100 words a day

Driving through my village near Chicago yesterday I saw a sign at city hall proclaiming August 8 -14 “Teen Appreciation Week.”  There were similar signs at the police department and high school.

I thought - what a nice idea to remind teens to appreciate being at that stage in life. They have few responsibilities, plenty of free time, few if any bills and the big concerns are fashion and texting limits.  That’s a lot to be appreciative of; along with free meals, laundry, cable TV and high-speed internet.

Then I realized we are supposed to appreciate teens.  They’re kidding, right?

My son begins middle school today; 46 days from the first day of Autumn.  The temperature is in the mid-90s, he’ll be in shorts and flip-flops and its Friday.  How many things are wrong with this scene?

The sixth day of the eighth month belongs to beaches, boats, campfires and fireflies.  Fridays introduce the weekend; not a whole school year.  When was Labor Day discontinued as the last holiday BEFORE classes began?

He’s excited about science, math, music and computer, but he would have learned more in the next few weeks barefoot than he’ll learn in the next few months.

I appreciate words of wisdom; whether from someone prominent or written on a bathroom wall.  Quotes, phrases and catchy sayings play an important role in my life from “one day at a time” to “you can’t spell families without L-I-E-S.”

The words of the Tao and Toltec thought have weaved their way into the fabric of who I am.  The voices of Twain, Buddha, Voltaire and my father allow me to think more clearly.

One powerful thought comes from my children’s grandmother – now with angels.  “I wish, I wish, I wish I were a fish.” I say it every day.

My children’s grandmother died last week.  Her angels knew she was tired of being so sick for so long.  There was a memorial presentation showing pictures of a little girl, a mother of three, grandmother of four, a wife, a nurse, a traveler and a friend.

There were no pictures of her family fleeing their home from WWII bombings. No candid shots of immigrating to South America and finally to California without knowing either native language.  There were no pictures of the hundreds of people she helped save as an ER surgical nurse. Those pictures she told us in stories.

I joined the 100wordsaday family two years ago with a few goals in mind and I met all but one – the 100 words “every” day one. So, a new challenge waits. Much has changed lately and I want and need to write about those changes.
I have shared the only three rules I thought everyone should live by. Be nice, tell the truth and flush. A great deal of thought, a lot of time at the short end of the stick and the wisdom of my Debbie has made my list complete. “Little Bits” joins my perfect set of rules.

“Estranged” is a “comfy” word for not telling the truth. My dearest friends have been in the dark; so here goes.

I tried to end my life a couple of months ago.  Dark times.  I was tired of feeling lonely.  I got the right answers to my questions from the right doctor.  The right women found me and we fell in love. I’m good and there’s not a thing more to talk about unless someone has some questions.  I’ll answer anything, anytime.

I miss my friends and I should’ve, would’ve and could’ve called - but I didn’t.

I’m sorry Kevin. 

To:  100wordsaday.com

From: Sharkboy

Re:  Sorry

I owe you so much and I am sincerely sorry for not posting.  You have afforded me the opportunity to vent, tell-all, question, speak my mind and all you’ve ever asked for is exactly 100 words.  

Easy said – not so easy done.  I have plenty to say; I just haven’t put my fingers to the keyboards in too long a while.  No more excuses.  No more, no mores.

I have things to say about my friends, my family, and my life.

Twain said.  “Write what you know about.”  A good place to begin… again.

Yesterday was simply a good day.  My Father spent the day at the hospital for tests, scans and consults.  The chemo drugs designed to stop his cancer from growing are working and he was happy with the news.  My brother was thrilled and his eternal optimism received a well-deserved boost.  I was simply relieved to have my Dad for another day.

I’m selfish about my Father’s health.  I want his comfort and happiness first and foremost, but I need more.  My Dad is a great teacher with deep wisdom.  Just listening to him makes me a better father and man. 

I love words; spoken words, written words, new words, dirty words, out-of-date words and especially those hard-to-pronounce words.  I consider myself a colloquialist and words have opened more doors for me than any single action.

There are more than 21,000 pages in the Oxford English Dictionary and I’ve decided to lighten my word-load and ditch forever a few unnecessary ones.  Closure – why look for something unattainable if you truly cared in the first place?  Reconnecting – did you ever disconnect in the first place?  Whatever – since it’s really a question, how about if my answer is “you are insignificant as well.”

February 2010 is thankfully in the books and I couldn’t be happier.  The shortest month of the year is always the longest and most grueling on me and this year was no different.  There was a sunshine shortage and Mother Nature forced my wardrobe to include long-pants for the first time in years.

The mornings were all dark and cold; just like every late-afternoon.  Even the nightly star displays were obscured with snowflakes, clouds or fog.  I accomplished more projects in February’s 28 days, but things seem more disorganized than ever.  March needs 34 days make up for February’s mess.

A woman I love extended her family yesterday with the miracle of her first grandchild.  He is tiny and perfect and full of everything that’s right with the world.  His parents didn’t act like first-timers; they surely had done this many times before.  Grandmother held him with a look on her face I had never seen.

Her life is controlled chaos at best and she must juggle white-hot boulders every minute of every day.  Stress is her constant companion and her one true nemesis.  She cradled her new grandson and her beautiful eyes finally showed the peace she so deserves.

Seventeen years ago I was in Chicago experiencing the birth of my daughter.  The day was all about promises and dreams to be fulfilled.  I held her with such purpose and love and told her the world was now far better off with her arrival.

I know she heard me that morning and understood completely when I whispered “you are a gift to us and your entire family.”  I also sang Bob Marley’s “Three Little Birds” to her over and over, reminding her “everyt’ings gonna be alright.” 

She begins another year today.  There are more journeys now than ever before.

Valentine’s Day is easily my least favorite holiday, topping the Hallmark-created event list with “Sweetest Day” a distant second.  The amount of money spent on red-and-white stuffed animals, bad chocolate and over-priced flowers is ridiculous and if you give or receive any of these items well….you’re not part of the solution.

February 14^th wasn’t always so lame.  In grade school we crafted mailboxes out of Kleenex boxes, construction paper, paste and crayons and carefully attached them to our desks.  We made individual cards for one another and hand-delivered them.  The anticipation of reading each valentine was a feeling forever unmatched.

My kids have been taught that passion and hard work usually equal a satisfying result.  Find something that interests you, put in the time and energy and then sit back and enjoy.

Both my children love reading and books and their lives are rich because of it.  My son has read the “Percy Jackson and the Olympians” series multiple times.  His knowledge of Greek mythology is staggering.  This week he stood in line for eight hours to have his books signed by the three stars of the new “Olympians” movie.  Tonight he’ll see that movie at midnight.  Effort = reward.

The scout motto “Be prepared” is something I take seriously.  I’m rarely caught off guard because I make plans and pack accordingly.  I do homework and have the right tools at hand.

I have people in my life who are entering new territories and it’s driving me crazy how ill-prepared I think they are.  Not enough money, not enough boxes, too much this and not enough that.   Why aren’t “they” prepared?

Looking at myself differently; how prepared was I for divorces, rehab, going broke and flying way too close to the sun?   No one is ever really ready for anything.

My father could always make decisions and then make those decisions work.  He’s an engineer whose thought process has always included precise calculations and utilized his vast knowledge and prior experiences.  He designed things that worked well and stood the test of time.  His decision-making didn’t take a great deal of time because he was always did his homework and was supremely confident; facts which also made him one deadly poker player.

Cancer is creeping up on him much too quickly now.  My father isn’t having a tough time making decisions; he just doesn’t seem to care about making them.  

My daughter was instrumental in forming an administration-approved Diversity Group at her school; no easy task considering she lives in Dixie’s Bible Belt where diversity is a dirty word.  Her group promotes knowledge, awareness and tolerance for individuals with different ideas and lifestyles.  I’m proud of everything she does, but this commitment is special.

Starting an organization to promote acceptance and kindness is absurd; we aren’t born mean-spirited, closed-minded and rigid.  The Diversity Group should count the entire student body as members, but it doesn’t.  Some student sheepeople are listening to their parents listening to Pat Robertson and Rush Limbaugh.

I’ve said and heard the Serenity Prayer a million times but I don’t always listen to the words as closely as I should.  Listening or reciting the prayer can become mechanical and sing-song when I don’t pay close attention; plus I have a few “issues” with prayer in general.  I found a different version of the same powerful idea from a Mother Goose poem and it works for me much easier.  

“For every ailment under the sun there is a remedy or there is none; if there be one, try to find it; if there be none never mind it.” 

Sanctuary is a word my daughter understands and has used wisely for years.  She’s been able find refuge in all the right places to keep her safe.  I on the other hand have found all the wrong places when I needed a break from the chaos I usually caused.  I searched high and low for some peace and stability and always ended up looking for daylight from the bottom of another hole I dug.

Getting some help, listening more and being aware gives me my sanctuary.  The safe place I’ve been looking for has been within me the whole time.

My father is 25 years older than me; always has been.  Throughout our lives that difference has fluctuated.  In grade school, my dad was the oldest man on earth and in high school I treated him like one of the guys.  In college he tried to treat me as an adult but I still had too much kid in me.

When I was running my life into the ground I thought my dad was out of touch and didn’t know anything.  I got better and I know he’s the smartest man alive.  My wiser voice just turned 75 years young.

My son will finish fifth grade this spring and head off to middle school.  His yearbook order is due (the need for grade-school annuals baffles me) and I can celebrate this academic milestone by purchasing a dedication in this important keepsake.  Five bucks gets me 25 words and $20 gets me 50 and a picture.  A bargain price to forever let him know how proud I am.

Years from now, sitting in his CEO or Senate office, my son will pull this yearbook off a shelf with countless other yearbooks and diplomas and say to himself “Was my Dad nuts?”

A wise voice said “if you get far enough away, you’ll be on your way back home.”  That’s the best description of my own journey this past year.  I have learned most of the things I should’ve already known and I see daylight every day.

I’m aware of my place as a father, son, brother, friend and companion.  The roles I play in each of those relationships are nothing like I used to imagine.  I know everything has a consequence and cost and I’m keenly aware of my value.  On my way back home I know everything has a price.

My two kids are no different than the rest of their generation when it comes to things they want or “really need.”  Christmas meant Wii games, cooler iPods, cooler phones and other tech goodies they can’t seem to live without.

My two kids are also way different than the rest of their peers because they can’t live without books.  They asked for, gave and received books for the holidays.  Given a choice, Border’s will beat Best Buy every time.

I offered my daughter a Kindle and she said “How are you supposed to curl up with an LED?”

Good point.

2010 is here, more or less and that’s what I’ve been thinking about – more and less.  I plan next year and next decade to be full of more good stuff and less full of bad.

I’ll have less baggage, clutter and bullshit.  I’ll shed idle time, indecision and worrying over things I can’t fix or control. 

I plan more time being one of the guys again with my lifelong friends and even more guy time with my father, brother and son.  I’ll look through women’s eyes more, especially my daughter’s.

More time on the water and more time for love.

My entire discussion with both my children and anyone else for that matter concerning Santa Claus last about five seconds.  If you don’t believe, you don’t receive – period.  Santa Claus is the simplest thing in the world for me understand and explain to anyone else.

I believe in Santa the same way I do about love, family and friends.  Belief in Santa describes my future and explains my past.  I think about that more than ever this Christmas.  My kids are a thousand miles away and they keep me at an even greater distance.  Believing in and receiving from; simple. 

My name is Mark and my best friends are Debbie, Andy, Kevin, Mike, and Kim; fairly common names. Throw in Eugenia, Clayton and Skippy and that’s as exotic as the list is.

I was last-minute Christmas shopping and saw personalized ornaments, coffee-mugs, sweatshirts, key-chains, license-plates and everything else with a name on it under the sun.  There was no “Cyndy” or “Becki” or “LaQuesha” or “Jaymes.”  I thought – “what were parents thinking when they gave their children unique/trendy names that sounded so good at the time?”

My children have names from Irish mythology and Sioux legacy.  What was I thinking?

“There is great disorder under heaven-and the situation is excellent.”

It’s sub-zero here in Chicago.   My father’s kidney cancer hurts him and he’s scared.  My daughter is waiting on college admissions and she’s probably scared too.  My kid’s Mom lost her career and her Mami’s health is in dire straits and I know she’s really scared.

My brother is single for the first time in his life and he’s scared beyond belief.  My sweetheart is scared for me and about us because she knows everything about everyone and everything.

I’m not scared at all.  I know where my heart is.

I catch “Jeopardy” every now and then on television and I’m a pretty good player for two reasons; I had great teachers in school and I read a lot.  When I come up with the answer to someone’s obscure question I usually joke “I’ll take useless crap for $400, Alex.”

Lately I’ve realized how much I do know and how many things I just instinctively “know” how to fix, figure out or make better.  I have a large library of answers at my disposal all for one reason – my father.  His gifts are my responsibility to pass along and share.

I’ve had way too many people and way too many things living in my head – rent free for way too long.  I’ve allowed people and things to clutter my thoughts with worries and despair and I’ve ended up making so many wrong decisions.

The space inside my head is valuable.  Allowing people to live there without returning my feelings and concerns has been the single most destructive force in my life.  My head and heart have been rent free for so long I didn’t know any better; until now.  There’s a rent increase and eviction notices have been sent out. 

Today would’ve been my Mom’s 75^th birthday, but cancer took her a few short years ago.  Those years seem like minutes.   My Dad will spend today worrying about starting a new chemo drug; a powerful one designed to help his cancer from spreading.  He’ll spend it missing his wife more than usual – if that’s possible.  No one asks for cancer.  My parents certainly didn’t sign up.

I think my Mom would have liked to have celebrated three-quarters of a century today.  She was always up for a party with friends and family around.  Happy Birthday; we’re glad you’re always here.

Rehab and recovery are a lot like tides.  There’s constant ebb and flow along with brilliant moments of stillness and the uncertainty of impending storms.

Poetic words for explaining something un-poetic.  Recovery from ANY addiction is hard.  The success rate is lousy and almost –ALMOST every addict I’ve ever met has either slipped or flat-out lied about using again.

“Progress, not perfection” is the oft-repeated mantra which carries a great deal of wisdom.  Problem is that wisdom is usually only understood by other addicts.  Well-meaning supporters don’t always understand why addicts just don’t “Just Do It.”  We try; every day. 

My father always said the only doctors who know what they’re talking about and tell people the truth are coroners.  Forensic doctors are the only ones who can say for certain what made a patient sick.

 My dad has cancer and my mother died from it and in both cases, the truth is really just guessing.  Most people have the same experience from their physician whether it’s the flu or something more serious.

I was lucky.  My surgeon saved my life a few years ago and always told the truth.  Halloween was my surgery anniversary and he remains my friend.

One of the most important rules I tell myself each day is “there is your version, my version and then the cold hard truth.”  This rule applies to everything from politics and government to relationships and getting through my day.

No matter how many times I recite those words, I can’t reconcile the situation my teenage daughter and I are in.  A year ago I was building the set for her one-act-play competition at school and discussing colleges.   This year I’m not invited to the competition and we haven’t spoke in months.  She needs no father.  I need my daughter.     

I’ve been through parenthood, rehab, jail, marriage, college, graduate- School, fatherhood, work, worry, heartache, massive surgery, depression, poverty, wealth, goodness, badness, joy and the sheer joy of being grateful for no particular reason.

I’m grateful today for particular reasons.    

My best friend and brother escaped the grips of ties that have bound him for too long.  He’s been caught in a rotten relationship that left him in the hospital this week.  He’s out, better and stronger.

He’s going to have to listen to too much crap.

He is a victim of domestic violence.

Domestic violence whether physical or mental matters.

Baby-Doomers are a lot of fun unless you “own” one or have to live with one or work with one.  Most of my friends and I “own” Doomers, meaning our children collectively don’t mow lawns, don’t say thank-you and think sleeping and grumpiness are entitlements.

I met a group of Doomers at a party this weekend hosted by Boomers.  The Doomers huddled round the television while the Boomers hung around the outdoor fire pit (where the party was supposed to be).

Doomers –first in buffet line, video games, in one room together, clueless.  Boomers – cooking, cleanup, conversation, mingling, totally aware. 

Every generation in history has had complaints about the generations which follow.  My father’s generation thought my music was too strange and loud.  My hair was too long and how dare I should question my government.

I myself have zero complaints about the generations following mine.  The people from 16 to 30 do not bother me at all; in fact, they have my envy.  I’ve even given them my own nickname – the “Baby-Doomers.”

I’m a Baby-Boomer; the generation that changes things.  The “Doomers” are waiting for even more changes from us Boomers while they sit at big screens and LOL.

I build these one-of-a-kind deer made from logs and tree branches and have been told how “unique” they are.  I give them as gifts.  This weekend I sold them at a local craft fair for the first time. 

One woman made my day.  She bought two deer and came back two hours later with her husband and purchased two more for friends in the hospital.  She told me the deer would make a difference in her friends’ spirits.  I wouldn’t take her money, yet she insisted. A while later they came back with their adult daughter and purchased eight more.

My son turns 10-years-old tomorrow which means 90 more years in double-digits before he’s lucky enough to reach 100.  All celebrations of your birth are important, but the first one of 90 more is significant and for the first time in his young life I won’t be spending it with him.

This indeed makes me sad, but it’s not “my” day.  I remember every one of his and my daughter’s like it is happening right now.  I remember every other single day and moment of their lives; it’s my only solace for not being included.  Happy birthday my dear son.    

A small portion in the 44^th principle of Tao states “Be content with what you have; rejoice in the way things are.  When you realize there is nothing lacking, the whole world belongs to you.”

My whole world doesn’t feel like it belongs to me; my daughter has become unavailable.  The rare times she does touch base, I’m reminded that I “bother” her too much.  I’m being a parent; she’s the smartest-teenager-in-the-world.  That combination doesn’t elicit “rejoicing.” 

I realize with more sadness than I’ve ever felt I’ve lost more than just a child.  My heart is missing its biggest piece.

One of my absolute favorite days is September 19^th.  What could be better than “Talk Like A Pirate Day?”  I’ve had a connection with everything pirate since I was a kid and that love affair continues today.  I know the difference between a Buccaneer, a Corsair and a Privateer.  I’ve been lucky enough to have sailed their waters and have visited many of their ports.  I know as much about Edward Teach, Anne Bonny and Captain Kidd as I do about Washington, Lincoln and Jefferson.

So hoist the Jolly Rodger, grab some rum and a wench and shiver yer timbers.

I like to think of myself as an individual, stand-alone, el lobo solo kind-of-guy.  Truth be told, I’m more of groupie person.  I thought of every group I’ve been associated with and there are way too many.

Little League, YMCA, Catholic Church, Boy Scouts, Choirs, Awana, Carpenter’s Union, a ton of teams from age five through now, Sigma Delta Chi, Better Business Bureau, PTA, AA, School Board, National Geographic, PADI, Young Republicans, Students for a Democratic Change, NOW, NRA, CoSIDA and a bunch more involving boats, Mother Earth and my kids.

I just want to belong and lately I don’t.  

Addiction is a complicated word.  Addict even more so.  People who stand up in a group setting and admit they are addicts are usually seeking help overcoming a situation they find unpleasant or unmanageable – usually.

The rest of the world is comfortable saying “chocoholic” or “shopaholic” and can joke about addiction to the internet or a television show.   One is about a problem, the other about an enjoyable liking.  Complicated words indeed.

I’ve been running into a fair amount of people lately who are addicted to being addicts.  They’re only comfortable with letting everyone know their addiction; over and over.

Women, more than men have shaped my life.  Women have shared their wisdom and given me the most confusion.  Women have shared in my successes and blamed me when anything in the universe went wrong.

When the joy of fatherhood first came, a daughter was my gift.  When my world went dark a few times I needed a woman to light the way.  I am grateful for the all-encompassing role women play in my life.

Three of those women; my daughter, her mome and my future girl all met this weekend for the first time.  I am a lucky man.

Everyone experiences the occasional moment of clarity; that exact second when you “get it.”
Somehow we all have “known” something was going to happen or we’ve all known beyond a shadow of a doubt something wonderfully good or horribly bad would occur.
Yesterday my father was hit with the overwhelming truth he is dying of cancer.  For three years, a million tests, surgery to remove his kidney and enough worry and weight on his shoulders to sink anyone, my dad knew he had cancer.
Now he’ll wake up every day and go to sleep every night knowing cancer has him.  

I am owned by the boat “Augablue.”  She took me to places I only dreamed about.  I skied behind her and scuba–dived beneath her.  I caught fish off her bough and stern.  I saw Bighorn Sheep, the Great Lakes and the lights off Catalina.  My friends and family played behind her, swam, floated, skied, tubed, wake-boarded and toasted her.

My daughter was conceived aboard her.

The “Augablue” gave desert romance to my best friend and her husband.

The “Augablue” means everything to me.

I am owned by that boat.

That boat has new friends and destinations to accompany me…finally.

I love cowboy films.  Watched one this evening on HBO called “Appaloosa.”  Great movie about everything right and wrong without a great deal of BS involved.  My father and I watched “Shane” and “The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance” a couple-dozen times along with “Unforgiven,” “Stagecoach” and ”Red River.”

My dad quietly and subtlety passed along every lesson those “westerns” tried to invoke.  I’m lucky enough to know how to ride, saddle a horse and throw a rope.

Cowboy skills I’ve learned don’t always come in handy.  Lessons learned from watching and listening to my father always do…always will.

The health care debate has degenerated into something one notch below “professional” wrestling.  Both are full of hot air actors and shills who merely play their parts for either money or ego or both.

The real health care issues are raging in my family and most likely yours.  My mother died after a long-time battle with cancer.  Her bills totaled in the millions.

My father is minus one kidney due to cancer and the disease attacks him each day.  He’s been prescribed a chemotherapy drug which will cost him $8,600 a month.  WTF?  Life is priceless, but $307.00 per pill?

“Make sure you have a good roof over your head,” is one of the many points of wisdom my father’s generation coined.  His generation, you know the one which sacrificed the most, saved the world from evil men and built great products for the rest of the world right here in this country.

My dad is sick from cancer but his engineering mind couldn’t stop thinking about a good roof.  So, yesterday he bought himself a new roof for his 100-plus-year-old- home.  There’s a 30-year guarantee.  He wonders should he have upgraded to the 45-year shingles.  The “greatest generation,” period.

“How would you describe yourself?”  The question every human resource gnome, counselor, therapist, employer and even a serious date asks.  The answers range from typically canned to vague and mysterious, but they’re almost never honest.  The dumb answers to this even dumber question usually involve phrases like “people person, a team player, a listener, a go-to-person.”

On today’s job hunt, resumes are scanned for these ridicules key words and you might even score an interview if you use them enough.

I’ve given serious thought to describing myself and I am comfortable with my answer.  “I’m a hopeful cynic.  No, really.”

There was a point in my life and career when I actually made a living writing.  I’m trying to make that happen again, but there’s something I need to get off my chest.  I have a confession.  I just joined my first writer’s group – ever.

I’m ashamed to admit despite a kazillion published pieces and a sheepskin telling the world I can write, I’ve never sought out a community of fellow scribes.  The group I found has been around for years and is diverse.

And, I didn’t have to say “Hi, my name is Sharkboy and I’m a recovering writer.