Day 342: History

Today, I listened to one friend speak about his 50-plus year friendship with another friend he had just lost. When you hear a man's voice tremble and choke up in such situations, there may be nothing more moving. Or thought-provoking. Or endearing. Time waits for no one. Say what you need to now to the ones who need to hear from you. That's the greatest reminder I experienced today.

Day 341: Brothers & Death

I have three life-long friends. I use the term "life-long" almost literally. I didn't know them coming out of the womb, but in terms of a man's lifetime, we've been companions virtually my entire existence. For the rest of my lifetime, they'll be my friends. 

Two of these friends now have lost their fathers. That pains me. Pains me in the sense that I look on these three as if they are my brothers, because really, they're as close to brothers as I'm ever going to get. They're the ones who have been there always, and in terms of "life-long," they always will be there. So when one of them loses a parent, it feels as if my brother has lost something deep and meaningful to him. 

I'm not found of death, and I don't know of too people many who are. But I've tried this year to make sense of death, to make something positive come from it. 

Now, as one more of my "brothers" is experiencing a loss, I'm trying to make sense. Trying to  show my respect. I reach out. I make myself available. I do all the things good people do when someone dies. But I'm also trying to look at the loss in different terms. I'm trying to realize that I have these brothers who I care so much about. Who I hate to see hurt. Who I've shared more memories with than possibly any people I know other than my family of blood origins. 

I'm trying to use death to reinforce that these "brothers" mean the world to me. I don't say it enough. I don't show it enough. I don't display it enough, but they do. We don't share everything in common, and I imagine in many ways, they find a great deal about me that they'd just as soon not have to put up with. But you know what? They do anyway. They might not approve of everything I do or say or believe in, but they accept me for what I am, as I do of them. 

That's what brothers do. I'm lucky to have them. 

Day 340: Cheerleaders

I've known cheerleaders. Dated cheerleaders. Cheered from the stands with cheerleaders. Watched them dance. Watched them march in homecoming parades. Watch them lead pep rallies. Watched them throw pom poms in the air and catch them. Watched them yell through megaphones, build pyramids, do the splits, pump their arms in karate thrusts, and wear big, fat smiles on command. 

I've heard cheerleaders yell, "Go Big Blue!" "Go Big Red! and "Go Big Every Other Color Under The Sun." I liked it when they sang, "We are the Bluejays, mighty, mighty Bluejays!" Not so much when they went "BANANAS!" or bragged that "We got spirit, yes we do!" I loved it when they taunted the all-boy schools with "We have girls, yes we do. We have girls, how about you?" My ego really like when they cheered my named: "S-I-N-K, sink it, Blaine, sink it!" 

But truth be told, there's so much about cheerleaders and cheerleading that I don't know or understand. 

Last night, I was reminded of cheerleaders. My kid is a freshman and in her first year of high school basketball. That means for the first time since she started playing organized ball at five years old, there are cheerleaders at her games. Hearing and seeing them while simultaneously watching her play was kind of alarming to my senses in a weird way, but also kind of cool. Watch a game with cheerleaders on the sidelines and then one without and you definitely notice there's something missing when they're absent. It's a different atmosphere that comes alive when they're filling the gym with their voices. There's a different vibe going on. The action is more alive, more frenetic and chaotic. There's a greater sense of urgency. In a word, the environment is "jumping." 

I have no idea what it is about cheerleading exactly that entices little girls and boys to want to become one. I've never bothered to ask, I guess. I'm sure there are all kinds of reasons that are appealing. I know that some people make fun of cheerleaders. Some people say they don't know why anyone would want to be one. I also know some people are all in where cheerleaders are concerned. They follow every call and response that comes their way. I suppose more than anything, cheerleaders represent tradition where high school sports is concerned. Whatever purpose cheerleaders serve, I'm glad they're there. 

Day 339: Yukon Cornelius

Yukon Cornelius fascinates me. Where did he come from? Does he have himself a woman? Does he like to partake in a drink now and again? Where did he get that damn fine blue attire? What kind of relationship did he and the "Bumble" share after we last saw them together? What exactly happened when they fell off that iceberg? Did they hit the ground, lay there together, and have a deep, meaningful dual-contemplation about the meaning of life and why they were wasting time searching for valuable minerals and flesh to eat? 

Last night, I got another dose of Yukon and his cool-ass way of life and phrases ("Fog thicker than peanut butter"; yes!). Like most people my age, I've had a healthy supply of YC over the years, not only during my own childhood, but through all my kids' childhoods, as well. That includes my four-year-old, who I sat with last night and watched ole' Yukon and Hermie and Rudolph do their thing on television. 

Like other parents, my exposure to Yukon borders on the extreme. At some point a few years ago, my wife thought it would be a good idea to buy a box set of Christmas classics on DVD that includes "Rudolph The Red-Nose Reindeer." I like Burl Ives OK, and buying the set seemed like a good, nostalgic thing to do--until my daughter became obsessed and was still watching the thing deep into July. That was more Yukon and Hermie than any man should have to tolerate. These days, we hide the thing, breaking it out only at Christmas time. 

Still, last night was my first viewing this Christmas season, and despite all the previous hours I've exhausted in my life basking in Yukon's glorious existence, I found myself learning a few things last night about Yukon that have had me thinking about this red-headed stranger ever since. 

First, Yukon carries a gun in his belt. A nice six-shooter, in fact. I never noticed that before. So, why doesn't he use it? Why doesn't he shoot the ole' Bumble when he gets too close and make a coat out of him? Why doesn't he at least fire a few shots over his head to scare the monster off? 

Second, I learned that Yukon must be a fellow guitar player. When he runs across Hermie and Triple R initially, he tells the odd couple that he's out to buy a number of supplies, including "guitar strings." Try as a might, though, I never spotted a guitar. What gives? If Yukon really does play the six string, what kind of music does he pick? Ballads? The Blues? Is he a crooner? Is he a soft-spoken folk artist? Does he fingerpick? Does he know the metal progression? What would our jam session look like? I feel compelled to know. 

Ultimately, I think that I think about Yukon so much for the same reason that other parents might have similar thoughts about shows they've seen a million times. If I didn't think about Yukon in unusual (and arguably creepy) ways, I'd go crazy sitting there viewing after viewing after viewing. Worse, I'd probably act as I was disengaged and bored, and I don't want my kid thinking as much. I want her to remember Yukon the way that I do. As a savior. As the guy who tamed the beast. The guy who took the fall (literally) so his friends didn't have to. I don't want her to remember Rudolph or Charlie Brown or Barney or Blue or any other character she might otherwise like as the guy her dad rolled his eyes at. 

Here's to you, Yukon. I know there's more to you than meets the eye. 

Day 338: Homeless Denver Guy, I Apologize

Last Sunday morning while in Denver stopped at a gas station on Colfax Avenue, a homeless guy walked up to me while I was standing next to my car. He was seeking whatever it was that I could spare. At least I think that was what he was seeking. The truth is that I was too busy immersed in my own world to bother listening to what he was saying. I assumed he wanted some money, but while he was talking, I was simultaneously on the phone talking to my kid, who was also in Denver and trying to give me directions to the place he was nearby to pick him up. 

I didn't think much about the homeless guy until a few hours later while in the car making the drive home. At the time the guy tried to communicate with me, I was more worried about the directions and the prospect of driving around downtown Denver at roughly the same time thousands of Broncos fans were flooding into the area for the football game about to be played a few blocks over. But now, in my car on the interstate, among the peace and quiet and with hours of free time ahead of me with nothing to do but think, I finally did turn my attention back to the homeless guy, and I got pretty pissed at myself. 

Why did I even assume he was homeless in the first place? The bad home-done tattoos sketched all over his body (including his face and forehead), his tattered clothes and shoes, the lack of teeth, the disheveled hair, and his weathered, scarred skin pretty much gave it away. But I didn't bother asking his plight. I have a feeling we were roughly the same age, though he looked many years older, rougher, and worse for wear. But I don't know because I didn't ask. 

The thing is that I could have done better than make assumptions. I could have found out for sure by actually stopping long enough and giving him more than money. I could have given him my courtesy.  Instead, I handed him the few dollars that were in my pocket and went right back to talking on the phone. Even when he tried to thank me, profusely so, I didn't bother to take even five seconds to say much more than "you're welcome." What a waste. 

What would have it cost me to have asked a few questions or just listen? A few minutes of my time? So what. Would have letting the guy look me in the eye and give thanks offset those lost minutes? Undeniably so. 

The fact that I didn't do as much sucks. It sucks for me. Sucks for the lost opportunity to do more than fork over some bucks and instead actually engage. Sucks for the lost experience of otherwise recognizing what was brought before me, on a Sunday morning no less, and participating in some fellowship with a fellow human being down on his luck. Fellowship, perhaps one of the most worthwhile reasons to exist. I blew it. 

In the end, I'm guessing the guy is far more satisfied with having gotten the money than with my would-be conversation, but I'm not. I'll gladly hand over the dollars again, but next time I'm getting something more out the exchange than the realization that once again I failed to recognize the importance of a moment as that moment was playing out. 

Day 337: My Necklace

I'm  kind of big on symbols. Not so much in the way that I want everyone to know that I stand for something (the way a symbol on a T-shirt or hat might do) or that I want people to associate me with the symbol (although I don't mind when people see the NY on my hat and know I'm a Yankee fan). I’m big into symbols more rather for what they remind me that I want to be or at least try to be.

Over the years, I’ve toted two symbols around wherever I go on a necklace. The first one I added over a decade ago. It's a pretty common Hindu symbol representing the sun or the god Surya (“the Supreme Light”), depending on which way you look at it. Some of the references often attached to the symbol include “radiance” and “power,” and both of those are why I was attracted to it initially and ultimately slung it around my neck. I’d like to think I’m in pursuit of both qualities in the most positive sense. 

The second symbol is a cross that I got from my parents after I was baptized. Unlike a lot of people who are baptized while still children, I was deep into my 30s before I did the honors. I took the plunge along with a handful of kids in the church, and it still ranks as one of my proudest and most fulfilling days ever. I love this cross. What it signifies in general is pretty well known. For me, though, beyond the faith, strength, belief, love, honor, integrity, and other traits commonly attached to it, the cross reminds me of my parents, family, and my own journey both with them and away from them on my own.

Over this past weekend, I added a third symbol to the necklace. While in a small shop, I ran across this little twirling stand on which hung a bunch of small circles, each with a word or phrase engraved on it. You see these kinds of displays all over, offering maybe a small rock or slab of flat metal or some other surface on which someone has etched, painted, or engraved the word “Integrity” or “Honor” or “Peace” or “Love” or what have you. 

I've always liked the idea of the circle representing the universe and perpetual motion and infinity. I like the idea of a word on the circle that translates an ideal I'm striving to practice perpetually even better. The Japanese enso, for example, is one of my favorite symbols of all, both for its simplicity and for the search for enlightenment that it represents. 

So, after spending what seemed like a lifetime trying to decide which word I wanted engraved on the little circle I planned to sling around my neck and carry and then strive to reach for, I finally chose “Patience.”

“Patience” seemed to speak to me with the most vigor. I haven’t been practicing it all that well of late, and it’s one of the qualities I admire and respect the most in those who exhibit it on a continual basis. Patience can mean a lot of things, I suppose, including patience with ourselves, patience with others, practicing patience while await meaning to come, and so on. Honestly, I’m pretty much in need of patience in all those respects and numerous others. I'm happy with the choice, but now comes the hard part--actually putting it into practice. 

Today, as I was running, I could hear the three little pieces of metal around my neck all clinking together on the chain I’ve worn around my neck year after year after year. The noise sounded good. I liked the way it resonated. I like the music it made to my ears. I think they'll work well together.

Day 336: The Road Home

Is always longer than the road there. But waiting at the other end is comfort and familiarity to make the ride worth it.

I'm excited to see my little baby.

I'm excited to see my bed.

I'm excited to feel my pillow.