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(Originally posted on the website Heron Flight)

I have begun a massive project of typing my hand-written private journals. Currently, there are 19 volumes!

Seeing as my handwriting is so poor, I thought it might be best to take on this project. I always tell my children that one day they will be allowed to read these journals. The poor things! They won’t be able to decipher most of what is written! It’s awful! I had to laugh yesterday when my son, Tim, was writing something on the back of a business card while we were in the car. He looked at me apologetically and said, “It’s a little messy because the car is bumpy.” I said, “Dude! THAT looks a hundred times better than the way I normally write when I’m sitting still at a desk!”

So far, I have typed 17 pages in Word. That covers 38 hand-written pages in this old composition book with pages falling out that I call “Volume 1”. That’s not quite one-fifth of the notebook. I expect the Word files for each volume to average close to 100 pages. So, for the next several years, I will be sequestered away like a medieval monk transcribing Latin with quill and ink. Only Latin is probably easier to understand than my handwriting!

My writing experience sort of “morphed” into personal journal keeping by chance. At the start, volume 1 was a collection of devotional thoughts that I, as a Christian, wrote down as I contemplated various portions of the Bible. (Yes, I am the same guy that wrote all the raunchy swear words in the last entry on this website. Yes, that may be an indication of how my heart has declined since 1985. Actually, it peaked and then declined.) After several pages of these devotional writings, volume 1 suddenly becomes a personal journal. My writing style changed due to a book that I read called “Sandy, A Heart for God” by Leighton Ford. Leighton’s son, Sandy, was a Christian who kept a diary. He died at the age of 21 while undergoing surgery for a rare heart condition. I began my journal at age 21. After reading about Sandy, I decided to use my journal to capture my thoughts, emotions, experiences, etc.

As I’ve been working my way through Volume 1 over the last two days, I am confronted by differing emotions. At some points I am embarrassed by what I wrote. Some of it seems immature, presumptuous, self-inflated, 21-ish”. Some of the memories of that period in my life that have come back to me are good. I think of how Joel was only 9 months old, not even walking yet. I remember some of the friends from that period and smile. Some other memories, especially of my first marriage, make me happy that I am now 21 years removed from that time. Some of these memories are tainted due to circumstances that have transpired between then and now.

There is one person mentioned near the start of the journal of whom I had to make a note. His name was Joe. We worked together on the road department in Washington, NJ. His father was the head supervisor of the department. Back in those days, Joe was a rowdy pot-smoking guy. I was a Christian. While I often talked about Bible related topics with some of the guys on the crew, usually because they brought the subject up, Joe was a constant source of temptation and instigation. I distinctly remember one time, at the town dump where we disposed of residents’ lawn clippings and leaves, Joe decided to light up a big ol’ joint and get high. I said nothing and intended to say nothing. I minded my own business. One of the other guys said, “Hey Joe, what if Preacher Boy (me) tells your dad?” Joe didn’t know that I could hear his response when he said, “If he does, I’ll hit him in the head with a shovel!”

Joe didn’t stay on the job very long. Then I didn’t see him for several years. By the time I did see him again, I had three kids, was divorced, and about to be married again. I was surprised to see Joe under the circumstances. We were at a multiple church baptismal service along the Delaware River in Pennsylvania. Suddenly, in the midst of that crowd, before the service started, I bumped into Joe! I was so surprised that I blurted out, “Joe! What are YOU doing HERE????” Joe smiled and said, “Brother, I’m getting baptized today. My life is completely different.” Wow!

I saw Joe a few years ago in a local mall. He was married and had a child. By then, my spiritual situation had declined. I was a rebel. I had been through too much heartache. The amazing new Joe said, “Brother, Jesus still loves you and you can give me a call anytime.”

Funny how life goes. So much history has happened between Volume 1 and Volume 19! Reading Volume 1 now, I find myself thinking that it couldn’t have been me who wrote some of the entries. Did I really think in those ways? Did I really let such seemingly petty events upset me so? Where did many of those inward struggles go? Did I win them? Did I give up the struggles? Did I merely grow out of them?

How will Volume 19 look to me 21 years from now when I’m on Volume 38? Stick around. When we get that far, I’ll write about it on the website.

THE LADYBUG, THE DADDY, AND URANUS

(Originally posted on the website Heron Flight)

My 10 and 12-year-old daughters are visiting for the week. They are on spring break. Boy, those schools in Georgia! Spring barely starts and “WHAM!” they are on spring break! It’s not like New Jersey. Time drags on and on when you are in school here. Then, when Easter break finally arrives, they tell you the break is shortened because you have to make up for using a snow day or two. Well, that’s the way it used to be. With global warming and all, we are beginning to forget what snow is in New Jersey. I mean, we were on the beach, where children walked on the jetties in bare feet, on January 30, for crying out loud! Pretty soon we’ll have to close our schools to take a break in the beginning of April because it’s going to be as hot as August!

As I was saying, my girls are here. In the car, after leaving the airport, after a three hour flight delay, one of the girls had the idea of starting a story in which the four of us in the car contributed by adding a word in turn. The story got weird and crude. Yes, the childhood amusement that comes from bodily functions!

Alright… so it still amuses me too! Here is our weird little story. I’m sure I will be inundated with emails from publishers eager to print this in hardbound!

THE LADYBUG, THE DADDY, AND URANUS

Once upon a time, a ladybug crawled and peed yellow pee. So, as we wiped his urine, Daddy laughed, and cried, and pooped. Uranus was shining overhead. BM slipped, smelled, plopped, and squished on Daddy’s toes. The ladybug flew into Daddy’s body because his butt was very exposed.

Uranus visited the Earth.

THE END

I know, it’s weird. It’s gross. I’m sure someone will send me an email telling me what a bad Daddy I am, how I need to grow up and teach my kids some manners. Well… you send ’em. I’ll print ’em. And we’ll all wipe with ’em!

WHAT WAS REALLY BEHIND THAT SMILE I WALKED IN WITH

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(Originally posted on the website Heron Flight)

You wake up with a dull grinding pain inside your skull, like someone is pulling a cheese grater behind your forehead. Then you discover that your 18-year-old has used most of the hot water while you were attempting to prolong your last dozing moments. The fact that you even have a kid who is that old, and he’s not even the oldest, doesn’t give you much incentive to greet the day with any resemblance of a smile. But you hop into the pee-warm shower like every other corporate automaton this morning. You need the shower anyway. Your head looks like it’s been mauled by bears sometime in the night. You can’t go out looking like that! You would scare the tarnation out of every silver-haired granny who passed you on her way to the corner grocery. Many of them are Polish in this town you know. Then you remember that you are a little Polish too. Not that it means anything. Just like it doesn’t mean anything that you are also half German and half Irish. The problem is that you are fully American, disconnected at birth from all that your ancestors may have been. You can only trace your roots back to a run down old town in Northwestern New Jersey and a varied array of relations who didn’t talk at all about their Old World heritage. At least, the memory of some of those folk causes somewhat of a smile. Remember Aunt Aggie, your dear old alcohol-loving great aunt? She was the sweetest! Remember her tiny voice and how her lips always got saliva all over themselves when she talked? She was always in the bag, that gentle old drunk, from your Irish side of course. But time is running out, in more ways than one. Better get moving. Put your tie on. Brush your hair a little bit. Brush your little bit of hair. That’s depressing. You sure are a long way away from your long-haired younger days. Who the hell is that looking back at you in the mirror? Some disconnected aging guy pretending to be you? You know things are bad when you can’t stand looking at your shirtless self for more than a minute. But you don’t have much more than a minute anyway. At least you can get by without shaving today. Although, a shaving accident holds more appeal than another eight hours limited to a cubicle again. What is the point of your life? What is the reason for the routine you reluctantly follow Monday through Friday? Is it just for money? Where does most of the money go anyway? Into your landlord’s pockets? Then you realize that your thoughts are so negative that Aunt Aggie’s way of life starts to make sense. But the liquor store doesn’t open before you have to go to work, so you settle for Dunkin Donuts coffee instead. What would the little Polish ladies think of if they saw you brown-bagging it out of the liquor place at 7 AM anyway? They would know you were Irish then! When the counter lady hands you your coffee with no sugar, just cream, smiles and says, “Have a good day, sir,” you recoil from the middle-age-implying “sir”. But the woman’s politeness brings the realization that your brain has been rambling in one solid depressing paragraph since the minute your head left the pillow.

You take your change. Say, “Thanks.” Smile in return. Then you walk through the door, 14 ounces of mood enhancing, headache curing hot coffee in hand, determined to not take the rest of the day so darn seriously.

BY CHANCE TWO PERVERTS MEET

(Originally posted on the website Heron Flight)

It was a drizzly Thursday night. I got home from band practice around 11:00. After unloading my gear, I decided to walk the few blocks to the ATM in order to get cash for lunch the next day. Main Street, which typically conducts a steady stream of traffic through the day, was deserted. I was able to walk across in the middle of the block.

I was quietly enjoying my thoughts in the rain as I headed toward the bank. Suddenly, a mini van swerved towards the curb nearby. The driver, a middle-aged, clean cut white guy, quickly opened the passenger window and called to me. I half expected two brutes in black clothing and ski masks to hop out of the side door and shanghai my unsuspecting white ass off to some warehouse. There to torture me for answers I didn’t have or hold me for ransom that no one I knew could possibly afford. Though, I couldn’t understand what one white middle class guy could hope to gain by so treating another barely middle class white guy.

However, as I hesitantly took a step closer to the van, the driver asked, “Hey buddy, do you know if there’s a strip joint around here?”

With a chuckle of relief and a bit of surprise in my voice I said, “Uh, yeah. Sure. Take a left right there. About a block down there’s a strip place.”

He repeated, “A left right there and one block down?”

The encounter began to strike me as quite comic. In a matter of split seconds, about the time it took him to nearly skid to a halt on Main Street, my appraisal of my family-vehicle-driving friend had raced to the extreme of prime time American crime show action then slid into the mire of late night male hormonal frustration. The rain dripped on.

I couldn’t resist. My friend was obviously in a desperate rush. I had to mess with him.

Just as he was ready to stomp on the gas, I suggested, “You know… that place around the corner looks kind of dumpy.”

“What? Really?”

“Yeah. But there’s this other place just off of Main Street a few blocks back. I think that one is better.”

“How do I get there?”

Mischievously happy to delay him, I continued, “Well, let’s see. If you turn left here and go one block down to where the first place that I told you about is, then turn left again, you would have to go two more blocks and turn left onto Washington Street. Yeah, you have to go that way because Washington Street is a one way.”

He was a bit confused. Only one thing was on his mind and the details I was giving just weren’t sinking in.

“Say that again,” he said.

“Okay. Turn left here. Go one block. Turn left again. Go two blocks. Turn left one more time. The place is called Delilah’s.”

“Oh thanks, man! I really appreciate your help!” He sped away.

“Oh a bet you do!” I thought.

I laughed out loud at the thought of the encounter, enjoying the slightly twisted amusement of it all. Then realized. Washington Street is one way in the other direction! Poor fellow.

I stepped my way through the rain.

IT’S NOT LIKE THE MOVIES

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(Originally posted on the website Continuum…)

I WENT to visit my father today. The cancer is taking its toll. Six months is what the doctor has given him, as if doctors are the givers of life. That was almost a month ago. Don’t do the math.

I brought a funny movie with us so that we could all watch it together. The movie was one that I saw at my friend Pete’s house recently, “Along Came Polly” with Ben Stiller and Jennifer Aniston. I thought that maybe it would lighten the mood and create a happy memory. Deep inside I was hoping that enough laughter would shield me from the reality of my father’s disease. With enough merriment maybe time would stand still. Maybe the shared hilarity would be enough to drive time backwards and my father would be all better again. They always say that laughter is the best medicine, right? Part way through the film my dad was holding his belly. That would have been a normal motion during a funny flick. However, my stepmother’s question, “Do you need some percocet, Pappy?” became the non-funniest line during the movie. Somehow, Ben Stiller’s farting noises in Aniston’s bathroom were no longer funny either.

My father appeared evidently weaker than the last time I saw him a few weeks ago. He was noticeably thinner. He has reached that point of looking unhealthily thin. I know that next will come feebly thin, and then… He has become too weak to take the dog, Murphy the black labrador, out to the back yard. True, a black lab is a large, strong dog. But my dad was always a big strong guy. No dog ever intimidated him. Murphy is so used to my dad taking her out that they now have to trick her by having my dad walk part way down the steps and then my stepsister takes her the rest of the way. Then Dad walks back up the steps and is exhausted.

At dinner, my father’s suffering was further displayed. The poor guy can hardly eat. It’s mainly a side effect of the chemo. He went through heavy chemo treatments since he was diagnosed in February. When that proved to be ineffective, the doctor recommended a milder chemo treatment in order to improve his quality of life. To watch a man, who once loved to eat, sit at the table and poke at the tiny portion of macaroni on his plate was depressing. He left the table at one point. As my stepmother watched him go down the hallway she said, half to herself, “It just gets a little worse each day.”

Two years ago, my dad’s brother died from cancer. His remains are interred at Arlington Military Cemetery in Washington, D.C. I was not able to attend my uncle’s funeral service at Arlington. My dad went though. Last year he went again to visit his brother’s grave. This year he has cancelled his trip to Arlington. The bumpiness of the car ride makes the pain from his tumor intolerable now. For the same reason, he doesn’t drive into town to have coffee with his buddies as much these days.

There is no reversing this for my dad. I knew that as we said good-bye this evening. With much effort, he walked us to the car on our way out. He patted my shoulder a few times and told me he loved me. I saw the tears in his eyes as he turned away. He stood on the lawn and watched us. I couldn’t drive off right away, just started the car and waved. He waved. I thought that maybe if we just stay right there and wave back and forth to each other, it would never happen. We would never lose sight of each other. He would never leave.

But I know that one day there will be a last wave, one last good-bye, one last, “I love you,” and a pat on the shoulder. No matter when exactly it happens, it will always, always, always be too soon. Even if there was some bizarre quirk in the space-time continuum and we somehow found ourselves sitting on the couch doubled over in laughter at Ben Stiller’s antics for a few more millennia, sooner or later the movie will end. Movies always do. Sadly, so do lives.

I feel that I should wrap up this entry with something positive, something upbeat or happy. You see, that right there is one of my faults. Maybe I’ve watched too many movies, been too conditioned by Hollywood. Life is not like the movies. There is real pain in life, real sadness. People do die. True, there are plenty of good and pleasant things in life: love, peace, joy. There is faith to connect us with things that transcend this life. But tonight, what I sense is the frustration of humanity’s mortality. That sense is just as valuable as faith, in its own way.