Tuesday, June 05, 2007
Flight 346 and a Useless Crutch...
06/05/2007
Headed for Milwaukee on an Air Tran flight. The plane just took off a few minutes ago and since I do my best thinking on airplanes, or so it seems, I thought I would jot down a few things I have been giving thought to today.
Just prior to leaving the farm this morning, The Nancy had already left for her office, and as I was primping and making myself suitable for public consumption, I overheard something on the Today Show that caused me to wander into the bedroom and listen. Some guy taking Al Roker’s place for the day– I didn’t care enough to remember his name - was outside the studio on the Plaza getting ready to do the weather report. He was bantering with some people and stopped to chat with a very attractive young woman inquiring as to why she was in New York. As cute as she was, I probably would have stopped, as well. She said she was celebrating her birthday and blurted out to “Mom and Dad” she had acquired a new tattoo. The substitute weather guy said something about TV ethics or policy or some other TV crap would not allow her to show the tattoo because of its location on her person, but she did show one on her lower leg, just above her ankle. He then asked her what it was he was looking at, and she responded, “A tugboat.”
I think the weather dude had the same look of incredulity on his face as I had on mine. A tugboat? The girl couldn’t have been more than eighteen or nineteen – a great age to make decisions on things that will affect your whole life. Weather guy asked the question that had to have popped into the heads of thousands upon thousands of viewers; why a tugboat?
Her answer caused me to have more questions than the tattoo itself. “To help me get through life,” was her reply. That is what she said, and I heard it with my own two very much unbelieving ears. I was flabbergasted anyone that young could possibly need anything to help them “get through life,” especially a friggin tattoo.
A tugboat pushes and pulls. It is a support mechanism for large ships as they maneuver in tight spaces and unfamiliar waters. It guides them and directs them – a crutch, so to speak. Why does an eighteen-year old need a crutch, I have to ask? Does the tattoo serve as a reminder she cannot make it in this life without something to support her, to move her forward? I just don’t get it.
I think sometimes people spend way too much time thinking about living without ever trying it: too much time leaning and not enough falling down. If you think you need a crutch to make it through life, then, dammit, you will need a crutch to make it through life. Go make it on your own, or you may be doomed to grow old in a world of Woe-Is Me. You don’t need a damn crutch or a tattoo in order to make it through life. Go live it. Go be it.
I am fully responsible for all that happens to me in my life or has happened to me in my life, and that means everything – all the good, all the bad. Everything! I don’t need no stinking crutch. I choose to live. The Hell of a Guy lives!!!
I’d like to grab that girl by the shoulders, shake her a couple of times and slap some sense into her. Perhaps give her the crutch she is so in need of. Don’t get me started.
And that is all I have to say about that…
Friday, June 01, 2007
Mom and the Memorial Day Parade
06/01/2007
My mother, or what was left of her after dementia ravaged her mind, passed away on May 23, 1997, the Friday of Memorial Day weekend. I thought of her many times this past weekend as I surrounded myself with The Nancy’s family and some of my own to view the Memorial Day Parade in The Nancy’s hometown. The highlight of the weekend for me came in the form of having all six of my grandchildren in the same room at the same time. I wish my mother could have been there.
Meredith and family came up to the farm on Saturday. I got to spend time with Vivienne (4) and Henry (5 months). It is a big deal for me to spend some one-on-one, alone time with each of the kids. I got to take a short walk with Vivienne ( Miss “Excuse Me?”) and talk about important things like giant meatballs, beautiful flowers that most would refer to as weeds and colorful stones (that are in abundance on the farm, but nonetheless, fascinating to a four-year old). She told me of her imaginary (assumption on my part) friend, a tiny, very active meatball named Sweetie, who is twenty-four years old. Henry, on the other hand, is just Henry…his time will come, but it was truly a magnificent thrill to hold him and feel his weight in my arms and have his special baby scent in my nostrils. (Check out Henry at http://www.metalmeredith.com.) I don’t think Meredith and Phil intended to give me a gift this weekend, but the presence of these babies in my house certainly was one and was further evidenced by the joy I had at 6:30 Sunday morning as Vivienne and I put together puzzles as the sun rose over the mountain and brought daylight into our home.
The second part came Sunday at the Peppler’s house in Grafton, West Virginia. The Nancy’s wonderful sister and her husband had a good portion of The Nancy’s extended family for a pre-Parade dinner. In addition to having Vivienne and Henry there, stepdaughter Jackie came by with two of her four, and I got to exchange punches with Jared (8) and Jon-Luke (6). These guys like to sucker punch ole Dave, but they also remember that we have a rule, (more like a Hell-of-a-Guy Law): You hit me and I will hit you. Actually, I think they like punching on me just so I will punch them back. I guarantee a six-year old can pack a wallop with a well placed, unsuspected fist to the…you know! But the neat part was that I now had four of the six grandkids in one house and got to hug on each of them. It made my day.
The “piece de resistance” of this menu of “Weekend with Grandchildren” came on Monday as we watched the parade and later at The Nancy’s parent’s home where we had all six of our grandchildren under one roof. Shortly after the parade ended, and it was totally home-grown and superbly down-home, we all gathered for lunch. I think I was first at the buffet – I usually am not shy when it comes to being first in line for grub – and found a spot on the settee to enjoy my victuals – or vittles, as we West Virginians are accused of calling them. As I began to eat I was joined by two very special people in my life: Jessica (12) and my man Justin (10). They are two of the cutest kids on the planet.
Jessica and Justin are getting older. It isn’t easy to get my hugs in with them these days. Generally it is me as the initiator, but this weekend they came to me. This thrill – them seeking me out to sit by – was almost more than this old guy can deal with; I was on the verge of tears.
Four of these kids are the children of The Nancy’s daughter, but I claim them as my own, just as I do with The Nancy’s daughter and her husband. These guys are my family, too.
All of this renders down to a very simplistic observation from my point of view. I had a spectacular weekend with people I love and children I adore. I say a lot of dumb stuff about the grandchildren, like loving to wave goodbye and junk like that, but the truth is they are the best and being with them makes my heart beat a thousand times a minute. All of this, I believe, would have made my mother very proud of the man this boy has become.
And that is all I have to say about that…
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Old Friends and a Weekend Retreat...
05/23/2007
Friday, May 18th…This blog seems to have turned into sort of a travel log, and that has never been my intention, but once again here’s the beginning of another piece on the travel and travails of the Hell of a Guy.
This very gray, cool morning finds me sitting at the airport in Charleston, West Virginia awaiting a flight that will eventually carry me Little Rock, Arkansas, and a final destination just outside of Hot Springs, the Brady Mountain Resort. I am due to board the plane in about thirty minutes and I had a brilliant thought; it being, to kill the time writing of my thoughts about the trip I am to make.
The Nancy and I spent the last three days at a conference in Charleston. She has a function she must attend at home, so I am making this trip like a big boy…all by myself.
I will be spending the weekend with some of my Millennium friends, and this will be our second reunion since completing the Millennium Workshops in Dallas back in April 2005. I won’t go into what the program is about or how awesomely thankful I am for my daughter sharing it with The Nancy and The Nancy with me. The website address, just in case you should have an interest in learning how to live with zest is http://www.millennium3education.com. Check it out?
I am very excited to see these folks with whom I shared so much for months of our lives. This weekend has been planned for many months and much of what will happen when we are all together will be completely unscripted, as it should be. We know nothing of the accommodations other than the approximate location. If fact, all we do know is that we will be in cabins near a big lake.
More to follow…
Monday, May 21, 2007: This time finds me on a Delta jet about the size of a couple of Volkswagens. I am jammed in a seat by a window, and oh so fortunately for me, the seat on the aisle is vacant. I have room to stretch and this will allow me the requisite room needed to type using my three-finger method of speed typing – one in which I have trained just a few of my fat digits to nimbly work. Actually, three fingers for the lettered keys, my thumbs for the space bar, and one to hit the delete button as my not-so-smart fingers constantly hit the wrong keys (my fingers do not move as fast as my eyes and the impulse to strike the keys fires a little too quickly). Anyway, my afterthoughts are next.
Some of us drove and some of us flew into Little Rock and then drove rental cars through Hot Springs to our final destination. The Brady Mountain Resort will not win any awards for luxury. While two of the cabins were okay – one a little more than the other, my cabin appeared to have been constructed prior to the Birth of Jesus. It was truly barely livable, but I managed. It may have been constructed by Abe Lincoln. Mine was a duplex cabin with the other side occupied by my best buddy and his wife. Two guys stayed a one of the newer cabins, but not the best cabin. Four of our ladies got the Taj Mahal cabin…well, not quite that good, but compared to the duplex, it was nearly heaven. This was the closest I ever hope to come to camping.
The Brady Mountain Resort was the perfect venue for this reunion. Its lack of conveniences and amenities, you know, creature comforts (TV’s that worked, though we wouldn’t have watched them, would have been nice). Not having TV or cell phone service and other attractions or distractions, allowed us many hours of face-to-face gatherings. We were able to reacquaint, catch up, tease, hug and coach each other. We did nearly everything as a group, most of the time and it was nothing short of perfect. We are already planning a weekend in 2008 – this one, hopefully, to take place on a farm near Beautiful Downtown Berkeley Springs, West Virginia, aka The Town of Bath, population 711.
The, for want of a better descriptor, “resort” left a lot to be desired, but the nearby Lake Ouachita that stretches nearly twenty-five miles in overall length throughout rolling countryside left us awestruck. The sunsets were incredible and the weather was perfect. The lack of amenities did not detract from our purpose for being there, which was nothing more to recapture a moment from two years ago when we parted one April 4th. The time flew by, but I think we all came away with renewed spirit and our love for each other has reached a new plateau.
And that is all I have to say about that…
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
A Night at the Troubadour
05/16/2007
The Troubadour is a honky-tonk bar you have to visit to believe. The inside of the place reminds me of a house that has been over decorated for Christmas, Halloween, Easter and every holiday or occasion known to man, all at the same time. It is a dizzying atmosphere with an incalculable number blinking lights of all colors hanging from anything and everything that will support them. If a wall isn’t adorned with photographs of patrons and country music stars – past and present, and plastic things like palm trees, whatnots and illuminated beer signs (mostly mass-produced industrial swill) and,yes surrounded by blinking,colored lights, then it is plastered with some kind of hand-printed, warning signs and rules. Lots of signs…lots of rules.
One sign clearly notes that on nights with live entertainment, beer prices and other drinks increase by fifty cents. Another states one can be barred from future entry for “using profanity,” but I don’t think it is enforced with more than a “shhhhhh!” While still another sign lists instances in which one could be barred for “Life.” Since this is one of just a few actual bars in the county, being barred for life carries some weight, apparently. A very conspicuous sign posted just above the cash register advises the two bartenders, Rene and Kat, in very large print not to accept checks from two of their more notorious, less trustworthy customers. The Troubadour is an adventure into a world of frenetic colors and fantasy, all illuminated with lights and haloed with ubiquitous cloud of cigarette smoke. Smoke that so permeates your clothes you need to undress outside when you go home and leave your clothes hung out to let them air.
A week ago, The Nancy and I passed some time with the elite in the lounge of the W Hotel in New York City, where we were not very comfortable. Six nights later we find ourselves at the Troubadour hobnobbing with a bunch of very real people, not prone to putting on airs of any nature – they just don’t give a hoot what people think. I like that so much more than the haughtiness of the NYC crowd (but look forward to going back to New York because I love it, too).
The Troubadour has about fourteen seats around three sides of a U-shaped bar. Only four have an overhang to place your seat under. If you sit at any other, it is as if you are seated next to a box – you have to lean forward to get your elbows on the bar. Not real comfortable, but I don’t see it ever being renovated to accommodate my elbows or my knees. We hadn’t been there in about six months, but, still, Rene remembered what we drank the last time we were there. That floored me.
As we entered the Troubadour, we were greeted by the owner; a sweet man whose health is suspect, but easily guessed when he speaks with his raspy, low voice as a half-smoked cigarette dangles from his lips. The Nancy always gives Jim a hug when we enter the place. He reminds her in many ways of her favorite uncle. We paid our $6.00 cover and made our way around the bar and sat down at the same spot we sat on our last couple of sojourns to the Country Music Fantasy World of Morgan County, West Virginia. The live entertainment was in the throes of setting up huge speakers and instruments on the small stage, and was just about twenty minutes away from torturing us with a myriad of rock and roll oldies and a sprinkling of country music best heard on an unplugged radio – trust me; we won’t hear any of them on American Idol. (I can hear Randy now, “Check it out!!! Dawg, that just didn’t do it for me.”)
Our evening at the Troubadour began looking around the place and checking out the improvements since our last visit. These included a number of new lights and more photographs and subtle warning signs. We took it all in, especially the people (maybe twenty-five, but not many more), as we enjoyed – a term used loosely in this instance – a couple of the Troubadours finer beers. I had a Heineken and The Nancy suffered through a Michelob Ultra. Nasty stuff! We saw some folks we recognized, not in the acquaintance sense. We have seen them around town or at the Troubadour on previous occasions. One is a regular there, a young man named Eric.
It became abundantly clear Eric had been in the place for a while; his speech seemingly impaired a smidge from being over served. Eric is about five-foot ten, a tad overweight, has frizzy, long black hair, and would remind you, if you read the Harry Potter series or saw the movies, of Hagrid, but a bit shorter. Eric was having some difficulty forming both his words and his sentences. Checking out the room, we could see and hear a few of Jim McCoy’s other customers were having a fabulous time unintentionally doing Eric impersonations. Eric came over and talked with us for a while; at least he thinks he did. We were not exactly sure what he said, but I think Eric had a good idea of what he wished to convey, even if his diction and enunciation were a little off the mark. He likes The Nancy a lot and likes to dance with her, and always asks me for permission to ask her to dance – it’s the way it is done in West Virginia. Perhaps that was the subject and object of our conversation. If it was, we missed it.
At one point two of the boys probably pushed one another a little too hard in a verbal contest and an altercation nearly erupted, and as we listened and chuckled and awaited fisticuffs to begin, who appears and steps in the middle of the fray, our little frail friend, Joltin’ Jim McCoy (Google it. Joltin’ Jim McCoy. He has a celebrated history.) Jim isn’t afraid of anything, or so it seems. I think he has had some tough battles in his lifetime. Some he has lost, but with many he came away the victor. This time he won. It wasn’t too long after these two guys, embolden by God knows how many Bud Lights, took their discussion of who-will-kick-who’s-ass to the parking lot, followed by none other than Jim McCoy, threatening both with being “banned for life” if they didn’t get the hell off his parking lot. Jim is a real Hell of a Guy.
This was a night of many contrasts. The Troubadour is nothing but a gaudy, smoky honky-tonk frequented by a bunch of rednecks and redneck wannabes, and occasionally by this redneck “could-be” and his wife. The Nancy and I sat at the oddly built bar, ate some of the Troubadour’s nearly famous American Fries from a menu full of epicurean delights of the breaded, fried variety – Jim don’t think much of the French, hence, American Fries. We painfully sucked down a few Heinies for me and a few Ultras for her and took in the flavor of Troubadour in all its splendor, knowing all the while she and I will find ourselves sometime down the road in the same place, probably in the same seats and will enjoy every minute we are there. We did have a blast this time, as we have had every time we go, and all of this for a total cost, including the cover of $21.50, which is about the cost of two beers and a tip at the W Hotel in New York City. New York City was a neat place to visit, but it is not nearly as interesting, and never will be, as the Troubadour. What a country!
And that is all I have to say about that