Day 307: Ah

Wore out and tired. That's a good thing I guess. But now I just close my eyes and revel in the silence.

Day 306: Memphis Lake

For some reason, I was thinking about Memphis Lake today, which a writer from "NebraskaLand Magazine" aptly described as "one of Nebraska's best secrets." He's right; it is, and that's exactly why I hesitated writing about it. 

Frankly, I'd rather not too many people knew about Memphis Lake. I'm sure there are a lot of people who have spent a weekend or two there that feel the same way. On the other hand, that lake is too much of a gem not to share. Maybe it's because Memphis seemingly sits out in the middle of nowhere that makes it special. Maybe it's because as you drive through the itty bitty town that it is, it looks and feels like time has no influence there. It's calm and unassuming. It's tranquil and still. There's no pace. There's no buzz. There's nothing to distract your motivation to just decompress and breath deeply. Just thinking about about the water bumping up against the lake's edge ever so softly makes me want to get in my car and immediately head in that direction. 

I camped at Memphis Lake as a kid with my parents, and I've spent weekends there camping with my own kids. In fact, I've told many people over recent years that arguably the most peaceful, relaxing, and renewing four days I've ever spent on this planet was camping at Memphis lake about five years ago with my daughter, 10 at the time. Time stood still that weekend. Honestly, time and life in general has never felt as slow and so wonderfully unimportant and inconsequential as they did over that stretch of the days. 

Some days, I believe I'd do just about anything to get that time back, to turn the clock in reverse and feel the sun shining as comfortably warm as it was, to watch that same sun dipping below the water line and turn the world into a million shades of pink and red and purple, to hop on that peddle boat with my little girl and zoom our way around the lake chasing the bullfrogs jumping all around us. I do believe some days I'd give everything away for a few more minutes of staring at those endless stars populating the black sky as we sat in our lawn chairs, our bellies gorged on chili and hot dogs and smores and more, listening to the coyotes sing, watching the fire fight on.  

Decades ago as a kid, my dad would take my sister and I there to fish on Sunday mornings. Most people from my hometown took the highway to get to Memphis, passing by the cattle yard that stretched for acres along the road and that emitted a smell worthy of a cattle yard for sure. Not my dad, though. He never seemed to take the path most traveled. Instead of the highway, we took the dirt roads, winding our way the six or so miles from Ashland at a slower but much more satisfying pace.

I loved those rides, seeing the corn fields spanning out, watching the birds fly up among the dust the car kicked up, and feeling my hair blow wild and mad with the window rolled all the way down. Our path brought us into Memphis over the old steel bridge just outside town until we hit the back edge of town, moving past Don's Bar and what passed for downtown Memphis. On most visits, we go back out the same way, stopping at Don's to get a soda for the ride home. Years later, after college was several years in the rear view mirror, I'd eat supper there with my mom and dad, with my mom invariable catching three numbers in Keno to pay for our meal with some cash left over. 

On those Sunday mornings with dad, with our fishing poles over our shoulders, we'd walk our way around the east end of the lake, find a place to sit on that old cement structure, and throw our lines in. Afterward, we stop at the playground and climb all over those old railroad ties, getting slivers by the handful. I never was ready to go home, and I was always ready to go back. 

Some weekends, my extended family of uncles and aunts and cousins would all camp there. I was the youngest boy among all my cousins, and my sister was the youngest girl. We'd follow our older cousins around the hills and roads and pathways down to the lake like they were royalty, listening to every word they spoke about their lives, which we couldn't begin to understand but were enamored with nonetheless.  We tried to keep up during their massive games of hide and seek, and though we were rarely successful, God we tried.  

In high school, Memphis Lake was the place you drove to late at night with your friends and girlfriends, stealing time and stealing freedom. The lake at night was a different lake than the one we saw during the day, and the lake at night with a girlfriend sitting next to you in the care was an even stranger, more exciting one. Overly quiet. Overly dark. Overly full of possibilities. 

During the summer months, the little cafe that doubled as a bait shop was where I'd eat my lunches when we stopped bailing hay long enough to refuel. I can still feel that air conditioning sitting in that little booth wishing the day was over and those hay fields were a distant memory. I can also still taste that hamburger that down so good and so tasty it still makes me smile. And those ice cream cones? Enchanting. 

I still feel virtually the same feelings every time I drive into Memphis, even at the age I am today. What is that power or magic at work? I don't have a clue really. I guess it's not even important. I'm just happy it found me and hasn't left. Maybe the best aspect of Memphis Lake is I still have one daughter who has yet to experience that magic. I can't wait until we put the tent up, start a fire, and dig in for the night. I can't wait for her older sister to walk her down to the lake, find some rocks, and teaching her to skip them across like I taught her. 

Day 305: Democracy & Why I Vote

Someone asked me the other day why I vote. I cananswer that question in one word, “democracy.”

Democracy is quite possibly the greatest gift that a only select group of humans who have inhabited this planet have ever been bestowed.

Every country has fire. Every country has the wheel.Every country has the means to make tools and weapons, even if they’re onlyrudimentary. Not every country has democracy.

I don’t equate democracy to freedom because they aren’tone in the same. I live in a democratic country, but I don’t enjoy the samefreedoms as some of my fellow citizens. Conversely, some of my fellow citizenscertainly don’t share the same freedoms that I’ve been afforded (simply bybeing born male and white). But there is undeniably a hell of a lot of freedomthat comes with living within a country founded upon democracy.

I really try not to take that lightly. Even if myvote won’t “count” in the presidential election in terms of the Electoral College(an extension of living in the Republican-dominated state of Nebraska), my votedoes “count” on a state, county, district, and city level. More importantly, myvote matters immensely on a personal level. It’s a true, immeasurable gift. Agift so many others around the world would die (literally) to have. Being ableto cast a vote in a democratic society is a towering achievement that a wholelot of smart, brave, and tenacious people before me made possible, including bysacrificing their lives.

The old cliché applies, I vote because it’s theleast I can do. It’s the least I can do to show my respect and gratitude and payhonor and tribute to the system and those who created it and saw that it livedon throughout the generations. Voting is the least I can do to educate myselfon the present issues at hand. To know the positions of the candidates who haveshown a desire to represent my voice. To help forge the future of my community.To set a course of action for my children and theirs so that they enjoy thesame privilege.

I have tremendously mixed emotions about the processthat has come about in which I cast my vote, no doubt. It’s maddening toconsider the vast amounts of money spent during election seasons, money thatcould be used so much more wisely and beneficially. I feel a great sense ofembarrassment at the bi-partisanship that I periodically exhibit myself and alsoat those with opposing viewpoints who do the same. I’ll always be leftwondering when this political gamesmanship got to be so contentious andpretentious and self-serving and ultimately detrimental to the end result,which seems to be bettering the lives of all citizens, not just those belongingto the winning party. I’ll always be left wondering when the end goal changed,but I’ll vote nonetheless because ultimately, the true beauty of democracy isstill at work.

I'm grateful that I don’t have to bow to a dictator. ThatI’m not forced to live behind borders. That I don’t fear for my life dailybecause a military regime is threatening to overturn the ruling party.

I’m grateful that I live in a country wheredemocracy is at work in which I vote for the candidate that I feel can bestrepresent me. What a gift. 

Day 304: Boo Radley, King Of Halloween

If I could, I'd nominate and make Boo Radley the Saint of All Hallows Eve. In my book (pun unintended), Boo has always been the man. He was never more the man, though, than on that fateful Halloween in Maycomb when he did the right thing at the right time, looking the Boogeyman in the eye and knocking him right on his drunken ass.

I remember vividly the first time I read “Mockingbird” and just knew more than anything I had every known before that Boo wasn’t a bad man. I just knew. It turned out I was right. I don’t know if I’ve ever felt as good about being right about a plot line since.

But Boo just wasn’t a good dude; he has a straight-up hero. Straight up, stone-cold, backward, Southern-boy doo-gooder, fighting the monster and protecting the innocent. The way Boo dealt with Bob Ewell is still one of my favorite passages contained in any book and still one of my favorite scenes from any movie. I can feel the wind now whipping around from inside Scout’s oversized ham costume and her terrified, wondering what the hell was going on all around her. I can still recall how I was mortified for Jem and how my arm hurt when Bob Ewell wrenched on Jem's limb for all it was worth.

I’ve long held Atticus in the highest regard (and even named a cat after him). I’m mesmerized by Gregory Peck’s depiction more it seems every time I see it. I’ve also long wished I could have been friends with Dill and participated in his chaos and humor. I’ve long believed that Jem, maybe my favorite “Mockingbird” character of all, grew up to become a senator or Supreme Court Justice. But it’s Boo who is the one that really intrigued me as a kid, and that really hasn’t changed much into my middle-aged years.

I can’t recall too many Halloweens where Boo didn’t come into my thoughts, wondering what his bedroom looked like and the view he had from his window. Wondering what would have happened if Heck hadn’t protected him from the publicity that Boo was due. Wondering what would have really happened to Boo if Heck hadn’t have had his best interest in mind. Wondering if Boo gave other little kids gifts. Did his dad beat him? Did his mother love him? Was that Halloween night Boo shining moment? The best he’d ever become?

Every town has a Boo Radley. That guy who is deeply misunderstood. Who is mysterious. Reclusive. Seen but not known. Silent but still manages to speak volumes. That guy who everyone wants to know but no one dares to get close enough to find out what’s fact and what’s fiction. The guy perceived as dangerous. The guy created from perception and half-truths.

The world could use more Boo Radleys, guys with golden hearts and the bravery to act when action is needed. Happy Halloween, Boo. 

  

Day 303: Frickin' Bullies

I’m sick of reading about bullies. Every day it seems, I pop open my Web browser and proceed to read about another kid who has committed suicide because a bunch of morons just wouldn’t leave her alone. Every day it seems there’s some video that’s gone viral of a bunch of kids beating down another kid for no apparent good reason (as if there’s even such a thing). Every day there's a story about another kid just trying to get by who wasn't able. Trying to just keep his head low as to not draw attention but failed, but through no fault of his own. 

I hate frickin' bullies. 

Sweet Jesus, human beings are an insecure, ego-maniacal, hostile group of creatures. 

Don’t feel so good about thyself? Just beat up another. 

Not doing too well in school and life doesn’t hold too many positive prospects for you? Live it up now by kicking the ass of some kid that’s going to be your supervisor a decade from now. 

Mom, dad, and the rest of society put you up on a pedestal because you bounce a ball really well or your muscles are over developed compared to Joe Blow sitting in the stands? Let it go to your head and tout your inflated sense of worth every chance you get by pushing around anyone who can’t push back.

Frick, I'm sick of bullies. 

Sick of thugs. 

Sick of violence-prone morons who can’t stand alone so they find a pack of other morons to stand with them. 

I'm sick of people who can't on their own merits. 

Sick of overcompensaters. 

Sick of sheep who follow narrow-minded dummies and carry out their stupidity for them.

Sick of the cattiness. Sick of idiots obsessed with status instead of substance.  

You’d think after all the years that humans have walked the planet, we would have worked out a way to deal with bullies by now that is effective, quick, and final. No messing around. No prolonged, drawn-out back and forth. No going through all the proper channels. No taking the problem to the proper authorities. No attempts to reason. That stuff doesn't work. You'd think we'd have learned to just nip the damn problem in the bud from the get-go. But that really isn’t the case, is it?

It seems like most humans are more apt to say, “Well, there have always been bullies, there will always be bullies. You just have to stick in there, kid. Things will change. Things will get better.” Ugh.

Maybe it’s the would-be vigilante in me or that the hostility is just flowing at a pretty high level in me today, but there’s a big part of me that just wants to take the “law” into my own hands and stamp the moronic, dimwits out one by one until they get the picture that the b*llshit won’t be tolerated any longer.

I’m half-serious when I say that we should collectively track down bullies, have a heart-to-heart about what’s about to happen if the crap doesn’t end immediately, and then follow on through with the threat if the moron carries on anyway.

But guess would happen? The bullies smashers would become the new bullies on the block. It's inevitable. I don’t trust that humans can act out in good faith for extended periods of time without it eventually ending badly. We’re too susceptible to ego-stroking and power to keep our eyes on the prize. 

But damn it, I’m sick of bullies and their pointless, misguided, dumbass tendencies. This may not be positive thinking, but I hate bullies and I'm looking forward to the day when the meek really do inherit the earth. I can't help but believe it will be a kinder, gentler place. 

Day 302: Skynyrd!!

Lynryd Skynyrd gets kind of a bad rap today among the "hipsters" and musical elite. I count myself as a music snob, but I love me some Skynrd, partially for nostalgic reasons, but for others, as well. There's a reason that pretty much every person my age and older knows just about every word to a dozen or so Skynyrd songs. They kicked southern ass, and ass all over the rest of the country for that matter..

Every time I hear Skynrd on the radio, I think of my dad and his Southern Rock leanings when I was a kid. The type of leanings that embraced Molly Hatchet. The type that welcomed .38 Special through our front door. The Allman Brothers and The Marshall Tucker Band, too.

I can still see those album covers. I'd pull them out of the big-ass stereo console that we and so many other families back in the 70s and 80s owned. I loved looking at those albums covers, pulling out the sleeves and seeing those scruffy beards and that long hair. Those patched, flared jeans that those southern boys wore. The greasy ole' hats and bandannas. I have to admit that I liked a lot of the music, too, even if I don't listen to it much, if ever, today by my own choice. But damn it, if a Skynyrd song comes on the radio, I'll turn the volume up and sing me a little "Sweet Home Alabama" or "Give Me Three Steps" or "Give Me Back My Bullets."

So many other tracks off of those albums I'd play over and over. Put the needle down on any Skynyrd album and you'll hear glorious piano runs and good to great guitar solos. You'll also hear well constructed songs with a whole lot of musicianship on display. It may not be you're cup of tea, but it's still good tea.

My favorite Skynyrd song, though, was "That Smell." The feel of that song haunted me. The eeriness is projected. The guitar's depressing, dark tones. Magic. And Ronnie Van Zant's lyrics were off the charts.That song is when I learned what "monkey on your back" means, and how it can refer to a whole lot of different things depending on who you're talking about.

Decades from now, when I'm old and in my 60s and I hear a Skynyrd song, I'll still think of my dad, his own scruffy beard and long hair, and how those tracks filled our house on many a morning, afternoon, and night with frickin' southern-fueled fun.

Day 301: Snow White

It's a Snow White night tonight on the old DVD player. Disney movies always get me to thinking. What a different world we live in than the ones Disney creates. What a difference in perceptions. 

Imagine if a woman randomly wandered into your house today. She'd be put in jail as soon as the police could cuff her and haul her away. Even if she did clean the joint first. She'd be considered nuts. She labeled a loon. A lunatic. Breaking and entry. She'd have a record. This woman who so willingly cleaned an entire house for a bunch of old men would be ostracized. 

What's happened to the world? 

Is there not a place for a friendly young woman with a glorious voice in today's world to stroll into a house here and there, do a good favor and go about her life without any ramifications? Nah, there's not. 

Hell, Goldilocks would probably get a bullet blasted through her tiny frame and it would be called justifiable homicide.

What's happened? 

I'll tell you what. We've grown pessimistic. We've come to expect the worse in strangers. We've come to look at them as threats and risks that we shouldn't gamble on. We cross road when they're walking down the sidewalk heading toward us. We shoot first and ask questions later. 

Well, I for one have a place for Snow White. Goldilocks, too. I don't want to grow so jaded and afraid that a woman who just wants to earn her keep and a girl who just needs a rest can't find a helping hand.