Thank you,
To the family, friends, and co-workers who have poured your hearts out to my family and I, thank you. Your support has been immeasurable and overwhelming each and every day for the past couple of weeks. Heck, even before these past couple of weeks, people who hardly knew my Mum, my Pop or I were stepping up and contributing in ways that only the Westside of can do. Gift cards, meals, or rides were given generously to us. For that I thank all of you a hundred times over.
Thank you,
To everyone who came to my Mum's memorial service on Friday. I know my Mum would be upset knowing we held a memorial service for her, but while we all celebrated the beautiful life which she led, people were able to begin finding closure for the friend which they lost. Thank you for making that service remarkable and a true testament to my Mum's life.
Hours. Hours that have turned into nights. Nights slowly becoming weeks as I've stared at my laptop here trying to find something to write about, and it seemed fitting that it only begin with those "thank you's." By no means are those extensive or compelling enough to truly express how appreciative my Pop and I are for everyone who has reached out to us during this time. Time has passed to remove us from my Mum's passing and the healing process has begun, or at least that's what we're supposed to believe. Healing is difficult to quantify and then even more difficult to qualify on how "healed" someone may be after something.
I'm going to try and express life after the memorial service. The thoughts, emotions, and events that have led me to this point and where life might be heading. These things aren't necessarily coherent or tangible, so I'll do my best to describe them in ways that can be related to on some fundamental level.
After the memorial service, I moved back home with my Pop after having lived with a friend of mine for a couple months. In so many ways this simple act was bittersweet in itself. My slightly regained independence was abandoned and replaced by the security of knowing I was at home where I grew up. I have the opportunity to spend time with my Pop and make sure that things are taken care of for him, but spend every day and night in the shadows of my Mum's life she had in this house. Our home isn't just where I've lived since I was in fifth grade, but the home that my Mum spent her childhood in as well. Having spent so much time in this house with someone, you at times just kind of expect them to drop in through the door after having made a trip to the grocery store. But they don't, and you're left waiting with a hint of anticipation building in each moment of complacency.
Movement is the name of the game right now for me. To stop and sit is the invitation of letting yourself feel everything that's going on in the world, and I'm afraid of what the consequences might be of that realization. Momentum provides the force to keep moving forward and to stop could mean not starting again. Just like Newton stated. All you might really want is to stop and digest the things that have happened to you, to process the emotions you're having, and to find the comfort you need to move towards the future. While this is all you may want to do, you aren't afforded that opportunity because despite your world coming to an abrupt stop, the rest of the world keeps turning and moving. Bills still need to be paid, work still needs to be attended, and life still needs to be lived.
I've taken on the responsibility of running the finances for our house after my Mum passed, and it's been a process of trying to figure out what bill is due when and what gets paid from what account. Next comes grocery shopping and household chores. Sundays are laundry and shopping day, and my general excuse each week for trying to get life back on track before the upcoming week. The rest of the week is some combination of attempts of trying to remain sane and accomplishing something to get things a bit more in order.
The moments that are the hardest are also the most bizarre and inexplicable. They can be tied together by the common theme of quietness and that moment where one allows themselves to lapse and think. Times at work while working on a machine alone for a few hours, drives that last a little too long with a song that has just enough reminiscing, or a dark room at the end of the day as you lay down for bed.
It hits you then. The first few times it's like you were smacked by a large wave from the ocean, or a switch flipped and you're nothing but an incapacitated mess. Slowly it lessens and you're just left feeling empty and exhausted like you just acknowledged the nine hundred pound gorilla you've been carrying on your back. All I try to do is think of how proud my Mum would be of my Pop and I for pushing through like we have, and know that she wouldn't want us to dwell on her passing. It may not be much, and often times it isn't enough, but at least that is something.
Then there are good moments and days. Times when you feel adequate and happy because of the people you surround yourself with or enjoying something you do. It's hard to say that I live from a moment like that to the next, but they help to give you a bit more of that momentum you need to keep going day in and day out. Nights of catching up with old friends for the first time in months, or a genuinely relaxing Sunday in good company on a beautiful day. You grow to appreciate the opportunities that are afforded to you and begin thinking there actually may be something to "carpe diem."
So, that's how it goes these days. One minute, one hour, one day, so on and so on. I'm sorry for everyone that I haven't gotten back to here in the past month or so. Between a broken laptop, said laptop out for repair, and all other shenanigans I haven't done well on keeping up with messages and such. I hope everyone is doing well and healthy despite the crazy weather we've had here lately (sinus are running a-muck!).
Monday, February 13, 2012
Monday, January 2, 2012
In Memoriam: The New Year
Why do we write? Some write in order to definitively state their goals, and lay out plans for achieving those goals in very organized and calculated memorandums. Others create scripts that carry us through the spectrum of emotions and beliefs to make us feel something we may otherwise couldn't or wouldn't. Then more write articles to chronicle the recent events of the world, or to express their point of view on a matter that may be trivial tomorrow.
To be honest with you, I'm not entirely sure for what reason I write a blog. A significant part for why I may write this is so that I can process and work through these thoughts and emotions. Though, I think that I write for many of the same reasons that I stated before. These entries in this blog are statements of my goals and plans, not in any obvious or apparent manner, expressed publicly so that I'm held accountable for them. What I write hopefully causes some sort of response from you, but not necessarily in a sympathetic way. These things I write, with any luck, let's you live a little bit more of the human condition and find closure with the world outside. And I obviously write this blog as an effort to mark the things going on in my life and the world.
Do me a favor, it takes six and a half minutes, listen to the song "What Sara Said" by Death Cab for Cutie.
I'm the only child of two amazing and compassionate individuals who have dedicated theirs lives to two things: each other and to me. My Pop is brilliant and hilarious with a sense of humor steeped in irony and wit. He's striven to do everything within his power to provide a life for my Mum and I that was better than his own growing up as a kid. The man is unrelenting in his determination to give us the means and opportunities to live a high quality of life.
My Mum is the rock which our family has been built on, and she provides us uncompromising love and support. I'll openly admit that I'm a "Momma's Boy," and can say honestly that she has been the best friend I've ever had.
When I came home one day after school while in the first grade, I promptly told my Mum that I wanted to play the viola. She had asked me why the viola and if I was serious about actually playing a musical instrument. Now of course, six year old me didn't bother to tell her the reason I wanted to play was because my friend at the time said that's what he wanted to play. My Mum probably already knew that, but fueled the fire to play the viola by taking me to rent an instrument. Then signed me up for the orchestra in school. Then found me private lessons to attend. Then got me an audition for surrounding orchestras. Then let me take a job at the local violin maker's workshop. Then she drove me to all these places. Then I stopped playing the viola after 12 years. Then my Mum admitted she just enjoyed seeing the happiness I got while playing.
My Mum worked as a nutritionist in a clinic serving underprivileged areas of Cincinnati for several years, but then quit working for the most part when I was growing up. Recently she worked as an instructional aide to special need students in a local elementary. It's easy to say that she is a compassionate, people person, but it's hard to convey to what extent her empathy went.
I've been living the song "What Sara Said" since Christmas Eve of this year, and I've lost my battle with Breast Cancer. Desperately, I wanted to fight to the bloody damn end and give everything I possible could. But it wasn't me who was feeling the pain. I couldn't trade places. I couldn't be the one to endure the physical pain of the disease and treatments, but I'd give anything if I could.
I rang the New Year in by watching fireworks burst over downtown Cincinnati on a crisp clear night while standing in the fourth floor chapel at The Christ Hospital. It's one of the most beautiful things I ever saw, but all I could think of was the irony.
My Mum's blood pressure had taken a dive and she could no longer receive pain medicine. She had been in the hospital since Christmas Eve and already made one trip to an intensive care unit. They transferred her from the oncology wing she had spent the past couple nights, and moved her to another intensive care unit to keep a closer eye on her. I spent the night on a recliner in the corner of the room, and left in the morning to go get my Pop. After consulting the doctor, my Pop and I made the decision to make my Mum as comfortable as possible, and place her in hospice care.
A good family friend of ours took me in the hall after the decision and told me that I live a life that is my own, but I build a monument which is my parents achievement. So as my parents have paid it forward for me, I intend to do the same.
I lost my battle with Breast Cancer, but my Mum won her's. She never once complained, didn't make excuses, and never showed us that she was scared. I love you Mum.
To be honest with you, I'm not entirely sure for what reason I write a blog. A significant part for why I may write this is so that I can process and work through these thoughts and emotions. Though, I think that I write for many of the same reasons that I stated before. These entries in this blog are statements of my goals and plans, not in any obvious or apparent manner, expressed publicly so that I'm held accountable for them. What I write hopefully causes some sort of response from you, but not necessarily in a sympathetic way. These things I write, with any luck, let's you live a little bit more of the human condition and find closure with the world outside. And I obviously write this blog as an effort to mark the things going on in my life and the world.
Do me a favor, it takes six and a half minutes, listen to the song "What Sara Said" by Death Cab for Cutie.
I'm the only child of two amazing and compassionate individuals who have dedicated theirs lives to two things: each other and to me. My Pop is brilliant and hilarious with a sense of humor steeped in irony and wit. He's striven to do everything within his power to provide a life for my Mum and I that was better than his own growing up as a kid. The man is unrelenting in his determination to give us the means and opportunities to live a high quality of life.
My Mum is the rock which our family has been built on, and she provides us uncompromising love and support. I'll openly admit that I'm a "Momma's Boy," and can say honestly that she has been the best friend I've ever had.
When I came home one day after school while in the first grade, I promptly told my Mum that I wanted to play the viola. She had asked me why the viola and if I was serious about actually playing a musical instrument. Now of course, six year old me didn't bother to tell her the reason I wanted to play was because my friend at the time said that's what he wanted to play. My Mum probably already knew that, but fueled the fire to play the viola by taking me to rent an instrument. Then signed me up for the orchestra in school. Then found me private lessons to attend. Then got me an audition for surrounding orchestras. Then let me take a job at the local violin maker's workshop. Then she drove me to all these places. Then I stopped playing the viola after 12 years. Then my Mum admitted she just enjoyed seeing the happiness I got while playing.
My Mum worked as a nutritionist in a clinic serving underprivileged areas of Cincinnati for several years, but then quit working for the most part when I was growing up. Recently she worked as an instructional aide to special need students in a local elementary. It's easy to say that she is a compassionate, people person, but it's hard to convey to what extent her empathy went.
I've been living the song "What Sara Said" since Christmas Eve of this year, and I've lost my battle with Breast Cancer. Desperately, I wanted to fight to the bloody damn end and give everything I possible could. But it wasn't me who was feeling the pain. I couldn't trade places. I couldn't be the one to endure the physical pain of the disease and treatments, but I'd give anything if I could.
I rang the New Year in by watching fireworks burst over downtown Cincinnati on a crisp clear night while standing in the fourth floor chapel at The Christ Hospital. It's one of the most beautiful things I ever saw, but all I could think of was the irony.
My Mum's blood pressure had taken a dive and she could no longer receive pain medicine. She had been in the hospital since Christmas Eve and already made one trip to an intensive care unit. They transferred her from the oncology wing she had spent the past couple nights, and moved her to another intensive care unit to keep a closer eye on her. I spent the night on a recliner in the corner of the room, and left in the morning to go get my Pop. After consulting the doctor, my Pop and I made the decision to make my Mum as comfortable as possible, and place her in hospice care.
A good family friend of ours took me in the hall after the decision and told me that I live a life that is my own, but I build a monument which is my parents achievement. So as my parents have paid it forward for me, I intend to do the same.
I lost my battle with Breast Cancer, but my Mum won her's. She never once complained, didn't make excuses, and never showed us that she was scared. I love you Mum.
In Loving Memory of Linda Hughes
July 5, 1952-January 5, 2012
Saturday, December 24, 2011
A Little Christmas Tradition
I'll be completely honest from the get go of this blog. What I've written is personal and open. It's written in a stream of consciousness that is a bit frayed at this point.
Twas the night before Christmas....
How many times have we heard this intro? Normally this is followed by a nice account of a jolly, fat man delivering presents to children around the world. My version follows a slightly different path.
Christmas Eve for a lot of folks is a time of great memories and merriment as the spend time with family and loved ones. This hallowed day has taken a new twist for my family in recent years. Yes, we spend Christmas Eve in one of the many emergency rooms in the area. As I write, I'm actually at an ED (they prefer emergency department now over room) writing this blog on my cell phone as we wait for the results of a CAT scan.
The back story is this: I've written before how my Mum is fighting Breast Cancer for the second time. This time around it has metastasized in her bone marrow effecting her red blood cell and platelet numbers. That has made it very difficult for her to do a lot of activities because of the amount of movement required for them. Recently we discovered that her Breast Cancer has spread to her stomach which brought us here today.
Last year we spent Christmas Eve in another ED due to a broken tibia and fibula that my Pop experienced after a fall. My Pop, being the discerning man that he is, asked that we take him to Jewish Hospital because he wanted to be sure the staffs would be there on Christmas.
So here we are, Christmas Eve in a hospital room lit not by a tree and lights, but by EKGs and IV machines. It might seem bizarre to some when I say this time is the most concerned I've ever been going to a hospital. My Pop has undergone surgeries to remove great portions of his large and small intestines, to have vertebraes fused together, and to have entire heart valves replaced. But that never really fazed me much. I always had a sense that the man was invincible, that regardless what happened he would walk away from it like he had every other time. My mom has always been the rock in our family, and in a thousand lifetimes I could never repay her for what she has done for my father and me. I'm concerned about and for her.
I'm going to put into writing a conversation I've had with myself dozens of times and possibly once or twice with other people. At what point does this culmination of unfortunate circumstances become too much? When does breaking down happen and why? How long can someone continue to presist with these things placed on their shoulders? They're answers I'm afraid to know or acknowledge. My Pop told me that when things first got difficult for him he adopted a simple credo, "Do the next thing," and it reminds me a lot of Tennyson's "Charge of the Light Brigade" where he writes, "Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do or die."
So that's what we do, that's what I do. Keep pushing forward. To stop to think or reason is to invite the opportunity to quit. Life isn't just, but we can do our best to make outcomes favorable for ourselves while living a decent way.
I hope everyone this holiday season has taken the time to let the ones they love know that they do. Please, I ask one simple favor of you if you haven't, make sure that they know you care for them sincerely.
OK, I lied, I have two favors to ask. If you see me around, don't ask me how I'm doing or how I've been because I don't want to reflect. My Mum is still in the hospital and waiting to her from her oncologist on Tuesday. With any luck we'll have a few more answers then and a course of action. I hope everyone had a great Christmas and are looking forward to a bright New Years.
drh
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
The Autobiography
I don't want to come off as an arrogant prick or pretend anyone really cares, but I'm taking the blog back to what it was originally intended for: airing out my life.
A substantial portion of my life is led in full view of everyone to see. I don't hold many punches so pretty much what you see is what you'll end up receiving. Either I'm a foolish man for allowing so much of my personal life to be on display for the world to view, or that's the course of leading an open and honest life. I don't pretend to have an answer or to be righteous about these things. I refuse to make excuses for myself or others but will undoubtedly give anyone the benefit of a doubt. I spread my time between a fair number of people who all enjoy different things and live unique lives. I live an open and honest life because by spending time with each of these people, I can share a particular portion of my life with them in an intense way that I couldn't with majority of other people.
Over the course of time this has brought up bizarre charges of being false and insincere with people I know or talk with, yet I'd argue the exact opposite is true. I can never, nor will I ever, attempt or pretend to be someone which I'm not. I'm content with where I am and understand that each day brings new lessons and growth for me. For the most part I'm secure being on my own, and don't necessarily need to have someone else in my life. So when it's said that I'm being false with those around me, I'm baffled. I much rather share a very personal and distinct memory with those people around me, and I'd like to think my friends who have known me for a long time feel the same.
In a lot of ways this particular blog is an autobiography. Not one with dates and stories, but a self reflection of what someone is comprised of in the short and long term. I have a need to talk to people openly and honestly, to provide them with my sincere opinion and thoughts, and listen to what it is they have to say. Yeah, yeah, sounds great and wonderful. I don't write these things for appearance because what's the point? Eleven people may end up reading to this point of the blog, so I'm not searching for public opinion. I write these things to be able to say this: I am socially awkward. Dreadfully, painfully, and clandestinely awkward. In the most social situations I haven't the slightest idea how to behave or act regardless if it's one on one interaction or a bar with hundreds. The go to for this kind of problem is a sense of humor, and the ability to laugh at yourself. A second practice used for the socially awkward is to tell good stories because these can be memorized and rehearsed for effect. Lastly, I try to be as genuine as possible because I'm not sure how else to handle myself.
I'm paraphrasing something which I read recently (I can't remember what or by who, naturally) but by striving for the ideal of which we can be we are able to achieve what we're capable of in reality. Everyone has an option or choice they can make: Invest yourself wholly into whatever it is you're doing, or master the ability to multitask. The world needs both people and there's a place for everyone, but those people driven by a single ambition push the world forward as the multitaskers make the world operate. Myself, I'm a multitasker to my center, but I envy those which have that fire which burns at their core.
Let me tie up the lose strings so I can let you get back to your day/night. People may want you to think you can be apathetic in your life and just go through the motions. Not me, no longer. I must live my life like I'm trying to obtain that ideal. I must live a life in which I multitask my jobs and responsibilities so that I can allow my friends to be driven by a singularity of purpose. We live in a world and a time which the success of one person can be set by themselves, but requires the efforts of everyone around them. Now, PHOTO MONTAGE!!!!!!!! (Sorry for it not being more inclusive, apparently I'm not very photogenic).
Hope everyone is doing well and that the weather isn't causing too many problems for everyone. I'm shut down from lifting for probably at least a week because of a strained back. The key now is to not miss work.
A substantial portion of my life is led in full view of everyone to see. I don't hold many punches so pretty much what you see is what you'll end up receiving. Either I'm a foolish man for allowing so much of my personal life to be on display for the world to view, or that's the course of leading an open and honest life. I don't pretend to have an answer or to be righteous about these things. I refuse to make excuses for myself or others but will undoubtedly give anyone the benefit of a doubt. I spread my time between a fair number of people who all enjoy different things and live unique lives. I live an open and honest life because by spending time with each of these people, I can share a particular portion of my life with them in an intense way that I couldn't with majority of other people.
Over the course of time this has brought up bizarre charges of being false and insincere with people I know or talk with, yet I'd argue the exact opposite is true. I can never, nor will I ever, attempt or pretend to be someone which I'm not. I'm content with where I am and understand that each day brings new lessons and growth for me. For the most part I'm secure being on my own, and don't necessarily need to have someone else in my life. So when it's said that I'm being false with those around me, I'm baffled. I much rather share a very personal and distinct memory with those people around me, and I'd like to think my friends who have known me for a long time feel the same.
In a lot of ways this particular blog is an autobiography. Not one with dates and stories, but a self reflection of what someone is comprised of in the short and long term. I have a need to talk to people openly and honestly, to provide them with my sincere opinion and thoughts, and listen to what it is they have to say. Yeah, yeah, sounds great and wonderful. I don't write these things for appearance because what's the point? Eleven people may end up reading to this point of the blog, so I'm not searching for public opinion. I write these things to be able to say this: I am socially awkward. Dreadfully, painfully, and clandestinely awkward. In the most social situations I haven't the slightest idea how to behave or act regardless if it's one on one interaction or a bar with hundreds. The go to for this kind of problem is a sense of humor, and the ability to laugh at yourself. A second practice used for the socially awkward is to tell good stories because these can be memorized and rehearsed for effect. Lastly, I try to be as genuine as possible because I'm not sure how else to handle myself.
I'm paraphrasing something which I read recently (I can't remember what or by who, naturally) but by striving for the ideal of which we can be we are able to achieve what we're capable of in reality. Everyone has an option or choice they can make: Invest yourself wholly into whatever it is you're doing, or master the ability to multitask. The world needs both people and there's a place for everyone, but those people driven by a single ambition push the world forward as the multitaskers make the world operate. Myself, I'm a multitasker to my center, but I envy those which have that fire which burns at their core.
Let me tie up the lose strings so I can let you get back to your day/night. People may want you to think you can be apathetic in your life and just go through the motions. Not me, no longer. I must live my life like I'm trying to obtain that ideal. I must live a life in which I multitask my jobs and responsibilities so that I can allow my friends to be driven by a singularity of purpose. We live in a world and a time which the success of one person can be set by themselves, but requires the efforts of everyone around them. Now, PHOTO MONTAGE!!!!!!!! (Sorry for it not being more inclusive, apparently I'm not very photogenic).
Left: Old School, Luke and I senior year of high school
Right: Had to dig an old one up, Tess and I at a wedding.... for someone.... not sure who
Roadtrip Partner! Trina and I
Ben, Krista and I with a cameo of my ranger hat
College roommates Dave and MJCIII
There's a strong chance we were separated at birth, months apart. Andy Mike and I
Hope everyone is doing well and that the weather isn't causing too many problems for everyone. I'm shut down from lifting for probably at least a week because of a strained back. The key now is to not miss work.
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Short Story on Hold=More Musings
Fun Fact: After having successfully flown their airplane at Kill Devil Hills in 1903, the Wright Brothers continued their flying tests in Dayton, Ohio until they achieved what they deemed sustainable flight. They accomplished this feat in 1905 and from that point on quite flying until they had secured their patents for a heavier than air, powered, controlled, manned flying apparatus (in essence).
True Story: The Wright Brothers were no dumbski-s! They knew that the airplane was a great business opportunity, and didn't intend at all on letting the financial possibilities slip away. Paranoid that their invention would get stolen or copied, the Wright Brothers refused to provide demonstration flights for potential customers (Governments and armies across the globe) until they had signed a contract to purchase their product.
How awesome would it be to invent a product that you could make a government sign a contract to purchase it without ever having seen it work. Now take that and multiply it by about 431297213 because of how revolutionary the airplane has been to the world. No big deal, the Wright Brothers were essentially self taught engineers, one with a high school a diploma and one without, and built bicycles for a living.
Now admittedly, I'm slightly obsessed with the Wright Brothers because of working as an interpreter on the subject for a year, being a nerd for all things airplanes, and my niche for Imperial American history. It's incredible though that such everyday people from a Midwest city were able to influence the course of human events in manner hardly imaginable 25 years before their time. This came to mind because I recently stumbled upon (not so much physically tripped and almost fell, but while using the StumbleUpon) quotes from Charles Bukowski. Now everything that I have gathered (with reputable research done through wikipedia and Amazon's biography sections on book reviews) about this individual is this: he had a terrible childhood and grew up to be a drunk that wrote poems, short stories, and novels about the average man. Think of him as a modern Pieter Bruegel (the Elder, that is). No, doesn't do much for ya? Well here, this is a quote attributed to him from this website I was shown:
"That's the problem with drinking, I thought, as I poured myself a drink. If something bad happens you drink in an attempt to forget; if something good happens you drink in order to celebrate; and if nothing happens you drink to make something happen." A selection cited from his work Women.
I say that may just be one of the most brilliant things ever realized. If you're not sold yet, how about this:
We are
Born like this
Into this
Into these carefully mad wars
Into the sight of broken factory windows of emptiness
Into bars where people no longer speak to each other
Into fist fights that end as shootings and knifings
Born into this
Into hospitals which are so expensive that it’s cheaper to die
Into lawyers who charge so much it’s cheaper to plead guilty
Into a country where the jails are full and the madhouses closed
Into a place where the masses elevate fools into rich heroes
Born like this
Into this
Into these carefully mad wars
Into the sight of broken factory windows of emptiness
Into bars where people no longer speak to each other
Into fist fights that end as shootings and knifings
Born into this
Into hospitals which are so expensive that it’s cheaper to die
Into lawyers who charge so much it’s cheaper to plead guilty
Into a country where the jails are full and the madhouses closed
Into a place where the masses elevate fools into rich heroes
Having read that got me thinking about the capability which each of us have to make an impact. The latent good that we have often goes unnoticed, or questioned heavily when we consider it's appearance. So I pose this challenge for one day: Do all of those things you were taught to do as kid (yes, I'm talking about using manners and acting on common human decency). Random acts of kindness were popular for awhile, but I'm not asking you to do any such thing. I'm challenging you to treat people like people for one day to see the reactions you receive. Go out to eat, go buy groceries, or do whatever it is you need to do in a day. When you go to check out, ask they cashier how their day has gone. When asked by a customer service employ about how you're doing, answer their question; say thank you; and return the favor.
Common courtesy has been lost in a day and age when we are immensely tied into our personal lives by appointments, jobs, smart phones, etc. I ask that you try this challenge to see how you can impact one persons day on a small but personal level.
Thanks for being patient everyone! Hope that you had a wonderful Thanksgiving with friends, family, and loved ones. Special shout out to those of my family that I didn't get to see this year at Thanksgiving: Love ya Aunts Jan and Jill, Bryan and Justin. Hope you're doing well!
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Lies: Life Lesons
Fun Fact: I sometimes fail miserably at writing frequently, and writing those things which I say I will.
True Story: So I'm guessing at this point you've realized that I have not written a segment of a short story yet.... Sorry, I know everyone is devastated. What I can offer as a compilation prize is really rather good. I've got good stories to share.
Let us first start with establishing this: I'm not exactly what one would call "a wild and crazy guy." I often joke that I'm a 70 year old man trapped in the body of a 22 year old. It's a treacherous existence, I promise. I'm cantankerous, judgmental, and really disapprove of most youth shenanigans. On occasion though, I have been known to go out and enjoy myself with my friends at an establishment which makes a majority of its revenues from alcohol. Yes my friends, I'm speaking of the glorious places we affectionately refer to as bars.
One evening last weekend myself and two friends decided to go to such a place and have a drink or two, but unbeknownst to us the night had different plans for us. Minding our own business, a gentleman strikes up a conversation with us and introduces to his wife. I use the terms "gentleman" and "wife" in the vaguest and loosest of senses because this man proceeds to tell us how he has been shot four times, stabbed twice, and in prison for ten years. Be jealous of the company I keep, it's OK I don't blame you. During our conversation, the women which was with this man made a comment about how she felt old. My friend, we'll call him this for the time being until he gets me killed, makes a quick quip about how she must only be 25 or so, she obviously isn't, in the best taste of chivalry, which if it wasn't dead before it will be at this rate.
What happened in the following moments were some of the most frightening of my life. The woman asked her "hubby" if she could give my friend a kiss for being so kind and he agreed, but not before stretching his arm across the bar, pointing a finger in my friend's face, and stating, "No tongue!" The three of us chuckled uneasily, and the woman proceeded to walk around the bar, grab my friend's face, and lay a big ol' smooch on him right in front of us all. Everyone kind of laughed and thought nothing of it until we turned to look at the ex-con sitting to my immediate left. To say that this man was upset would be completely wrong, and angry wouldn't detail just how enraged this man was at the moment. The man then got up from his seat and walked out of the bar while leaving his life behind with us.
My thoughts at that time were: WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE!!!!!!! I'M GOING TO GET STABBED BECAUSE MY BUDDY MADE AT WITH SOME GUY'S WIFE!!!!! HE'S BEEN STABBED EIGHT TIMES AND SHOT ELEVEN TIMES!! HE'S BEEN IN JAIL FOR FOURTEEN YEARS AND JUST GOT OUT!!!!!!!!!
The man reentered the bar. He looked around and made eye contact with me, and then walked straight to where I was sitting. I braced myself for the knife blade that was going to enter my side. Closed my eyes so I wouldn't have to see the blood. Nothing. No stab, not so much as a pin prick. I opened my eyes to see the woman escorting her husband out of the bar and home.
So needless to say, I almost died at the hands of an escaped serial killer who was shot seventeen times, stabbed a dozen times and served twenty years of a four life sentences.
I hope everyone is doing well and staying warm and getting ready for some grubbin' on Thanksgiving! Everyone make sure to carbo load on Thursday so you have the energy needed to fight your way to the top on Black Friday.
True Story: So I'm guessing at this point you've realized that I have not written a segment of a short story yet.... Sorry, I know everyone is devastated. What I can offer as a compilation prize is really rather good. I've got good stories to share.
Let us first start with establishing this: I'm not exactly what one would call "a wild and crazy guy." I often joke that I'm a 70 year old man trapped in the body of a 22 year old. It's a treacherous existence, I promise. I'm cantankerous, judgmental, and really disapprove of most youth shenanigans. On occasion though, I have been known to go out and enjoy myself with my friends at an establishment which makes a majority of its revenues from alcohol. Yes my friends, I'm speaking of the glorious places we affectionately refer to as bars.
One evening last weekend myself and two friends decided to go to such a place and have a drink or two, but unbeknownst to us the night had different plans for us. Minding our own business, a gentleman strikes up a conversation with us and introduces to his wife. I use the terms "gentleman" and "wife" in the vaguest and loosest of senses because this man proceeds to tell us how he has been shot four times, stabbed twice, and in prison for ten years. Be jealous of the company I keep, it's OK I don't blame you. During our conversation, the women which was with this man made a comment about how she felt old. My friend, we'll call him this for the time being until he gets me killed, makes a quick quip about how she must only be 25 or so, she obviously isn't, in the best taste of chivalry, which if it wasn't dead before it will be at this rate.
What happened in the following moments were some of the most frightening of my life. The woman asked her "hubby" if she could give my friend a kiss for being so kind and he agreed, but not before stretching his arm across the bar, pointing a finger in my friend's face, and stating, "No tongue!" The three of us chuckled uneasily, and the woman proceeded to walk around the bar, grab my friend's face, and lay a big ol' smooch on him right in front of us all. Everyone kind of laughed and thought nothing of it until we turned to look at the ex-con sitting to my immediate left. To say that this man was upset would be completely wrong, and angry wouldn't detail just how enraged this man was at the moment. The man then got up from his seat and walked out of the bar while leaving his life behind with us.
My thoughts at that time were: WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE!!!!!!! I'M GOING TO GET STABBED BECAUSE MY BUDDY MADE AT WITH SOME GUY'S WIFE!!!!! HE'S BEEN STABBED EIGHT TIMES AND SHOT ELEVEN TIMES!! HE'S BEEN IN JAIL FOR FOURTEEN YEARS AND JUST GOT OUT!!!!!!!!!
The man reentered the bar. He looked around and made eye contact with me, and then walked straight to where I was sitting. I braced myself for the knife blade that was going to enter my side. Closed my eyes so I wouldn't have to see the blood. Nothing. No stab, not so much as a pin prick. I opened my eyes to see the woman escorting her husband out of the bar and home.
So needless to say, I almost died at the hands of an escaped serial killer who was shot seventeen times, stabbed a dozen times and served twenty years of a four life sentences.
I hope everyone is doing well and staying warm and getting ready for some grubbin' on Thanksgiving! Everyone make sure to carbo load on Thursday so you have the energy needed to fight your way to the top on Black Friday.
Saturday, November 5, 2011
Apology: Not as epic as Plato's
Dear "Those" Guys of the world,
With my last blog installment, I never intended to terribly offend or degrade your position of honor within our complex and lackadaisical society. My post was merely for educational purposes so that those of you out there who wish to cease being "That" Guy could identify the things to change and correct in your behaviors. I hope my apology is sufficient in absolving our differences so we can continue to coexist in the world.
Sincerely,
drh
Fun Fact: Apparently an announcement was made over TGN ("That" Guy Network) about my last blog, and resulted in a call to action. It has led to an amassing of forces which is unlike that of any other seen before on this Earth. Spanish Armada of 1588, assault on the beaches of Normandy, and the invasion of Iraq pale in comparison to the this collection of troops. Composed of elderly drivers, naive teenagers (read as "stupid, insolent kids"), and non-observant individuals from across the world, I have been ambushed by an overwhelming force of incompetence while driving and performing daily activities. So much so that I must recant my last blog. Please let this be the end of the onslaught because I cannot take much more of this vicious crusade.
Pretty please? With a cherry on top?
Since you now know about what it is I must endure in order to reach work each and every morning, it seems only fair that I tell you a bit about where I work and what I do.
I work for a company that works on industrial equipment. We re-fabricate older machines and then sell them to other companies who need those pieces of equipment, and my job is to tear them apart so they can be painted and worked on by the folks who make them work. It goes without saying that my job is grimy, dirty and a bit nasty. Ironically, I'm totally OK with that. By the time I go back into work on Monday morning, my hands and fingers have finally lost the black hue which covers them every other day of the week, only to get re-covered by 9AM that day. It's a nice change of pace from all the other kind of work I've ever done, but my favorite part of the job is when we move things around the warehouse. That's when I get to go ahead and act like a twelve year old kid and just climb all over anything and everything to find a spot to place a 4,000 lbs welding apparatus. Let me put this simply: I get paid, to run around and relive my youth while everyone else has to do actual work. Joke's on them!
What I enjoy most are the reactions which I receive once I leave work at the end of the day, and go out into the world. Covered in rust, dirt, and grease, the mere sight of me is enough to shock most anyone who feels like they make an honest living, and then they hear me say something other than, "I"m a drunk haggard that enjoys playing in puddles of machine oil." I watch peoples' minds burst as the smoke rolls out from their ears. So the moral of the story is: Don't shake my hand or give me a hug after work until I've gotten a shower, it's in your best interest.
Hope everyone is doing well! My next blog will be the first installment for a short story. Intriguing, I'm sure. Otherwise, thanks for the continued support seven blogs into this exercise!
With my last blog installment, I never intended to terribly offend or degrade your position of honor within our complex and lackadaisical society. My post was merely for educational purposes so that those of you out there who wish to cease being "That" Guy could identify the things to change and correct in your behaviors. I hope my apology is sufficient in absolving our differences so we can continue to coexist in the world.
Sincerely,
drh
Fun Fact: Apparently an announcement was made over TGN ("That" Guy Network) about my last blog, and resulted in a call to action. It has led to an amassing of forces which is unlike that of any other seen before on this Earth. Spanish Armada of 1588, assault on the beaches of Normandy, and the invasion of Iraq pale in comparison to the this collection of troops. Composed of elderly drivers, naive teenagers (read as "stupid, insolent kids"), and non-observant individuals from across the world, I have been ambushed by an overwhelming force of incompetence while driving and performing daily activities. So much so that I must recant my last blog. Please let this be the end of the onslaught because I cannot take much more of this vicious crusade.
Pretty please? With a cherry on top?
Since you now know about what it is I must endure in order to reach work each and every morning, it seems only fair that I tell you a bit about where I work and what I do.
I work for a company that works on industrial equipment. We re-fabricate older machines and then sell them to other companies who need those pieces of equipment, and my job is to tear them apart so they can be painted and worked on by the folks who make them work. It goes without saying that my job is grimy, dirty and a bit nasty. Ironically, I'm totally OK with that. By the time I go back into work on Monday morning, my hands and fingers have finally lost the black hue which covers them every other day of the week, only to get re-covered by 9AM that day. It's a nice change of pace from all the other kind of work I've ever done, but my favorite part of the job is when we move things around the warehouse. That's when I get to go ahead and act like a twelve year old kid and just climb all over anything and everything to find a spot to place a 4,000 lbs welding apparatus. Let me put this simply: I get paid, to run around and relive my youth while everyone else has to do actual work. Joke's on them!
What I enjoy most are the reactions which I receive once I leave work at the end of the day, and go out into the world. Covered in rust, dirt, and grease, the mere sight of me is enough to shock most anyone who feels like they make an honest living, and then they hear me say something other than, "I"m a drunk haggard that enjoys playing in puddles of machine oil." I watch peoples' minds burst as the smoke rolls out from their ears. So the moral of the story is: Don't shake my hand or give me a hug after work until I've gotten a shower, it's in your best interest.
Hope everyone is doing well! My next blog will be the first installment for a short story. Intriguing, I'm sure. Otherwise, thanks for the continued support seven blogs into this exercise!
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Commute: Ode to "That" Guy
Fun Fact: My commute to work in the morning should take me anywhere between 19 to 22 minutes. Dependent of course on how many green lights I catch.
True Story: My commute, lately, has been taking on average 26 minutes. Atrocious, I know. I understand to a majority of people my complaint sounds absurd and obnoxious, and the reason it sounds that way is due to the fact it is rather absurd and obnoxious. In my personal defense, I've found that the best pot of coffee is brewed by whoever arrives at the building about 15 minutes before I do. This means that I can enjoy the last cup of that masterfully brewed pot of black gold if I'm able to make my commute within 22 minutes. Lest it be that I arrive 23 minutes after I depart my house because the last cup is gone. Stolen from my grasps of uncaffeinated hatred for anything merry in the morning hours. And don't get me started if I happen to sprint into the building on that 24th minute. I may as well have not gotten out of bed, called it a day and retired to a sad state of dormancy based on my lack of coffee and income.
The question being raised by discerning readers is that of "Why, oh wonderful author of 'The Blog' (it's catching on, I can feel it), has your commute been extended by an unheard of amount of four to seven minutes?!?!" I'll tell you why.
Red Honda Civic.... Man.
This individual has become my arch nemesis in the world of morning commute crime fighting and prevention. What laws does he break? One could make an argument, which would withstand a minimum of two appeals in criminal court, that this menace to society commits the most egregious offense known to man: driving slower than the speed limit.
I know. Take all the time you need to recollect yourself and send any young children into the other room.
During my drive into work each morning, I mind my own business. I don't drive excessively fast, don't run stop signs, and don't drive like an intolerable member of society (in my own professional opinion). In recent days I've had the unfortunate problem of ending up behind Red Honda Civic.... Man. It happens suddenly and unwillingly each morning. I'll come up to a red light and KABAAM! Red Honda Civic.... Man, is there in waiting! Never knowing how he knows my schedule or my appearance, this sloth ninja appears before me and proceeds to extend the time of my commute by a mean of five minutes each time he drives before me. Worst of all, this charlatan happens to work in the same industrial complex that I do. WHAT ARE THE ODDS?!
So this is my answer and response to the incredulous and cruel Red Honda Civic.... Man.
True Story: My commute, lately, has been taking on average 26 minutes. Atrocious, I know. I understand to a majority of people my complaint sounds absurd and obnoxious, and the reason it sounds that way is due to the fact it is rather absurd and obnoxious. In my personal defense, I've found that the best pot of coffee is brewed by whoever arrives at the building about 15 minutes before I do. This means that I can enjoy the last cup of that masterfully brewed pot of black gold if I'm able to make my commute within 22 minutes. Lest it be that I arrive 23 minutes after I depart my house because the last cup is gone. Stolen from my grasps of uncaffeinated hatred for anything merry in the morning hours. And don't get me started if I happen to sprint into the building on that 24th minute. I may as well have not gotten out of bed, called it a day and retired to a sad state of dormancy based on my lack of coffee and income.
The question being raised by discerning readers is that of "Why, oh wonderful author of 'The Blog' (it's catching on, I can feel it), has your commute been extended by an unheard of amount of four to seven minutes?!?!" I'll tell you why.
Red Honda Civic.... Man.
This individual has become my arch nemesis in the world of morning commute crime fighting and prevention. What laws does he break? One could make an argument, which would withstand a minimum of two appeals in criminal court, that this menace to society commits the most egregious offense known to man: driving slower than the speed limit.
I know. Take all the time you need to recollect yourself and send any young children into the other room.
During my drive into work each morning, I mind my own business. I don't drive excessively fast, don't run stop signs, and don't drive like an intolerable member of society (in my own professional opinion). In recent days I've had the unfortunate problem of ending up behind Red Honda Civic.... Man. It happens suddenly and unwillingly each morning. I'll come up to a red light and KABAAM! Red Honda Civic.... Man, is there in waiting! Never knowing how he knows my schedule or my appearance, this sloth ninja appears before me and proceeds to extend the time of my commute by a mean of five minutes each time he drives before me. Worst of all, this charlatan happens to work in the same industrial complex that I do. WHAT ARE THE ODDS?!
So this is my answer and response to the incredulous and cruel Red Honda Civic.... Man.
Ode to "That" Guy
My metal stallion glistens with the morning frost,
And invites me in its cold manner to drive to work.
Reluctantly, I agree and make haste to clear the ice,
But not before a startling thought passes my mind.
'That' Guy is out there this morning undoubtedly.
Meandering through the morning commute traffic,
Slowing down everyone which lay in their wake.
Why must 'That' Guy drive ever so slowly?
I make a right and begin the last leg of my journey,
Over the hills and down the valleys of Cincinnati.
What is that which awaits me at the upcoming light?
It can't be, it shouldn't be, 'That Guy!'
Caught again! What to do trapped behind this criminal?
Should I turn off quickly and hope to beat him around,
Or do I cave and give into the uneasiness of defeat?
Alas, I am not a stronger man and shall follow 'That Guy.'
This has been a public service announcement of "Don't be 'That' Guy." I understand there is a current among you which is saying "What about 'That' Girl?" To that I answer: There never is nor will be one. If in 20 plus years of living has taught me anything, it's to never pit blame on a woman (Guys, we'll meet down at the bar on Friday to address these issues).
Hope everyone is well and adjusting to the cooler temperatures which are beginning to make their presence known to us. Feel free to leave any suggestions, comments or critiques below for me.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Velociraptor: A Haiku
Fun Fact: My friends are better than yours, sorry. Introducing MJC III's brilliant Haiku, Velociraptor:
Swift, sleek, cunning
Goddamn scientists, adding feathers
Ruins my badass image
To put this in context, let us examine a feathered Velociraptor....
Image courtesy of Wikipedia (whether they know it or not).
Decidedly less threatening than our previous perception of the little guys. I mean, what ever happened to those scary critters we all knew and grew up with from Jurassic Park?! What was so wrong with them that scientists felt the need to go and change the immortal image of a dinosaur that can't even defend itself in a public forum. Despicable, so called scientific advancement.
I also found this gem while Googling Velociraptor...
Image borrowed from http://sugarshacksouthie.com/?cat=5 (I don't know anything else about this website than this awesome drawing).
Now THAT is a guy I want to hang out with on the weekends. Another Fun Fact: the Velociraptor is riding a Velocipede, an early version of the modern bicycle. Notice the pedals on the front wheel. One of the first designs of this was aptly nicknamed the "Boneshaker." You're welcome for that tid bit of minutia (Plug: Go visit your local National Parks).
With that being stated: The creative genius is definitely there for this little Social Experiment, so let's participate, eh? If not, that's cool. It turns out to be less work for me. If you're not sure what I'm referring to, see the my last blog towards the end and get caught up!
Beyond those things, I'm pretty much fresh out of blog ideas after detailing 22 years of nonsense into four blogs. From this point on I plan on using "The Blog" (I've decided its earned this infamy after receiving over 600 views to this point...thank you!) for comedic reflections on life. A lot like Seinfield. But hopefully my Pop will approve of these quips and not hold the same disdain as he does for a certain 90s TV show... Sorry Jerry.
To continue with this thought, I work out pretty much everyday. I never used to up until this summer, and it was pretty obvious. I was a scrawny kid, and up until I was 12, my Mum was fairly certain I was going to be no taller than 5'4" (currently I'm 6'2" according to the last pool that I stood on the bottom of while flailing for air). At the gym I go to, for the moment, there is a particular woman who attends on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays during the same time which I do. Now I know many of you are thinking, "Oh geez, he's one of THOSE guys. Creep." Wrong, well maybe I am, but it's purely unintentional. I'm just awkward. Back to the point: this woman sees this fitness institution as a personal dating service and social club. She occupies a piece of equipment (place appropriate "That's what she said" reference here), for what seems to be hours on end while talking with her legion of old creepy muscle bound "friends." This is offensive enough in my personal court of judgment, but wait, it gets worse.
She cackles. Does not simply laugh, but this woman cackles. A good friend of mine, quite correctly, noted that "A cackle a day keeps the cankles away!" But why?! My ears are routinely assaulted with the piercing shrill of this modern day Wicked Witch of the West. I wait for the day when I see Dorthy running on the track with Toto as this woman chases them cackling while maintaining slender ankles. So this is my plea, please... pretty please... if you wish to use a gym as a dating establishment, don't cackle. A good chuckle or chortle are justified to the highest degree but a cackle is punishable by a throw of the two pound dumb bell I'm curling to preserve my girlish figure.
Conclusion: I, being the ever so dedicated blogger for you, Google Image searched "Cackle." Two of the first five images were of Hillary Clinton. I'll allow you to draw your own thoughts of that.
Hope everyone is well! Sorry for the long delay and absence in blogging. I now work and no longer a bumm so I have significantly less time. We can change this fairly easily if we make my blog popular enough to merit advertisers, and I could get paid for my ever so inspiring words..... Just a thought.
Friday, October 14, 2011
The Social Experiment: The not so successful blockbuster (read to towards the bottom)
Fun Fact: I write a decent amount of stuff. Now I won't go down on record and say a superfluous amount, yet I wouldn't say that it's on par with a majority of people.
True Story: To bring this blog full circle at last, I wrote my first entry shortly after taking my Pop to a hospital one night, or super early morning depending on one's outlook. The thought of this blog came to me then for whatever reason, and I decided to act on it because I needed something to do.
The reasons for writing have changed over the years but the intent for it has remained essentially the same. Synthesize those thoughts and feelings which I keep, admittedly, to myself and get them out of my mind and onto some sort of medium. In high school I wrote prolifically and terribly, but that's to be expected I think. When I got to college the writing slowed and essentially became non existent. Well that's not entirely true. I wrote a lot, but it was always a paper on something of absolutely no relevance (I'm looking at you paper concerning my internship experiences, or you discourse on The Cave (and sadly no, not the Mumford & Sons song)).
Then came the summer following my sophomore year in school when I went to some military training in the lovely states of Alabama and Mississippi, in the middle of July and August. Communication during that time was limited to one form and one form only: written letters. Yes kids, there do exist times and places where one cannot have cell phones, computers with internet, or smoke signals and we can refer to this place as purgatory (you Catholics may need to look this one up... only kidding, slightly). While I was at this training, my Mum wrote to me dutifully and with love daily. Yes, daily. I've entered her into the "Best Mother Ever" competition being held by some yet to be determined corporate sponsor. I, in return, took my 30 minutes of free time each night to reconnect with writing and wrote what I could to those back home. After repenting my sins and being released it didn't matter, I was hooked.
Since then I've used writing as an outlet for all of those things which I pent up inside my mind. It's a release very intimate to who I am and what I feel. This is mainly because I've always kept a majority people at greater than arm's distance for one reason or another during my life. As you may have noticed, I've shed this mentality while at the same time embracing it by creating this blog (ha, take that moral conundrum!). So here you all have it, an unobstructed look into my life.
All this talk has me wondering, who enjoys writing these days? I propose a little social experiment: write something, anything. It can be a letter, prose, poetry or heck even a drawing. Leave me a little comment on the blog here saying you'd like to partake in this experiment and your email, then I'll send you an email which will have an address you can reach me at and send me your writing/art. I'll then take that and forwarded onto someone else participating.
Let me break it down for you: You create a piece---> You tell me you want to participate and provide email address---> I send you an address---> You mail your piece---> You later receive someone else's piece.
Fun Fact: Everybody likes receiving letters that aren't bills (that isn't scientifically supported, just a hunch).
This little project may be a bust, I don't know, but it is entirely dependent on viewer interaction! So get to writing whatever it is that you'd like. Motivational letters, short stories about insomnia, hiakus on velociraptors, or a pencil drawing of someone feeding pigeons in the park. Anything that strikes your fancy. It doesn't need to be long or need an author attached to it.
Hope everyone has been doing well and gearing up for Halloween! Take care everyone and thanks for reading!
drh
Saturday, October 8, 2011
College: The Rough and Tumble Times
Fun Fact: When you grow up things tend to become expensive.
True Story: I've worked pretty much since the time I could legally hold a job, and haven't really looked back since. Watching my Pop while growing up, I saw how much pride and joy he took in his work. Being able to accomplish something with his hands or his actions, and being able to provide for my family provided him with a sense of purpose. I've embraced that whether it be knowingly or not, and it has been playing into my thoughts and feelings while being here at home.
My first job I got when I turned 14, and worked as an assistant to a luthier, one who makes or repairs stringed instruments. Needless to say it was amazing. By the time I was 16, I was running a professional trade shop on my own some days, responsible for performing repairs on violins, violas, etc. and assisting customers purchase instruments. Have I mentioned it was an amazing job? I worked there throughout high school, and took great pride on being able to physically make something happen with my hands and knowledge which I got from my wonderful boss. The money which I made then went entirely to whatever the heck I wanted, which for a high school student is absolutely anything which has no long term value.
When I left for college, I still moonlighted at the luthier's shop, but naturally got caught up in other things while at school. That being school, ROTC, and life. I'll be the first to admit that growing up I've often acted irrationally and immature. Not immature in the sense that I find fart jokes funny (though if done correctly, one cane be hilarious), but in the sense that I never quite knew how to own up to my mistakes and when to admit I was wrong. By the time I was a sophomore in college, I was working as a tutor in a multi-discipline program, and absolutely enjoying teaching and mentoring. Now I'd like to say that I had grown up significantly and was a perfect gentleman, but I'd be lying.
A lot had changed in my life by the time I entered my second year, and I often would freak out over situations in my life. My solution? Shut down. There were times during my sophomore year when I would distance myself from everyone, and internalize my thoughts and feelings until I believed they were tamed. What I didn't take into account was that by doing so I had actually effectively drawn out the process of "returning to normal." Now some people who may read this blog that knew me then will think that I regret isolating myself and burning bridges. That isn't the case, and I won't provide any apologies for my actions then. If I've alienated you from my life there's a reason for having done so, but I do apologizes that things came to that.
My maturing became a point of contention my junior and senior year of college, and forced my hand on the matter. Just before I left to attend military training before my junior year my Pop came down with Vertigo, a disease which effects the inner ear canal and causes extreme dizziness. By the time I started school in August he had fallen and broken his right ankle. He was told he could not put any weight on it for eight weeks. Coincidentally eight weeks after he broke his right ankle, he broke the left ankle and was told the same thing: no weight for eight weeks. During this time my Pop was put on short term and then long term disability (these accidents only compounded the other medical conditions which he already had), and when he was finally medically cleared to return to work in January, he was released from his job.
We tried to rally around my Pop, my Mum and I, and still try to to this day. He suffers from a lose of purpose. That meaning and intent which drives one to get out of bed in the morning and push through the day. My Pop is the strongest man I know because, not only has he worked for nearly 30 years after being deemed 100% disabled, he's handled a terrible situation to the best of his abilities, and my Mum is a woman of rare and unsurpassed character to keep plodding through the situations we've been dealt.
Shortly after my Pop was released from his job, my Mum found out that her Breast Cancer had returned, but not in the traditional manner. Eight years after her original diagnosis, her breast cancer had metastasized in her bone marrow and was effecting the production of her Red Blood cells and platelets. She was short of breath and tired. But she never stopped, not even for a bit. My Mum was working as a special needs aide for a local elementary school, and would take one day off a week on Tuesday so she could make her chemotherapy treatments. She never complained about working when she shouldn't have, and she certainly made no apologies for carrying on with life the same way the best she could.
It took me until my last year of college to realized that life was larger than myself. I had held an Ayn Rand mentality of selfishness for a great part of my life, believing that by doing the best I could for myself I was doing the best for others by not settling (this is significantly watered down and if you're curious I recommend The Fountainhead if you're really interested). Life became more complicated, and I took on responsibilities of ensuring that my parents were taken care of when I could be there. Doctors's appointments, grocery runs, laundry, changing the cat litter, and others became things which I made myself concerned with so they wouldn't have to be. I did this because I saw how my community, the same one which for a majority of my life I've counted down the days until I could leave, picked up my parent's cause and looked after them together. Strangers would deliver dinners to my parents when they couldn't cook themselves, money was donated to help pay medical expenses and needs, and people were there to offer a laugh and a hug of hope.
Since I was a kid I've wanted to leave Cincinnati since it's a bubble with an inward focus, but I've come to realize that those things are what makes it great. The West side takes care of its own because its the right thing to do, and makes no excuses for itself for doing so. I've never had an opportunity to thank those people who looked after my family when I couldn't while attending school, but if any of you happen to read this just know how immensely humbled and thankful I am for all which you have done for them and me.
I'm now graduated and living back at home. Since being that sophomore tutor, I've been a park guide at a National Park and now laborer working on industrial equipment on my way to assuming my responsibilities as an officer in the military. My Pop has filed for disability and preoccupying his time with random historical conversations with me. My Mum has since left the elementary school she left due to the uncertainty of her treatments and our families ever bizarre situations. Both are doing well and in reasonably good health considering their conditions. Growing up can suck, a lot, but we all need to do it. Here's to hoping that the transition is gradual and smooth.
Hope everyone has a great weekend, and if you're in the Cincinnati area get outside and enjoy this weather!
True Story: I've worked pretty much since the time I could legally hold a job, and haven't really looked back since. Watching my Pop while growing up, I saw how much pride and joy he took in his work. Being able to accomplish something with his hands or his actions, and being able to provide for my family provided him with a sense of purpose. I've embraced that whether it be knowingly or not, and it has been playing into my thoughts and feelings while being here at home.
My first job I got when I turned 14, and worked as an assistant to a luthier, one who makes or repairs stringed instruments. Needless to say it was amazing. By the time I was 16, I was running a professional trade shop on my own some days, responsible for performing repairs on violins, violas, etc. and assisting customers purchase instruments. Have I mentioned it was an amazing job? I worked there throughout high school, and took great pride on being able to physically make something happen with my hands and knowledge which I got from my wonderful boss. The money which I made then went entirely to whatever the heck I wanted, which for a high school student is absolutely anything which has no long term value.
When I left for college, I still moonlighted at the luthier's shop, but naturally got caught up in other things while at school. That being school, ROTC, and life. I'll be the first to admit that growing up I've often acted irrationally and immature. Not immature in the sense that I find fart jokes funny (though if done correctly, one cane be hilarious), but in the sense that I never quite knew how to own up to my mistakes and when to admit I was wrong. By the time I was a sophomore in college, I was working as a tutor in a multi-discipline program, and absolutely enjoying teaching and mentoring. Now I'd like to say that I had grown up significantly and was a perfect gentleman, but I'd be lying.
A lot had changed in my life by the time I entered my second year, and I often would freak out over situations in my life. My solution? Shut down. There were times during my sophomore year when I would distance myself from everyone, and internalize my thoughts and feelings until I believed they were tamed. What I didn't take into account was that by doing so I had actually effectively drawn out the process of "returning to normal." Now some people who may read this blog that knew me then will think that I regret isolating myself and burning bridges. That isn't the case, and I won't provide any apologies for my actions then. If I've alienated you from my life there's a reason for having done so, but I do apologizes that things came to that.
My maturing became a point of contention my junior and senior year of college, and forced my hand on the matter. Just before I left to attend military training before my junior year my Pop came down with Vertigo, a disease which effects the inner ear canal and causes extreme dizziness. By the time I started school in August he had fallen and broken his right ankle. He was told he could not put any weight on it for eight weeks. Coincidentally eight weeks after he broke his right ankle, he broke the left ankle and was told the same thing: no weight for eight weeks. During this time my Pop was put on short term and then long term disability (these accidents only compounded the other medical conditions which he already had), and when he was finally medically cleared to return to work in January, he was released from his job.
We tried to rally around my Pop, my Mum and I, and still try to to this day. He suffers from a lose of purpose. That meaning and intent which drives one to get out of bed in the morning and push through the day. My Pop is the strongest man I know because, not only has he worked for nearly 30 years after being deemed 100% disabled, he's handled a terrible situation to the best of his abilities, and my Mum is a woman of rare and unsurpassed character to keep plodding through the situations we've been dealt.
Shortly after my Pop was released from his job, my Mum found out that her Breast Cancer had returned, but not in the traditional manner. Eight years after her original diagnosis, her breast cancer had metastasized in her bone marrow and was effecting the production of her Red Blood cells and platelets. She was short of breath and tired. But she never stopped, not even for a bit. My Mum was working as a special needs aide for a local elementary school, and would take one day off a week on Tuesday so she could make her chemotherapy treatments. She never complained about working when she shouldn't have, and she certainly made no apologies for carrying on with life the same way the best she could.
It took me until my last year of college to realized that life was larger than myself. I had held an Ayn Rand mentality of selfishness for a great part of my life, believing that by doing the best I could for myself I was doing the best for others by not settling (this is significantly watered down and if you're curious I recommend The Fountainhead if you're really interested). Life became more complicated, and I took on responsibilities of ensuring that my parents were taken care of when I could be there. Doctors's appointments, grocery runs, laundry, changing the cat litter, and others became things which I made myself concerned with so they wouldn't have to be. I did this because I saw how my community, the same one which for a majority of my life I've counted down the days until I could leave, picked up my parent's cause and looked after them together. Strangers would deliver dinners to my parents when they couldn't cook themselves, money was donated to help pay medical expenses and needs, and people were there to offer a laugh and a hug of hope.
Since I was a kid I've wanted to leave Cincinnati since it's a bubble with an inward focus, but I've come to realize that those things are what makes it great. The West side takes care of its own because its the right thing to do, and makes no excuses for itself for doing so. I've never had an opportunity to thank those people who looked after my family when I couldn't while attending school, but if any of you happen to read this just know how immensely humbled and thankful I am for all which you have done for them and me.
I'm now graduated and living back at home. Since being that sophomore tutor, I've been a park guide at a National Park and now laborer working on industrial equipment on my way to assuming my responsibilities as an officer in the military. My Pop has filed for disability and preoccupying his time with random historical conversations with me. My Mum has since left the elementary school she left due to the uncertainty of her treatments and our families ever bizarre situations. Both are doing well and in reasonably good health considering their conditions. Growing up can suck, a lot, but we all need to do it. Here's to hoping that the transition is gradual and smooth.
Hope everyone has a great weekend, and if you're in the Cincinnati area get outside and enjoy this weather!
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
High School: What to do with My Life
Fun Fact: Many strategists believed that if the Cold War was going to develop into a "hot" war, it would occur over Canada.
True Story: During the Cold War, the United States believed that the USSR would send its bomber fleet during the 1950's and early 1960's over the Arctic Circle, and positioned several Air Force installations in the northern states of the Union. Glamorous places like Alaska, Montana, North Dakota, and Minnesota became hotbeds of activity. The Air Force established several interceptor squadrons at those northern bases and armed them, rather conveniently, with nuclear tipped missiles. Their job was to scream up to the Arctic Circle and intercept the vast fleets of Soviet Bombers coming to bomb the US (of A), and shoot a (nuclear tipped) missile into the middle of the formation of bombers to knock them out of the sky. Now, if you're wondering "Now wait a second, wouldn't that mean that this would all take place over Canada?", you'd be correct. Needless to say, the Canadians were none to happy about the perception of a Nuclear World War III.
Does that have any relevance on the rest of my blog? I guess, but not too much other than the fact that I'm pretty much a hopeless history geek with lots of pointless stories and quips. In high school I held, for the better part of three years, the idea that I'd go to college for biochemistry or biochemical engineering. I ended up going to school for history. During high school I had a laden hope and desire to eventually continue on and becoming a doctor of some sort because I believed that's what successful people did. Three different things culminated in dislodging me from that presumption and launched me into a field which I enjoyed rather than thought was profitable.
The first of these events was my Advanced Placement United States History class that I took my junior year. As cliche it may be at this point to say that certain people and classes change your life, this one truly did for me. That class overcame a tragedy which to this day effects the West side of Cincinnati, and brought those of us in the class together in a very unique way. I cannot talk about this class though without mentioning the teacher who made that experience endurable, positive, and refused to neglect the events which happened. This man inspired me and mentored me through some of those moments in my life which I had to grow up quickly and painfully. For him, I'm forever grateful and appreciative of his impact.
Second in this list was a moment that has been imprinted in my mind since the moment it happened. For the greater part of my life, I've always thought or dreamed of joining the military, and then there was September 11, 2001. Many people describe this as the defining moment of a generation, of geopolitical relations, and of human history. For me, and the days which followed, it embedded a sense of duty which I already felt having growing up in such a tradition already. One morning while my Pop drove me to school (mind you I was in the seventh grade), I quite frankly told him that after high school I wanted to join the military. He rather eloquently said, "To hell you are." The discussion ended with him relenting that if I still felt that way when I was 18, we could discuss the issue further then. I started high school and it quickly became evident to me that college wasn't an option but the expectation for me, so to pursue the military had to be framed within that context. Having talked to my Pop again when I was older we discovered that ROTC was an alternative I could follow, and some would say the rest is "history."
The third thing which swayed my interest from becoming a doctor of any kind was the life which I lived while growing up. By the time I was 18, I was a seasoned pro of emergency rooms, intensive care units, and telemetry floors of so many different Greater Cincinnati hospitals, that I knew nurses and doctors by name (and they knew mine). Becoming a doctor loses its allure when you've played an amateur MD during your childhood. I often startle med students, residents, nurses and doctors alike when I chip into the medical consultation from the corner of chair in an ER room. After so many years, you become tired of such things because even if it isn't someone you're immediately connected to as the patient, it often resembles or reminds you of your own life.
So here I am, with a BA in history and a commission in the military with the intent of providing that which I've received so much of during my life: mentoring. Responsibility is not only defined by what one's tasks are to be completed, but doing the right thing to ensure that the task can be completed each time it needs to be. That can be extrapolated to mean that plans are left to follow for the next time, or making sure that someone who works for or with you has the opportunity to attend training, attend to their families, or attend to their personal needs, so that they can perform the task next time. Responsibility is cyclical and should be viewed as such, and that is what I didn't understand fully until recently.
Next blog will capture about how I've slowly realized and endured the harsh realities that growing up needs to take place, and that responsibilities cannot be shirked or ignored because they make one uncomfortable.
Thank you everyone for the positive response so far everyone! I appreciate your feedback in any form it comes. Hope everyone in the Cincy area is enjoying the beautiful weather and that you all have had a great start to the week!
drh
True Story: During the Cold War, the United States believed that the USSR would send its bomber fleet during the 1950's and early 1960's over the Arctic Circle, and positioned several Air Force installations in the northern states of the Union. Glamorous places like Alaska, Montana, North Dakota, and Minnesota became hotbeds of activity. The Air Force established several interceptor squadrons at those northern bases and armed them, rather conveniently, with nuclear tipped missiles. Their job was to scream up to the Arctic Circle and intercept the vast fleets of Soviet Bombers coming to bomb the US (of A), and shoot a (nuclear tipped) missile into the middle of the formation of bombers to knock them out of the sky. Now, if you're wondering "Now wait a second, wouldn't that mean that this would all take place over Canada?", you'd be correct. Needless to say, the Canadians were none to happy about the perception of a Nuclear World War III.
Does that have any relevance on the rest of my blog? I guess, but not too much other than the fact that I'm pretty much a hopeless history geek with lots of pointless stories and quips. In high school I held, for the better part of three years, the idea that I'd go to college for biochemistry or biochemical engineering. I ended up going to school for history. During high school I had a laden hope and desire to eventually continue on and becoming a doctor of some sort because I believed that's what successful people did. Three different things culminated in dislodging me from that presumption and launched me into a field which I enjoyed rather than thought was profitable.
The first of these events was my Advanced Placement United States History class that I took my junior year. As cliche it may be at this point to say that certain people and classes change your life, this one truly did for me. That class overcame a tragedy which to this day effects the West side of Cincinnati, and brought those of us in the class together in a very unique way. I cannot talk about this class though without mentioning the teacher who made that experience endurable, positive, and refused to neglect the events which happened. This man inspired me and mentored me through some of those moments in my life which I had to grow up quickly and painfully. For him, I'm forever grateful and appreciative of his impact.
Second in this list was a moment that has been imprinted in my mind since the moment it happened. For the greater part of my life, I've always thought or dreamed of joining the military, and then there was September 11, 2001. Many people describe this as the defining moment of a generation, of geopolitical relations, and of human history. For me, and the days which followed, it embedded a sense of duty which I already felt having growing up in such a tradition already. One morning while my Pop drove me to school (mind you I was in the seventh grade), I quite frankly told him that after high school I wanted to join the military. He rather eloquently said, "To hell you are." The discussion ended with him relenting that if I still felt that way when I was 18, we could discuss the issue further then. I started high school and it quickly became evident to me that college wasn't an option but the expectation for me, so to pursue the military had to be framed within that context. Having talked to my Pop again when I was older we discovered that ROTC was an alternative I could follow, and some would say the rest is "history."
The third thing which swayed my interest from becoming a doctor of any kind was the life which I lived while growing up. By the time I was 18, I was a seasoned pro of emergency rooms, intensive care units, and telemetry floors of so many different Greater Cincinnati hospitals, that I knew nurses and doctors by name (and they knew mine). Becoming a doctor loses its allure when you've played an amateur MD during your childhood. I often startle med students, residents, nurses and doctors alike when I chip into the medical consultation from the corner of chair in an ER room. After so many years, you become tired of such things because even if it isn't someone you're immediately connected to as the patient, it often resembles or reminds you of your own life.
So here I am, with a BA in history and a commission in the military with the intent of providing that which I've received so much of during my life: mentoring. Responsibility is not only defined by what one's tasks are to be completed, but doing the right thing to ensure that the task can be completed each time it needs to be. That can be extrapolated to mean that plans are left to follow for the next time, or making sure that someone who works for or with you has the opportunity to attend training, attend to their families, or attend to their personal needs, so that they can perform the task next time. Responsibility is cyclical and should be viewed as such, and that is what I didn't understand fully until recently.
Next blog will capture about how I've slowly realized and endured the harsh realities that growing up needs to take place, and that responsibilities cannot be shirked or ignored because they make one uncomfortable.
Thank you everyone for the positive response so far everyone! I appreciate your feedback in any form it comes. Hope everyone in the Cincy area is enjoying the beautiful weather and that you all have had a great start to the week!
drh
Sunday, October 2, 2011
The Beginning: In so many words
I got this idea recently while driving to a hospital ER at 3:00AM on a Monday in the middle of a record downpour in Cincinnati. That idea was why not start a blog to tell and show people the things I was doing and thinking while I'm home?
With that, let me back up and explain who I am and the current situation my life is in to date. My name is Dan, and I'm a recent college graduate and commissioned officer in the military. Shortly after graduating, I had expected to enter active duty and travel across the country to perform my job. Coincidentally, the United States' economy (much like the world's) saw it fit to tank recently, leaving no money to send little ol' me to service.
So here I am, in Cincinnati, living with my parents for the first time really since leaving for college. As many of my friends will be able to tell you I'm extremely open about my life when asked, but typically keep things to myself. Mainly I don't like to feel like I'm intruding on people's lives, so by writing it for people to read on their own accord people can read if they'd like or continue with their lives as they please.
That being said (well written... well typed I suppose), I'll take the first couple of blogs to recap my life up to the present. This first one will pretty much cover up until high school, with the next one covering high school and college.
Born and raised on the West side of Cincinnati, I grew up in what can undoubtedly be called a bubble. Unless you grew up or have lived in the greater Cincinnati area for any extended amount of time, you don't quite have a full understand of what that entails. I like to put it in this context: the West side of Cincinnati is predominately Catholic. By predominately, I of course mean that directions are dictated by what parish you need to hang the next left afterwards. I grew up in a family in which we didn't attend a church, so growing up and to this day the whole "going to church on Sunday" thing is a bit foreign, and quite frankly frightening. That's especially true when it seems like you're the only kid in the world who isn't going. To quell any sort of creeping thoughts or suspicions, yes I'm religious (it's something I've gotten slowly more comfortable with over time).
Growing up though wasn't all too bad for me though, and I'll never make a claim that I had it difficult as a kid. My parents are two of the most wonderful and upstanding people that anyone can have the pleasure of knowing. To this day, despite a lot which has happen, my parents are my mentors, idols, and heroes. My Pop is a brilliant man who is proud to a fault and would give the shirt off of his back to help anyone who may need it. He served in the military much like his father before him had and many in my family had in previous generations (it's a bit of a trend). Unfortunately his military career was struck short when he was diagnosed with Crohn's Disease which causes tears in the tissue of the small and large intestine. Needless to say it isn't pleasant, and was deemed to be 100% disabled and released from the military. Despite the condition that was set before him, he has labored over the last 30 plus years to provide for not just himself but my Mum and I, and has asked nothing in return. Humble and diligent, that's the kind of man I can only hope to become so I can achieve half of what he has.
God love my Mum. I tell people when talking about my mother that I don't know how she does it, and by "it" I mean put up with my Pop and I on any given day. She can be described no better than the glue (and I'm about to start saying the epoxy) which holds our family, and honestly each of us together. She was a dietitian by trade, but stopped working to support me and my endless list of shenanigans growing up. Many parents funnel their kids into different activities to focus the efforts of their children. Mine let me go which ever the wind may be blowing that day, and asked no questions. I played soccer and hockey before baseball finally prevailed. Sport games and practices, check. In the first grade of the elementary school I attended we could begin playing an instrument. I chose the viola, so that meant lessons, rehearsals and concerts, check. Oh, and because I lived in an area which the public schools weren't the best, my parents sent me to a private school 20 miles from my home. Trips to and from school each day, check. Every practice, lesson, game, concert, and school event my Mum was there, and more often than not my Pop too. If you can't tell, I like to brag about my parents a lot like parents like to brag about their children.
So to fill some back story in quick order. My Pop's health since I've been alive has always been what I'd say "questionable." Crohn's Disease is the tip of the iceberg with nearly 30 other medical conditions contributing at this point (no, the 30 is not an exaggeration). Significant contributors include diabetes, an aneurysm of the ascending Aorta, vertigo, broken ankles, and broken fibula and tibia have meant that I am quite familiar with the emergency rooms of the greater Cincinnati area. My Mum had a clean bill of health up until 2001, at which point she was diagnosed with Breast Cancer. It goes without saying I despise going to a doctor for myself.
I grew up in a context where it was my parents and I, with what seemed like all improbable random odds against us. We "kept on keeping on" and random incidents and maladies managed to find their ways to us. Growing up I found my escape from these things in baseball, viola, school and working. Now with these same things facing me, I'm no longer sure where to find my retreat and sanctuary. So here I am blogging.
We'll see how this goes whole experiment goes for a couple of blogs. This didn't quite cover everything which I hoped, but I don't want to make these all to extensive or wordy. Hope everyone is doing well and had a phenomenal weekend!
drh
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