That’s what I want to believe in, and that’s how I want to live. 

Day 149: Personal Bests

I've been running since late January training for the Warrior Dash, which is exactly 10 days away. Over that time, I've come to the conclusion that there is nothing whatsoever that I like about running. Well, nothing except the feeling I have when I'm done. The rest of it I find boring and repetitive. Also, I'm not very good at it anymore. And that's hard to swallow. There was a time when I was a good runner, and there was a time when it did come easy. But those days are over, and now living with that fact it's a big, fat, nasty tasting pill to swallow.

I started running long distance in eighth grade. I tried the hurdles initially, but it took exactly one time of tripping and falling to convince me that wasn't a wise choice for me. Also, I was slow. Really slow. Getting from point A to point B when the distance in between was relatively short wasn't my specialty. So on to the longer runs I ventured. I settled on the 800 and the mile. At age 14, I came within seconds of breaking 5 minutes in the mile at the last meet. My coach convinced me to train and run all that summer because he evidently saw potential in me. So, that summer I did just that, running about six miles every night--twice around the Ashland town square. My freshmen year, the training paid off. I dipped well below 5 minutes in the mile, and I was on top of the world. Better, when I ran, it felt as if I was floating most of the time. It wasn't work. I didn't strain. I didn't tire. It didn't feel hard or exhausting. Some nights I felt like I could run forever. Some summer nights, when it was so quiet and warm and all that I could hear was my footsteps and the crickets singing and playing their music, I felt as if I was the only person alive. My favorite movie soon became "The Jericho Mile" and I found myself daydreaming about Peter Strauss and picturing myself running with him around that prison yard. Running was really the first thing that I felt like I was good at and that I could become very good out. And then, as happened with a lot of kids in a small town, I found beer. I still managed to run sub 5-minute miles my remaining years of high school, but running took a back seat in the spring time to socializing and staying out late. Looking back, I think what a shame it was. Who knows what could have happened if I would have had my head on straight?

I never ran with as much conviction and joy after those early years. Between 14 and 44, I've barely ran at all. Since January, though, I've run three times a week every week, and although I take pride in that, I haven't really enjoyed it much. The only aspect I do find rewarding is bettering a previous personal best time. In my case, that doesn't take much because my personal bests are pretty pathetic. In fact, they're embarrassing. But I'm persevering and hitting the trail every other day. Today, I ran the longest distance and time since I started running again, and I have to admit, it felt good. It didn't change the fact that my brain  constantly taunted me by strongly suggesting "quit, man, quit," but I endured. On the big scale of running accomplishments, I realize mine rank well near the bottom compared to others, but I'm progressing, and who knows, maybe one day running will transform from something I have to grind through each time into something I look forward to. I'd really like to feel like I did back in my Peter Strauss days, sprinting 400s, having a kick, and my lungs full of life. For now, I'll settle for being a 44-year-old man getting back into the game, slowly and surely. 

Day 148: this is what it's all about

This is my ball of positivity. The only reminder I need that life can and will be good.

Day 147: When Plans Change, Your Character Shows

So, I had all sorts of plans for this weekend. All sorts of things I wanted to get done. And for the most part, I've failed miserably. Most because I hurt my back Friday morning. Since then, my existence has been one that's largely been lying on the couch and thinking nonstop about all the things I'm not getting done. Today, that frustrated came to a head and I blew, in so many words. Primarily, I let my bad mood take over and vent itself all over everyone else. Exactly the thing I didn't want to do. Now, I'm pissed at myself.

People take their crap out on other people all the time. Usually the people who get the crap taken on out are family, or at least those who are conveniently within earshot. I hate taking crap out on my family. It never leads to any good. It only leads to having to make a bunch of apologies and beating yourself up, which is what I've been doing most of the day, and deservedly so. My back doesn't feel any better, my self-worth feels even worse, and the crappy, lonely feeling that was pouring all over my head before has only turned into a downpour. Nice.

Now, the question is what am I going to do about it? Anybody can be Mr. Good Guy when everything is going right. Not everyone can be as stand-up and quality when everything is going poorly. I don't want to be Mr. Ass just because things aren't all rosy and cuddly for me right now. I don't even necessarily want to be Mr. Good Guy. I just want to be honest and straight up. Hey, I'm in a bad mood. Things kind of suck right now. Let me warn you that I'm likely to be a jerk at any minute, so take caution. And if I should take my crap out on you, I apologize up front. I don't mean to be.

I really do hate days like these, where it feels like I'm walking in a desert and there's no way to water. No where to shade. Just unrelenting sun beating on my head, stripping away layers one after another. Nothing satisfies. Nothing soothes. Nothing makes even one second better. All that there is really to do is ride the wave out. Just ride it out and try not to take anyone with me as I do.

I have great kids who can really accept an apology and understand when their parents aren't having their best days. I'm very lucky in that regard.