Fatness and Light

Since moving to Oakley, Utah three months ago, I have lost 15 pounds. I don’t work out, not on a regular basis. I do go to the gym often, but most of my time there has been spent tossing a football with Solomon or sitting in the hot tub talking to strangers about what it is to live up here in this healing valley.

Happiness burns fat.

When Elizabeth and I met, I weighed 150 pounds fully clothed, including the gel in my hair and deodorant on my armpits. Our marriage happened so fast. It was a January-I-Hate-You to December-I-Want-You-To-Forever-Be-Mine affair. We were young, dumb, selfish, and ignorant, a disaster worthy of stopping to witness.

Love does not always include Like.

We put on a good show. In public, in front of friends, around our family, we stuck to the fitness routine, burning hollow calories with feigned happiness. Behind the closed doors of our tiny apartment or in the privacy of our little pickup truck, however, we spit anger, hurled betrayals, and roared with uncharitable disdain. I would often drive alone for miles and miles and miles through the night just to avoid lying awake and angry in bed with the woman that I loved but hated. She would stay home crying in the darkness.

After some time living near parents and friends whose eyes we feared would eventually bore holes through our façade, we moved to Seattle. Nothing changed but the weather. During our first months in Seattle, our record for not speaking a single word to each other was one week. For seven days we ate, slept, and lived beside each other in absolute silence. When we did at last return to speaking it was rarely layered with respect, and was never seasoned with the sweetness of love.

I once punched a hole in our closet door rather than punch her in the face.

My little brother came to live with us. Jared slept like a welcome distraction on the futon in the living/dining room of our one-bedroom/two-room apartment. Our months with him were light and fun, a partial reprieve from our troubles. I cannot be convinced that his arrival was serendipitous; there was something greater at work there. Those months spent with Jared in Seattle are counted among the best moments of my life, and I thank God for them, most especially now that Jared has gone ahead.

Jared left, and Caleb came. I have been heard to admit that without Jared, Caleb would not be, and without Caleb, Elizabeth and I would not be. The fact that we conceived a child amidst such unhappiness is for me a testament to the power and patience of real love. Even while wading through the bile produced by our misery, we felt beneath our feet the solid bedrock upon which we had started this hopeful adventure. We knew that we wanted to be together, even though we couldn’t always see why.

Happiness burns fat.

Caleb gave us someone to be responsible for. His calm and easy way made it easier for us to remember how to love, and we did love just a little bit more, enough to stay in the fight. We moved back to New Hampshire for a stability that didn’t come, and though we continued to fight, often until the late hours of the night behind the closed door of an unhappy bedroom, we tried harder to burn fat. Still, more than a few times the sun came up on our anger, our bodies weak and trembling from not only the physical but the emotional exhaustion that comes from arguing through the night.

It was only when she cried in a way that told me I had damaged her heart that I backed off with regret. Only when I stopped speaking to her for days because of the absolute heartache her words could invoke would she approach me with remorse. We would mend for a time, but we could never restore, and before long the demons would once again rise up and demand that we abuse each other as only those who love each other really can.

You will know that it’s love when it hurts beyond measure. Otherwise, you wouldn’t care, would you?

Hannah came crashing in like a Spitfire, adding a thrill to our days that has not yet faded and hopefully never will. Passion in her tanks and a compass in her cockpit, she combined with Caleb to put us closer to a level flight in the right direction. We still fought, and we still stabbed at each other, but more and more time would pass between the swellings of spite and anger.

Elizabeth and I began to feel like grownups. Having given up on anything more than a life of uphill battles, we resigned to conditions on the battlefield rather than flee from it. We adapted instead of evolving. Resentment and martyrdom settled over us and we allowed them to stay. Life felt better when we believed that it was.

Don’t settle down, settle up.

A new house, and a new baby boy in Solomon, wise and sober, but full of mercy. Cleave this marriage in two and be done with it, or let those that love it cry out and save it at any cost! What were we doing? What had we been fighting for all those years? Months of nights wasted behind closed doors, years worth of days spent in floundering sorrow, and for what? Had anything good come of our mad fury? Had one of us gained enough ground against the other to allow a declaration of victory?

And what of a victory? Wouldn’t a victory for one mean the defeat of the other, and the end of the whole?

Change became our way of life. Emotional, spiritual, even psychological change that felt physical, as if we were changing our shapes in order to change our minds and hearts. We lived one conscious decision after another, each decision followed by actions, words, thoughts, or feelings, and sometimes all of the above. To say that patterns and behavior years in the making, some from before Elizabeth and I even met, were hard to alter, does not serve justice to the painful process.

A week before he died, Jared told me that he longed for the life that I had resented and treated like a burden. True Love, with all of its pain and sorrow, was this world's most cherished blessing and the prize that he wished for above all else. The failure to win it was the reason he wanted to die. How good then, did it feel, to tell him with tears in my eyes that I had finally come around to see my life as a blessing, and Elizabeth as the reason that it was. Still, sitting beside my sad and lonely little brother, I felt a shame greater than all the anger and spite that had consumed the better part of my married life. I had been given so much, and had buried it in the hot and burning sand for so long.

Change is liberating, especially difficult, worth-every-moment-of-pain change.

It snowed tonight. Several white powdery inches in a short matter of time. Elizabeth is pulling the kids from school tomorrow to take them skiing for her birthday. I can already picture their happy red cheeks, and I am eager to hear about their day.

I will never again weigh 150 pounds. I don’t need to; even at 190 I feel light, like a handful of the snow that blankets our valley. As I write this, I sit fresh from the shower, naked on the floor of our closet. It is well past midnight, and we are not fighting. We haven't fought late into the night for many years now.

Happiness burns fat.

Happy Birthday, Elizabeth; I love you above all else.

Loosened Up

There were over forty of them. We had nowhere to run, the terrain afforded us no hiding place. As we approached the cabin they came at us, their arms outstretched, eyes wide with anticipation. I watched as the horde surrounded us, swallowing us up to satisfy their appetite. There would be no escaping these love zombies. They came at me, smiling, laughing, hugging, and kissing me as I passed through their gauntlet of joy.

I was at my wife's family reunion.

I could hardly think of a thing to say to them that in my opinion didn't sound inadequate or stupid, but still they each had something nice to say to me. I hadn't seen some of them in well over ten years, and most of them for at least three, and yet it felt as though I had just returned from a short trip to the grocery store. When we pulled up to the cabin in the mountains they were all just right there, a giant cluster of people in a flurry of happy activity. They were making reunion shirts using fresh white cotton tees, cardboard stencils, and cans of spray paint. Within two minutes, after hugging the crowd in record time, my kids were part of the fray, blank tees and cans of paint in hand, their creativity flowing as freely as their happy chatter with cousins.

I stood on the porch and marveled at it all. Nervous, unquiet thoughts and emotions that had often plagued me upon arrival to their reunion scene in previous years were absent. I felt comfortable as I caught up with brothers-in-law, fist bumped nieces and nephews much taller and more grown up than I had imagined, and hugged women who offered up not only love and welcomes but food and beverage as well. It was like coming home, and not for the first time.

Come the morning of the next day, my heart and mind were on overload. Such happiness and outward expressions were not the family interaction to which I am accustomed. To witness, receive, and offer up such healthy proportions of love was suddenly too much for my system. I had thirsted so long that when the water was offered I more than accepted a glass or even a pitcher full, but rather dove into it, saturating every pore to the point of bursting. I was drowning from the inside out, and panic was taking control.

I thought it best to sneak away for a spell in order to regain perspective and settle my emotions. My goal was to settle in comfortably and become a part of this joyful troop by the end of the week. To lose sight of that goal, or to surrender to the discomfort and distance myself from them, was not an option I wanted to allow myself this time around. I had to collect my thoughts to the contrary and dispose of them before it was too late.

We had been extended the use of my mother-in-law's vehicle, and I jumped into it and drove out the front gate and towards the reservoir deeper up the canyon. A little machine known as a "Santa Fe," the car looked like the tiny niece to a more powerful and menacing four wheel drive uncle. It was the same car we had used the last time I had joined everyone up at the cabin several years back, and it had served us well then. The favor of its use and the freedom it afforded us was not lost on me. I was very grateful not to be looking forward to an expensive rental charge at the end of our trip.

I turned onto the dirt road and headed up towards the massive body of water. It took several minutes to get there, but I took it nice and slow, rolling the windows down and enjoying the dry heat of the sun on my arm hanging out the window. I played John Denver on my Ipod, filling the woods with the sweet sounds of comforting music. I began to feel a calm descend, and the positive outlook for my week returned.

I reached the reservoir and pulled to a stop at the bottom edge of it. I shut off the engine but left the music playing softly. The water level was higher than normal due to the rain and snow that had fallen in record amounts over the past several months. A few fisherman stood at the very edge of the water, waiting patiently for a nibble, and a few canoes lazed their way across the glassy surface before me. I gazed up at the mountains. They were blanketed in green, a nice contrast to the indigo that filled the sky above. My spirits soared with the sight of it all.

I sat and listened to John sing about rhymes, reasons, prayers and promises. My thoughts were happy ones and peace was mine to hold. I let the music play, and watched the water lay still for a time before deciding I was ready to return to the joyful mayhem at the cabin. I started the engine, turned the wheel, and touched the gas. As I turned the car around, I heard a popping sound and watched a puff of dust fly up above the right front wheel. My carefree bubble burst as I realized at once what had happened. I had popped a tire.

The windows were open, and Utah learned a few new words that morning. I sat in the little car and leaned forward, resting my head on the steering wheel. This was not the zen moment ending that I had been expecting as I drove away from my newfound serenity spot. After a minute or two of wallowing in self pity, I jumped out of the car and was suddenly very conscious of the vehicles in the immediate vicinity. No fewer than eight large 4x4 trucks, a host of four-wheelers, and five horses with riders were within a stone's throw of the tiny little Santa Fe and its punctured tire. The sweat that began to seep from my pores had nothing to do with the heat of the sun. It was due to the fact that I was surrounded by cowboy hats, Wrangler jeans, and sunburned necks.

I have always been self conscious. While I don't really care what people think of me, I really do care what people think of me. It is a strange way to live, thriving as I do on my individuality until it causes me to be noticed. Would that I could capture the elusive ability to pick and choose the times and locations for standing out, but that kind of control remains at large.

I did my best to act nonchalant as I walked around to inspect the flat tire. Dressed as I was in my black Converse sneakers, dark plaid Vans skater shorts, and blue tee shirt with the logo of a Boston based roller derby team known as "The Cosmonaughties," the chance of blending in with a bunch of cowboys was at best a pipe dream. If my attire was an arrow shaped sign indicating my out-of-place presence, the itty-bitty Santa Fe was a billboard lit by bright-red blinking neon lights, topped off with a pair of giant speakers through which played the "Which of these kids is doing his own thing?" song from Sesame Street.

I opened the tailgate of the car and pulled back the carpet. There didn't appear to be a secret panel underneath the which I would find a spare and all the tools needed to swap a flat tire. My core temperature began to rise in order to keep up with the panic building within me. I pictured a long walk back to the cabin, followed by a condescending ride back to the reservoir with my father-in-law. To top it all off, it was the fourth of July. Finding a garage willing to fix the flat (if it was repairable) seemed unlikely. Added to all of these thoughts was the fear that all the time spent in getting the car back on the road would mess up the family plans for the fourth of July. We had tickets to the Oakley rodeo and fireworks that night. I had heard more about this rodeo from Elizabeth and the kids than any other event planned for the week. They had been in previous years, and Elizabeth had been many times during her childhood. I was looking forward to it, and to think that I might be otherwise occupied with a flat tire made me angry.

Not one to ask for assistance until having exhausted all possibilities, I dismissed thoughts of asking one of the truck driving cowboys for help. I knew how to change a flat, but I needed s spare tire in order to do it. I was sure they didn't have a spare small enough to match the little Santa Fe, so what good would it do to inquire? My mind raced through my options, lighting upon the most unlikely of sources for assistance. I would read the manual.

I climbed back into the front seat and dug the manual out of the glovebox. In cases such as the one in which I found myself my mind tends to believe that if I follow common sense protocols to the letter, all will be well. In accordance with this belief, I flipped to the index and searched it for the page numbers related to the spare tire rather than thumbing my way through the book in hopes of finding it by luck. Sure enough, things began to go my way. The pages dealing with the spare tire indicated that it was hidden underneath the cargo hold, hanging from a metal strapping system on the outside of the car. I jumped out of the Santa Fe and knelt down to peer up at the undercarriage. The spare was not only there, but it was pumped full of precious air, and appeared to be a full size tire as well. Hope lit a match and held it out for me to witness.

The only thing missing was the set of tools needed to release the spare, jack up the car, and remove the lug nuts from the flat. I had already searched the cargo hold, and so I spent a few frantic moments searching the rest of the car. I stuck my hands between and under seats, searched the glovebox, and laid down in the dirt to inspect the harness holding the spare in place. No luck. Not wanting to add to my bad fortune, and believing that Utah had learned enough new words that morning, I refrained from cursing. I sat down inside the cargo hold to think, and spotted the manual next to me. I had dropped it there when verifying the existence of the spare tire. I thumbed through the pages detailing the spare tire and read more thoroughly. To my joy I discovered that a secret panel lay underneath a hard plastic layer in the cargo hold where I was sitting.

"Eureka!" I exclaimed at the discovery of the jack and lug wrench. In a flash I was underneath the car, loosening the nut that held the spare in place.

"Looks like you could use some help." A slightly drawling voice startled me.

I turned my head to see two pairs of cowboy boots not a few feet away from my face. I slid out from under the car to see that a rather large cowboy and his even larger but younger companion had moseyed on over from their vantage point to get a better look at the silly city boy and his teeny weeny flat tire. Their faces were tanned almost earth-brown from time in the sun and their jeans were American blue. I looked up at the giant cowboys and began to speak.

"Yeah, silly flat tire. This is my mother-in-laws car. I haven't even been in Utah for twenty-four hours and this trip is already looking to be more work than fun. I am out here from New Hampshire for the first time in about seven years, came for my wife's family reunion. I needed a few moments away from the loving mob. I am just not used to forty some-odd people being so nice to each other, especially when they are family. Then this happens. What a way to spend celebrate independence." I paused long enough to tell myself to shut up, and slid back under the car to hide my face and to finish pulling the tire down.

I watched from underneath the car as the cowboy boots walked over towards the flat tire, then turned around in a slow circle, as if searching for something. The tire harness let go and the tire dropped to the ground. I pulled myself to my feet and dragged the tire out, turned it upright and rolled it around to the front right side of the Santa Fe.

"Why don't you hand me that jack and I'll get 'er started." The older cowboy held out his hand as he said this, and I felt like grabbing hold of it in appreciation. My faith in mankind as a whole has long been on the ropes and his simple words, delivered like the easy going dialogue found in the countless Louis L'amour I had read growing up held restorative powers.

I laid the tire down and pulled the jack from the cargo hold, handing it and the tools to him. He laid down in the dirt to get a good look at the best spot to place the jack. His light-blue, pearl-buttoned western-style shirt was at once filthy from the dust. I choked on the realization that these men were heaven sent, and walked around to the other side of the car, using the pretense of chocking the wheels with rocks to hide as I wiped a few tears from my cheeks.

The jack wouldn't lift the car enough, so the man sent his hulking companion over to their truck to retrieve a large block of wood. I watched him go, and saw him talking to a couple of women and some children seated in lawn chairs next to a portable grill set up near their truck. A large trailer was hitched to the truck, and a few four wheelers were parked on it. A little white lapdog sat on the ground underneath one of the empty chairs. I smiled at the polaroid moment.

The younger man returned with a massive block of wood, dropping it next to the jack. The older man situated the block under the jack while the other used the lug wrench to attack the nuts that held the tire in place. The wrench handle was short, and so was the leverage. He had no luck in turning the nuts. I watched as he strained, his dark face turning a deep red with the effort.

"No luck, this wrench has no leverage. We need a pipe or something we can extend the handle with." The young man stood up tall, the tiny wrench a toy in his massive hand.

"Not sure we have anything like that in the truck, let me think." The older cowboy said, kneeling in the shade of the little car.

I considered my options. I knew there was nothing in the Santa Fe that could be used to gain additional leverage. I badly wanted to have a go at the nuts myself, but looking at the size of the young buck that had just about lifted the car off the ground in his attempt to loosen them held me fast. To try and fail, cementing my city boy image was not an attractive outcome, nor was besting the young man at a feat of strength. I felt trapped by circumstance.

"Let me have a go, for what it's worth." I said, desperate to extricate myself from this dilemma and willing to risk almost anything to do so. I took the offered lug wrench, and Goliath moved back to let little David have his go.

Every lesson I had ever learned about exertion, every word of instruction from coaches and trainers came into play. The phrases "lift with your legs, not with your back," "focus on the flexing muscles and channel your efforts into the ones that need it most," and "do your best, and forget the rest" rose from the depths of my memory, empowering my frame. I settled down onto bent legs, straightened my back, kept my head upright, and pulled on the wrench with every bit of strength and positive energy that I could muster.

The first nut twisted loose, and without hesitation or fanfare I moved on to the next, with the same result. Within moments all of the nuts were off and the tire ready for removal.

"I must've loosened them up for ya." Goliath laughed, my stunning display of strength having no ill effects on his ego. I heard the older cowboy chuckle as he began to crank the jack handle, raising the car enough for me to pull the tire loose.

I hefted the tire into the back of the little car while the two strangers put the spare on and began to tighten the nuts.

"You guys going to the rodeo tonight?" I asked, desperate to find some common ground with such manly men.

"No, we're just up here four wheeling for the day, grilling some dogs and enjoying the fun. We've been to the rodeo many times before." The young man offered in reply.

"My son here lives not far from Oakley, with my grandkids and my daughter-in-law." The old cowboy gestured at his son as he said this. I sensed more than just a hint of fatherly pride in both his tone, and in the way he looked at his boy-become-man when he said it.

Soon the car was lowered back onto all four tires, the tools and jack stowed, and the full size spare tire in place. The little Santa Fe was at last road ready once again. I approached the cowboys to offer up a handshake and my thanks. My hand was black, my arm covered in dirt. My clothes had hardly faired any better.

"Looks like you've been through it." Smiled the grandfather cowpoke.

"Yeah, but that's okay. Thanks for your help, sorry you got a bit dirty yourself there." I indicated to his shirt, now brown in more places than it was blue. The sight of it sparked another round of emotion for me, and I forced myself to hold it together until I had said my goodbye.

"No bother, we expect to get a little dirty up here in the mountains. It comes with the territory." He took my hand in his, and his grip was as firm as I had expected it to be. I fought the urge to hug him.

"Take care, glad we could help." He let go of my hand, and I moved over to his son.

The younger man's hand swallowed mine whole. "I looked around, and the only thing that could have popped that tire was a tiny little rock sticking up through the dirt. Funny how a little thing like that can cause such a big problem." He pointed at a little nub of a rock, protruding from the ground. I kicked at it and nodded in wondrous agreement.

"Thanks so much, I really am grateful, and wish I could return the favor." I said, knowing there was nothing I could possibly do to repay these men that I would never see again. I climbed into the little car and started her up, gave a wave, and pulled away.

I glanced back and saw the two men walking towards their truck and family. The father placed a hand on his son's shoulder, an affectionate gesture that broke open the damn holding back my waterworks. I started to cry, overcome by the swarm of emotions that had enveloped me since arriving in Utah the night before. I reached over and hit the play button on my Ipod as I drove my way back to the cabin full of forty-some-odd love crazed family members.

John Denver sang out loud, "Hey, it's good to be back home again. Sometimes, this old farm feels like a long lost friend..."

Post Script:

The rodeo that night was more fun than a naked pony ride through a field of goose down on a windy moonlit night.

And in case anyone was wondering, there was no condescension in my father-in-laws tone as he expressed his concern upon hearing about the flat tire. In fact, he spent the next afternoon in Salt Lake City, putting four new tires on the little car in order to ensure our safety while visiting. Thanks Bubba.

Reaction Time

I might have been twelve, I don’t remember. The warm surge of blood, the beating of my heart, and the adrenalin coursing through my system as I felt the release; it all felt so satisfying. I didn’t understand why, but I certainly wasn’t going to ask anyone for answers. It just happened one day. It felt good, so I kept doing it.

My hands have always been fast. I remember the day we measured reaction times in science class. Each lab partnership was given a specially marked ruler. The test was simple; your lab partner held the ruler in the air, while you waited for them to drop it without warning. The line pinched by your thumb and forefinger denoted your reaction time. I had the shortest. My lab partner was a mammoth-sized football player. He was impressed with my speed and spent the bulk of the lab time talking about how fast I was. He shook his head in disbelief as he made me catch the ruler over and over again. I felt special, but in a good way. I had never been the best at anything other than acting like a punching bag. Still, I didn’t share my newfound habit with him. That would have been weird.

That habit has since divided into three separate manifestations. I have never demonstrated any of them in full for anyone. Elizabeth has heard the sounds, caught hints at times, but I am not sure that she has ever witnessed the complete process. It’s not that I am embarrassed to show her, she knows everything about me. I just don’t show anyone. My habits are like cats humping; we all know it happens, but has anyone ever seen it?

Of the three, my bathroom habit is the most vulnerable to detection. Keeping secrets in public bathrooms is tough. I used to wait until I was alone, or go into a stall for privacy. Over time I have devised a subtle way of making it happen without detection. I can stand at a urinal and do it with confidence, even if there is no divider, like in the bathrooms at Fenway Park.

But I did get caught recently. I was alone in the restroom at a client’s office. Those are dangerous moments. When alone I tend to take it up a notch, making the most of the solitude. It’s quite a display. On this particular morning the owner of the company walked in and I couldn’t stop fast enough. He paused, his mouth hanging open. My hands and eyes didn’t have anywhere to hide. An awkward moment passed between us before he farted and walked into the stall to crap. I zipped up and flushed, my face warm with embarrassment. I felt better when he started to laugh. I guess everyone has his or her strange and unexplained habits of comfort. At least mine don’t release clouds of noxious gas.

They release clouds of tension.

Behold! My ticks...

1. When taking a piss, I hold out my hand (or hands, it depends) and twitch my wrists. My fore, third, and pinky fingers are extended. My second finger is curled into my palm. The rapid twitching makes my ring finger slap against my thumb at a high rate of speed. It sounds like a plush machine gun. If I am alone, my arm makes wide circles over my head. The veins in my temples expand and my eyes open wide. A second or two more and it ends. The rush recedes. Flush, wash, and exit, a paper towel in hand for opening the door.

2. In the shower, my hands slide-clap against each other. It starts with my arms straight and low, my wrist pressed together. They slide back and forth against each other, gaining speed.  My fingers slap against my palms until everything is numb. The sensation flows up to my shoulders and into my back, and then recedes back down my arms and out the tips of my fingers. The tension slips down the drain with the soapy water.

3. While pulling on my pants, I shake them. It starts as I slide the first leg in and continues until it is over, typically when my pants are up to my knees. Sometimes I am still shaking them as I button up the fly. It depends. Muscles in my neck flex, and from them bursts a sudden rapture. It flows down my back and into my legs.

I have noticed an increase in the intensity of these moments since Elizabeth and I found my little brother Jared dead from suicide in the woods. I still don’t think that it’s OCD. No one will suffer if I skip it. Harm will not seek me out should I stop mid-cycle.

I don’t have to do it, I just do.

Black Op

It was a beautiful day for killing. The sun was warm and the air still. Mark and I started out early that morning, riding motorcycles up the mountain. We each carried both a rifle and a pistol, and two bricks of 22 caliber ammo between us. The ammo would last for half the day if we took our time and shot patiently.

We set up our shooting stand atop the massive rock formation in the center of our favorite meadow. I had always imagined the long, flat rock to be a sacrificial alter placed at the center of the grassy meadow by an ancient tribe of deadly warriors. Thousands of years before Mark and I showed up it had been bathed in the blood of captured enemies, ugly women, and small children.

We loaded our guns and began to shoot at anything that chirped, tweeted, or flew. Our first several shots were disappointing, but we soon dialed in our sights and our nerves. Before long we were hitting just about everything we aimed at. The rifles worked best, but we used the pistols for celebratory shots directed skyward. In between volleys and reloads we would sip soda, munch snacks, and wait for the birds spooked by our gunfire to return.

We were patient. The ammo lasted for hours.

Long after the cracks of our final shots faded, Mark and I sat and listened for sounds of life in the meadow. We heard nothing but grasshoppers twitching in the grass. Bloodlust coursing through our veins, we walked out into the grass and inspected some of our kills. 

I have shot many guns since that day, but not one of them has been aimed at a bird.

Don't ask me about chipmunks, rats, or squirrels.

Some Hose, Some Hose, My Kingdom For Some Hose!

I don't recall the first time I noticed them, maybe the nurse that carried me fresh from the womb and over to the heat lamp was wearing a pair (white in color would be my guess). The swish of her nylon-sheathed thighs might have brought on my first smile, or my first gasp for breath.

Most of what I remember about my first grade teacher was the soft sound her legs would make as she walked past me, sitting on the floor of her classroom with a book in my lap. In memories she is nothing more than a pair of light brown legs that I want to reach out and touch. It was in first grade that I first made accomplices of dropped pencils, loosely tied laces, and insects. They all made excellent excuses for dropping to the ground. Down there I could sneak a better look at all the lovely nylon columns swishing past me.

In third grade, my dreams were weird. I remember the most common, in which all of the female teachers would line up in the main hall of our school. They were always wearing nothing but tight fitting body suits made out of panty hose. These suits were something I imagined as fantastic but impossible.  I did not know a thing about lingerie in those days, and so I had no idea that such outfits did in fact exist. Had I known, my Christmas wish lists might have shocked my parents. Since I wasn't all that familiar with the female anatomy, the women in this dream were, but for their most obvious curves, androgynous. I would walk along their ranks like a drill sergeant and pick out my favorites. These favorites would then climb onto a long waterbed in a long locked room. Once they were settled into a comfortable row of floating panty hose and soft curves, I would disrobe and roll over the top of them. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, I continued to roll, enjoying the silky layer of nylon bobbing up and down beneath me. Though I loved the sensation, the dream always ended in a hollow feeling, as if something more was supposed to have occurred. Nothing ever did, and so I would wake up to a frustration that I did not understand. The only thing I knew with certainty was that I was a sick little boy that would never spend any amount of time in heaven.

In fifth grade I spent so much time picking up pencils in front of my favorite teacher's desk that one day she actually asked me how the view was from "down there." In an instant I was flash frozen to the floor by my shame. She would tell my parents. I would be exposed to the world for the creepy kid that I already knew myself to be. My family would be humiliated. Dad would lecture and Mom would cry. I would be punished by my parents, shunned at church, and expelled from school. No longer welcome at home, I'd have to run away and live in the woods near the cemetery. My brothers would divide up my Star Wars toys, and I would soon be forgotten. These were my thoughts as I slowly climbed to my feet. Standing before my teacher, a red mask of guilt covering my face, I expected her to hiss, screech, and curse my name. Instead, she smiled at me. After a very long moment I retreated to my desk, confused, worried, and embarrassed. I had been caught on all fours, staring at my teacher's legs; why wasn't I on my way to the principal's office, or being pushed into the back of a police car? Every day for the rest of the school year was an experience in awkward agony, putting a damper on my panty hose habit for a long spell.

Easter, the celebration of the resurrection, and another reason for me to hang my head in absolute shame. Little plastic eggs hidden around the house by a magical rabbit. They should have held no real significance for me in relation to my eternal well being, but they did. Those little plastic eggs would mock me every year, reminding me of my nylon hunger. They were just miniature versions of those I saw in panty hose ads on television, and on display in great big bins at department stores.

By the eighth grade, I knew a heck of a lot more about the female anatomy than I had in third grade. This was due in part to the many pencils dropped more conspicuously in grades four through seven, as well as many magazines stolen from under the mattress of my friend's older brother. The distractions that this new knowledge about girls brought on forced a great portion of my nylon fantasies into remission. This did nothing for my salvation, nor did it erase any of my guilt, however, because my focus had only been redirected to what was behind the nylons.

As a twelve year old I tended to drift in and out of attention during church meetings. I wanted to be anywhere else, except for school of course. Church was (and still is) boring, monotonous, and spiritually tedious, especially for the guilty. I already knew that I was going to hell, and that my life would produce nothing of great value. Why did I have to be reminded of that every week by some creepy old man with a greasy grey comb over and a vacuum-like sense of humor that sucked all the fun out of the room?

To further compound my confusion over religion, one Sunday morning the old face informed us that we had to produce a video for the upcoming church film festival. He presented his idea, which was based on the "less filling, tastes great" tag-line argument of a popular beer commercial. Our commercial would be for panty hose. We would split into two factions, arguing over whether it was the fact that the nylons were "laced great" or that they were "less chilling" that made them the best brand of panty hose to wear. The hilarity of the video would be that a group of twelve year old boys were dressed up as women. We would all, of course, have to wear nylons for the video.

I remember sliding into them on the day of the shoot. I sat on my bed and collected one side of the panty hose up into my fingers like the women in so many commercials I had watched over the years. My toes pointed, I slid them over my foot and up along my leg, smoothing them out as I did. They were so soft and cool against my skin! It was wonderful. Years before, my mother had made me wear tights to school in the winter. I hated them. I had sworn to never don them again, and that I would never force my future sons into such a humiliating position. But this was somehow different. While I felt silly for wearing something made exclusively for women, I felt as if I were being let in on a secret that only women knew. Soon both legs were covered in a thin, silky membrane. I closed my eyes and rubbed my hands over them, imagining Kate Varnseck's legs instead of mine.

Soon I was dressed as a woman. Complete with makeup, hat, shoes, and a purse, I walked through the neighborhood without a thought to being embarrassed. There was no way anyone would recognize me all made up and dressed like a woman, and I really didn't care anyway. The video shoot went well. I hammed it up, slapping a hand on my thigh, stomping my heels, and heaving a big sigh as I argued my case for why the panty hose were so great to wear. I don't recall if I was assigned the "less chilling" or the "laced great" side of the argument, but I do remember the sensation of the cool air on my legs as I crossed them in mock disgust during the debate.

While I enjoyed my brush with panty hose, it didn't stick. That video shoot brought an end to my obsession. I was like a boy whose father makes him smoke a whole cigar in order to kill his curiosity. I gave it a shot, and it didn't play out. I had never wanted to be a woman. While I still loved the soft, silky texture of panty hose, I found it easy to avoid wearing them. I do admit, however, to reaching out for a touch now and again, especially when offered the chance openly by a girl.

Years later, after lusting after many brunettes, I found myself enthralled, enraptured, and engaged to a feisty blonde. She was beautiful. I wanted to impress her. Shakespeare seemed a safe bet. I read to her from Romeo and Juliet by candlelight.

Wanting to look the part, I wore nylons.

A Comfortable Crisis

You can find me on the couch. I'll be the one taking a long pull on a cigarette from one hand, with a bottle of beer in the other. A plate covered in pizza crusts rests on my lap, while pudding cups and cookies wrappers lie scattered about me. I lounge in my lightweight corduroys and a roller derby tee shirt, watching "Rev." on BBC and planning my next "wank" of the day. I am the one that looks numb while remaining wholly enraged. Unless you know where to buy some weed, don't bother knocking on the door.

Is there a point to this farce?

Not really, but it beats the hell out of commenting on a sermon filled with bigotry and fueled by ignorance, spewed forth in between discourses about a loving God that seems bent on confusing the heaven out of me.

Going once, going twice, almost gone!

While I appreciate a nicely restored car just as much as anyone else might, I am not one to spend my idle hours studying them, learning their horsepower, estimating their value, or memorizing the years they were produced and what might make them more collectible than other cars of their day.


Having said that, I do sometimes get caught up in something that I normally wouldn't find fascinating. I recently spent close to ten hours watching a weeklong car auction out of Indianapolis. There were over 1,700 cars to be sold, and the event was televised live in HD. I sat on the couch, usually with food or a laptop at hand (sometimes both), and watched as Corvettes, Mustangs, Chargers, Ramblers, Novas, Camaros, and many more makes and models than I can remember were rolled out for display and bidding.


Having been somewhat of a car junkie during my teenage years, I knew many of the cars that were pushed, pulled, and sometimes, but rarely driven up to the block (low mileage makes a car more collectible). I have always loved Porsches, and a few were sold, but the majority of the cars for sale were American cars, with American muscle under the hood and American memories behind the wheel. It was captivating, all that shiny chrome, bright paint, and pure horsepower on display en mass. I was drawn in and stayed there for days, watching to the end, until the very last car rolled off the red carpet and into a new owner's collection.


That auction set my mind to thinking, or rather many recent events, combined with that auction got me to thinking. There have been hundreds of makes and models of cars that will only ever be seen again in photos, film, or memories. These cars were functional enough in their day, (although that is probably debatable in many cases), but they were never as lovely or desirable as others, and therefore they have been allowed to rust away into memory. A photograph or the mention of them might bring to mind a road trip, a destination, a fight, a particular evening out, a life changing event, or even a specific relationship, but the fact remains that at some point they were no longer functional, practical, or desirable, and became more trouble than they were worth.


Much like those car models that never became collectable, I have over the past several months concluded that some of the relationships that I once thought of as useful, functional, reliable, lovable, and desirable should in fact be discarded and replaced with newer, highly functional, and more dependable models that will hopefully be instrumental in building new memories, new happiness, and in filling new photo albums. It has been and will continue (for a time) to be sad to let go of relationships that are no longer worth the time and effort of maintenance, but in the end the good will out. I have found that some things in life are easier to let go of than we first thought, especially when we have been kidding ourselves for years when it comes to their true value. The key is to know which relationships are worthy of attention, affection, devotion, and efforts towards restoration.


Of course, some people go missing regardless of how much we care, or how much we try, or how much we love. While these people may be the most precious, most lovable, and the most worthy of our attentions, we can not have them back in this life, no matter how hard we wish we could. These impossible situations are the most frustrating, because we will wish away our days, imagining that if we could have them for even but a few moments we would appreciate them for all that we didn't recognize in them before they left us. Living with this regret leaves a hollow space inside of us, one that cannot be filled, no matter the number of things we try to cram into the deep empty within us.


Among the relationships that I have had to let go of is one that has taken a little longer to break off than all the rest. It was a one-sided association with a judgmental, self-righteous, ignorant fool that refused to change, to flex, to question, to learn, or to grow. He was an intolerable tyrant that was quick to anger and slow to forgive. This guy was a real horse's ass, dwelling on the insignificant and carrying around with him the oppressive weight of grudge-filled buckets that dangled from the unwieldy yoke that had been laid across his shoulders at birth. Not someone that anyone with one-third of a heart would want to spend any measure of time with, he sucked the joy out of anything and anyone that dared to cross his path not looking, behaving, or believing as he did or as he thought they should. Farewell I say, to the ignorant dogmatist!


And so I admit to having been a right bastard, and I think that in order to make up for some of it, I'll buy Elizabeth a convertible someday, and we will drive away into the night without a thought to destination.

Way Too Cool For This Block

The sun is out. Warmth abounds, drawing people out of their homes and into their yards. The clouds have gone, and I am reminded of the short story by Ray Bradbury entitled "All Summer in a Day," where the rains cease once every seven years, allowing the sun to shine for one hour. Neighbors are meeting in the street to chat, kids are riding bikes, and cars slow down as the people in them wave or shout hellos.


I am walking my daughter's bike to the garage, trying not to grumble about her carelessness at leaving it out in the yard. The bike, not yet hers for one complete day, is a lime green BMX style ride with funky black detailing, lots of shiny chrome, and foot pegs. I never had such a bike growing up, and so the urge to know how one feels underneath me is too great to resist. I swing my leg over the seat, drop down onto my butt, then head up the driveway and onto the street. I ride straight and fast up the road a bit before leaning from side to side to make large, swooping circles on the asphalt.

"Nice bike!" Shouts my neighbor as he runs past me. He is chasing his fiesty five-year-old daughter as she teeters on her tiny little pink bike, her red hair blowing behind her.

"Way to go Bella!" I offer encouragement, happy to see her braving the world without training wheels for the first time.

On our rock-star (for real) neighbor's front lawn there is a small gathering of people, so I head over to hear the latest neighborhood scuttlebutt. I brake to a halt, making myself a part of the circle. I sit low on the bike, dropping one foot to the ground and draping one arm lazily across my lap, striking a cool and casual pose. The circle erupts with a wave of laughter.

"Dude, sweet ride, I'm so jealous." This from the rock star, a motorcycle owner, as his wife snaps a photo of me with her phone.

"Yeah, I guess. I'm just out here trickin' with her, to see how she rides." I shrug my shoulders, indifferent to his praise. This brings another round of chuckles, and I am suddenly feeling quite heady and full of myself.

Jokes aside, a real conversation ensues. We discuss the Apple Ipad, our kids, workouts that work us out, bad movies, weird neighbors that should have moved away long ago, and health care reform (just kidding on that last one). I am feeling pretty good; I don't typically converse with the neighbors without Elizabeth around, and especially over the past several months. 

The wind picks up, and I feel a chill below my belt-line.

I look down. My underwear stares back. So much for being cool.

These Dreams Go On... #2

Were you to ride shotgun through my nights, you might...

shake your head at racist road signs,

pick some cotton,

and talk to strange and headless roadkill.

You could chance upon a 190 ft. Crucifix,

chase windmills,

or make new friends, like a plastic pony

or a plastic eating cow.

The sun will probably shine hot through the night

as you walk with me on Mars,

and see the sights.

You will more than likely play in the road,

and you might be lucky enough to stand with me as I relive the fulfillment of a bizarre childhood wish that I cannot explain.

There are many places we could go, and many things we might do, but there are two promises I can make to you;


You will at some point find yourself sitting in the parking lot of a lonely motel just off the 40 in Kansas City, Missouri,

and you will always get to see my favorite view of the Grand Canyon.

Franz Kafka is my copilot

What good is a family that cannot come together in crisis? Is there any emotional profit from believing in an eternity spent with anyone who refuses to change, and cannot open up their heart and mind to unconditional love and personal growth? If we carry with us into the next life our personalities, thoughts, knowledge, and attitudes, is there any real chance at reaching this blissful and eternal happiness to which we lay claim? As we sit on our respective pews each Sunday, fighting to stay awake during the less than inspiring discourses, each one filled with more cliche and misguided opinions than the last, does any one of us feel like jumping up and shouting a joyful Hallelujah? In our greatest moments of spiritual survival, as we ride roughshod over the blackened remains of temptation, fear, and filth, do we look back to check for innocents in the wake of our self-righteous destruction? Do we listen for the sound of hearts beating in the chests of our supposed enemies, the ones we face each day when we walk out the front doors of our hallowed homes and into the dark and dreary world? Are we truly surrounded by evil on all sides, tempted by those we work with, and threatened by the choices made by people we dare not interact with? Do we, the self-appointed mighty live in such fear?

Rewind my clock. Take me back to March 24th, 2009. I felt differently about so much, including all of the above. But it has been a year out of Kafka, and I have undergone a metamorphosis. Still, after so much change I remain flawed, but I revel in it because to be flawed means that there is the possibility of change still living within me. To stop changing would be death, though not in the physical sense, because to shed this life is in itself just a gateway to more change. No, to stop changing would be an emotional, spiritual death, and I fear that more than anything else. To end the passionate tide that ebbs and flows within me would put an end who I am, and I am starting to like who I am. 


I am not yet close to figuring it out, and so a daily choice is mine for the making; move ahead and be, or stop where I am and end.


I am so damn tired tonight; I wonder what I will choose tomorrow?

These Dreams Go On... #1

Last night we drove away again. We didn't know where we were headed; we didn't care. The kids were grown, living happy lives of their own. Our work as parents was far from done, but it was time to spend some time alone. No packing, no toothbrushes, no stopping the mail. On a mutual dare we climbed into the car, opened the moon roof, and turned up the music. Come the dawn we were miles from anyone and anywhere we ever knew. I felt lighter inside, like the morning after our first date. Our only commitment to each other, the only decisions to make being left, right, or straight. No fears, no doubts, no nightmares, just the possibilities of the open road. Not knowing the end of the journey, forgetting the beginning, and thrilling at the in between.

Maybe tonight we'll go see the world's largest ball of twine.  

Cop Out

This afternoon I was down at the police station, sitting in a cruiser. Above my head, in a ceiling rack, was an automatic rifle. It looked just like the one I carry while playing a certain game on the Xbox. The laptop I was working on took some time to reboot, so I spent my time checking out the buttons, switches, and equipment used to fight crime. The chief was on his phone, just a few feet away, so it was impossible to ignore the words that came; suicide, rifle, mess, nothing left, these words made their way into the air around him with the same ease that words like hard drive, update, software, and network make their way into the air around me. I felt a sudden sweat position itself in a fine layer over my skin, and a pain stabbed at my stomach. I willed the laptop on, begging it to find hidden speed in its aging processor so I could verify the updates to the database that kept the mean streets of New Hampshire safe and get away from that phone call. Instead, more words; scholarship, full-ride, honors, alcohol, drugs, pressure, parents, denial...they all gathered in my ears and pried their way into my head, forming a hot ball inside my skull. It was hard to breath softly and my eyes blurred, the tears making their daily appearance at an inopportune moment the way they always do. I wiped them away on my sleeve, and forced myself into the distractions of work. I carried on.

After a few more agonizing minutes, the chief hung up with a sigh. He told me he had to run and asked me to lock up the station as I left. Within a minute I was alone, staring through the windshield at the fire trucks, ambulance, and vending machine in the quiet garage full of shadows that I hadn't noticed before. Bad words from the chief's one-sided phone call bounced around inside of me. The tears came on again, and I let them run their course this time, my work on the database finished. I sat back in the driver's seat and put my hands over my head, resting them on the weapon above. It felt nothing like the gun that I carry while playing a certain game on the Xbox; it felt cold, hard, and lethal.