____ward Bound

The sun was setting in the west and our planet was tilted on its axis in a manner so that the hemisphere I live in was farther away from the sun as I drove my car to pick my daughter up. The air was cool but not chilly so I had the windows down and the autumn scents filled my nostrils with the earthy sweet smell of decay and overrode the scent of exhaust from the vehicles I was sharing the road with.

            The sun was low on the horizon and the sky was remarkably crisp in its clearness. A few cirrus clouds dotted the rich blue hue of our atmosphere and I smiled. The clearness reminded me of my days in the Navy when my ship was at sea, all our work was finished for the day and I’d find a quite place to sit outside with a book and a cigarette and relax in the glory of just being.

            As I scanned the sky I was surprised to see the air filled with vapor trails. More than a dozen filled my view as I counted, even more appeared. Jets filled with people traveling from point a to point b across our country. Across our globe.

            Where were they going?

            Who were they?

            Why are they traveling?

            Which is when I remembered that the holiday season is upon us and many of those travelers were heading home to see loved ones and not so loved ones and enjoy or at least try to enjoy, the place that helped make them who and what they are.

            Home.

            Home..

            Home…

            What is home? Where is home? Who helps create our home?

            It seems, to me that is, the mythical place known as home, is an ever changing place. As well, it is a place that seems to move from one geographical location to another, almost random geographical place.

            Home is a place, as a child, we rush to get to when we’ve had a good day at school to show of our grades. It is a place to run to when we’ve had a bad day outside and are in pain. A place where we receive praise and comfort, a place where we can hide from the boogey man and a place where our imaginations are born out of fear, disappointment, success and love.

            Home is a place, as a teenager, where we try to run away from because of shame or embarrassment. A place where we only feel safe in one, lonely room where the curtains are always drawn and the window will never open. It is a place where we learn how to speak out against what we feel is wrong. A place where what we believe is true, is never really true. A place where we learn that sometimes, what we dream will never come true. It is also the place where we learn to hone and shape our dreams into what we one day hope will come true.

            Home is a place where as an adult, we leave behind. We venture forth into the world in an attempt to make our own home. Be that home a shitty, one bedroom apartment on the seedy side of town as you work an even shittier, menial job, or a dorm room in college where you spend endless frustrating hours trying to cram as much knowledge into your booze soaked and sleep denied brain as possible or even on a large, gray Naval vessel with one thousand other men who are on a mission of peace by force under a renegade president.

            Yes, homes change for various reasons. They are like the ether that way. Always shifting, always moving, always fluid, always just out of your true physical reach and yet, always within you. In a place you can never quite understand and never quite tangibly grasp with your hands.

            Home is a place you think you are leaving when you walk out of one parent’s house, get in the car of another parent and take the almost eternal drive to their new home. A building that is as alien to you as the earth beneath your feet is foreign to a fish in the ocean. Yet, slowly and eventually, that new place soon becomes a second home to your young mind. A home that can chase away the bitter tears of loneliness and confusion at the actions of adults as the car ride becomes shorter and shorter with each commute.

            Home becomes a place you make yourself. A place where you are comfortable in your own skin and with your own random thoughts that you believe prove you are as crazy as everyone says you are. It is a place where you place your memories, a place where you build new memories and it is a place that transcends the chasm between the physical world and the unseen, earth real world of intangibility.

            Home can be a place of great stress and great comfort at the same time. It is a place of constant growth, in both birth and death. Home is a place of contradictions, illogical thinking and behavior and a place where we know we will eventually be accepted and loved. A place where the stress put up on us in our lives away from home can be miniscule when compared to the stress we put upon each other when we are home. Yet, we wouldn’t give our home up for anything or anyone.

            Home, it is where you are and where you are going as well as the place you just left. We all can be home wherever we are if we just take a few moments, calm and stead ourselves by changing our thinking and realize, we all are trying to get to the same place even if that place is not in the same location. We share that with our fellow travelers.

            I can only hope, that all those people who are traveling realize this and maybe, while stuck on a tarmac somewhere or at a stoplight or even in a traffic jam, that they are truly not alone. Everyone wants to be with their own loved ones in their own home.

            Have a great week.

Bing, Gayla and the Goose

In 1945 Bing Crosby released a Christmas album comprised of ten songs. After a few years, and advancements in technology, the album was re-released. However, this time, there were only eight songs on the album. This album’s release coincided with Bing’s hit holiday film “White Christmas” The album has become a huge success over the decades and I can honestly say that the songs have become a part of the American psyche for the holidays ever since.

            Yet two of the songs from the first album seemed to have fallen through the cracks of time. One of them being quite interesting and unique even though it was an old standard, the song is “Santa Claus is Coming to Town”.

            You see, Bing changed some of the lyrics. Modernized it a bit, jazzed it up so to speak. Especially the ending, which, I’ve overheard some say it was not just a bad version of the song, but he had no right to do what he did.

            When I first heard it, I loved it. Of course, I have an odd view on some standards, not just in music, but in general. Now, I can’t really remember the first time I heard Bing’s version of the song, but I always remember the ending. “The big fat man in the long white beard is coming to town.” Said with almost no consideration of the songwriters or even the sentiment of the season. It was as if Bing is saying “Don’t worry, even if you’re bad, things will work out.”

            Another song I can’t remember my first hearing of but always loved was “I want a Hippopotamus for Christmas” recorded in 1953 by a young lady named Gayla Peevey. I do remember, however, waiting every year at Christmas time to hear her sing that song on the radio. I knew it wasn’t Christmas until my ears were assaulted with her almost nasally and raspy voice belting out how she wanted to creep down the stairs and see a giant hippo standing there.

            To this day, in my middle age, both songs still fill me with child-like joy and wonderment.

            So, when sixteen years ago my daughter was born, I did my best to introduce some of my favorite music to her while she was completely unable to understand what was going on in her life. Yeah, infants just don’t understand music, time, life and how sights, sounds and smells can bring happiness. Nope, they just live in the moment and enjoy everything.

            It wasn’t until years later, when she was four, that she finally caught on to the impact of music. You see, we, my wife, myself and our daughter who was strapped in to her car seat in the back of our mini-van, were driving somewhere, and the Hippo song came on the radio. My bride and I quickly started singing along with the radio. When the song was over a small but clear voice from behind us vehemently answered our lyrics with “I don’t want a hippopotamus for Christmas!”

            I looked at my wife, she stared at me, our jaws both hanging agape and then, as if on cue, we both busted out laughing. So much so, we almost drove off the road.

            Not so many minutes later, Bing’s song about Santa comes on the radio. We sang along, even our small child piped in here and there. Yet, when the end of the song came, and Bing went into his non-standard ending my lovely, talented and amazing offspring yells “That’s not how it goes!” with great disappointment at what she had just heard. I laughed.

            Fast forward to today, my child is now a young lady, driving, writing, going to school, working, directing student films and listening to all sorts of modern music that sounds like a bag of cats fighting to me. Yet, she loves her music and it makes her happy so I’m happy.

            Which is funny, because now, her taste of music being that of a young lady in this country, she seeks out new music as well as finding old songs sung by new artists and I find myself shaking my head on what some of the young singers are doing to old standards. I guess I feel like she must have felt when she was four years old and was introduced to music that she thought was one way, but ended up another. A bit disappointed, a bit offended and as if the world had just played a cruel joke on me.

            Which is funny, when I think about it; you see, here I am, two years from half a century in age and my offspring, a full thirty-two years younger than me, has been able to strip away all my years of wisdom and maturity and made me feel like a four year old child. I feel like a child who is just discovering how the world can zig when you expect it to zag, which is an awesome feeling for someone who has become tainted by life when it comes to the wonder of this celebrated season.

            It is a good thing, in my opinion, learning from a younger generation. I’ve grown too comfortable in my likes and views of society and the world. . Like the student becoming the teacher. Her younger eyes, attitude and sense of wonderment have become her teaching tools that I seem to have lost over the years.

            So, here’s to her and the up and coming generation of thinkers, dreamers, inventors, musicians and writers she calls her friends. Keep shaking the tree of standards like so many before you. I will try to sit back quietly and understand and enjoy watching you make this world yours.

            Why? Because the big fat man in the long white beard is bringing me a hippopotamus for Christmas.

            Have a great week.

Thanks-Giving

It’s the time of year when people seek out the flesh and blood of their past. In some instances these meetings end up in fights, bloodshed and general civil unrest. In other cases, everyone has a nice time and goes on about the rest of the holiday season no worse for the wear.

            If you believe the mass media, movies, music and television shows, this is the time of year where people stress out, party too much, make fools of themselves and then through some miracle, all is forgiven and everyone sort of lives happily ever after.

            This is not about any of that. Nope, simply because it is a well known fact that in my life I am not a big fan of reunions of any sort. I try to avoid them. Especially this time of year. So, when plans were being made for the holiday of overeating, me and my family sort of fell through the cracks. Sure, we could have gone somewhere, a friend’s house, a distant relatives home or, even to some large, national, eat all you can for a hundred dollars restaurant.

            But we didn’t. We stayed home. Just the three of us, and this is what it is all about.

            We slept late.

            I made breakfast of bacon, eggs, cheese, juice and milk.

            We watched a parade on television and came up with different scenarios on how to release the captive but wild balloon creatures back into their natural habitats. Also, we hoped and prayed for the death and destruction of the talking heads on the black box. We enjoyed the marching bands and scoffed at all the lip-syncers in attendance. Then we watched a bunch of dogs get judged on the national airwaves.

            During all this, I cooked up a feast that seems a bit obscene. Albeit, delicious. Then we ate, did dishes, turned on a football game and took naps.

            When we woke up, we repeated this behavior.

            Near the end of the night, we realized we needed some condiments from the store. We were unsuccessful at the first two stores we went to. They were closed. So we ended up at a large box store with the entire population of Virginia.

            People were fighting, yelling, screaming and being the worst selves they could possibly be. I shook my head, grabbed my groceries and tried to get out alive. Which I did. So, I treated myself to a milkshake. (Yeah, I know, already ate too much.)

            The rest of the night was spent in food induced bliss while sitting on the couch trying to stay awake. By midnight I was fast asleep, for the fourth time.

            It was a perfect Thanksgiving. Food, no stress on my behalf and everyone in the house was content, fed and happy.

            So, when I woke up at two in the morning with my brain going ten thousand miles an hour, I knew I needed to write something. So I jotted down some notes, and went back to bed. Here are my interpreted for the public versions of those notes.

            I’m grateful for my family. A family that understands my need to seclude myself on my porch with my laptop and cigars in order to sort out my thoughts, a family that knows, even when I’m surly, grumpy, manic, tired, joyful and absent because of work, I’m doing it all for them.

            I’m grateful for my friends. The ones who tell me like it is to my face. The ones who read my stories and my blogs and tell me where I’m off base, goofed up in the head or just plain nuts. And the friends who don’t read my schlock and still tell me all those things. Friends who actually answer my texts, emails and phone calls when I make them to their respective contacts.

            Lastly, I’d like to thank my church family. The ones that are there for me and my family when we are in need, when we are struggling or even when we are just doing fine and don’t need anything in life. They unknowingly offer us comfort and a sense of belonging whether we know it or not.

            These are the things I’m grateful for. Have a great week and I hope your Thanksgiving was a memorable and joyful one.

            P.S. I wrote a blog last week and didn’t post it. It just didn’t seem to be the kind of blog I wanted to share with the general public.

            

The Long Short of it All

Ever since I was a young boy I’ve read just about everything I could get my hands on. From classic literature to horror and everything in between. Yes, including some romance tales. I didn’t really have a choice in that subject because I was pretty much raised in a house of women and when there was nothing else to read… well, I read what my family was reading.

            However; when I discovered I was old enough for a library card, be it at the public library or the school library, my appetite for reading increased exponentially. Yet it wasn’t until my sophomore year in High school that I discovered the joy of short stories. The book that started this passion rolling was from my English Lit class. I wish I could remember my teachers name but I can’t, he did however give us large, hard covered tomes bound in a denim like cloth. It was almost too big to carry. The damn thing must have weighed six pounds.

            The first story he assigned us to read was “Harrison Bergeron” by Kurt Vonnegut. Now, up to that point in my life, my only exposure to Vonnegut had been Slaughterhouse Five, so when I read that particular short story about a future filled with dystopian equality and a rebel fighting his entire life to prove how wrong things were and to ultimately pay for his decision with his life, well, it just blew my hair back. After class, I quickly made my way to the school’s library and checked out every Vonnegut book in the library and over the course of a week I read them all.

            He, Kurt Vonnegut, became my all-time favorite writer. So much so that to this day, when perusing the shelves of used book stores and library book sales, I tend to purchase any copy I can find. Which has landed me several first editions of his work. I’ve still yet to get my hands on a signed book by him even though I’ve found them for sale, I just never have the money for them.

            Yet out of all of his works, it are his short stories I love the most. I read them all almost every year. I don’t do it all at once. No, I scatter them out through my days and savor each and every word he put down on paper. They are like plasma to me. So rich, so full, so mentally invigorating that each one has a special place in my heart.

            Which led me down a path of detective work. I sought out other writers I liked and their collected short stories. Any time I found one of those books, I immediately obtained it and read it cover to cover. Be the topic science fiction, horror, literature, and what I’ve come to know now as speculative fiction. They were all good and I never felt cheated by the tales not being longer. Even when I wanted them to be longer, I somehow understood that the author had told the tale he wanted and that was enough for me.

            That is when I started finding hints to other stories scattered amongst the short stories I was reading. It seemed to me, that the writers liked to take main characters from one tale and use them as secondary and tertiary characters in other stories. When I figured that out, I knew the stories never really ended… they just kept going with different protagonists. I was gleeful.

            Which brings me to five years ago, when an old navy pal of mine encouraged me to write, I didn’t sit down and think whether I’d be a novel writer or a short story writer. Nope, I just sat down and wrote the story I wanted. I let the story tell itself through me. And what I wrote were short stories. I didn’t realize at the time that the short story market was almost zero and so competitive that for every story published a thousand others slowly die of rot on computer files across the globe. To tell the truth, I didn’t really care then and I don’t really care now.

            Nope, I still write the tales and let them dictate the length. Also, I use what I’ve learned from the great writers of my youth. Write with as much passion as you can and don’t use too much unnecessary descriptive narrative or unnecessary dialogue. Get the tale written, down and dirty.

            Which is what I seem to do. For you see, last week I was invited into another anthology. When I read the pitch, I knew it was something I could do. So I readily agreed before I even had an inkling of an idea for a story. Yet, not thirty minutes later the idea had formed and I knew I was on the right track.

            Four writing sessions later I had typed “The End” on a ten thousand word short story. And, I’m happy with it. The only thing left is to have the editors go over it with red pens and then make the proper changes and the get it off to the publishers. Then the waiting game really begins. The release date and the paydays.

            However; I’m not too concerned withthe pay, no, I’m more concerned with getting a copy of the book in my grubby little fingers. Not for pride or bragging rights, no, I want to read the stories of the other writers in the anthology. I want to delve into the minds of my fellow page mates and see what they wrote and how they wrote their tales. I want to be stunned, amazed and impressed with the talent and skill of my fellow wordsmiths.

            Don’t get me wrong, I still read novels. I have fourteen bookshelves overflowing with books to prove that. It’s just that when I’m reading a novel, whether for the first time or the second time, I tend to read a paragraph or chapter, then reread it only on the second go through I skip over anything I feel is unnecessary. Which makes for quick reading on the second go around but takes me twice as long on the first reading.

            Now, this is not a criticism of any writers writing, no, it is just me putting myself in the writers place and trying to strip away everything I feel doesn’t need to be there and rewrite it in my own head. Some books you just can’t do that to though. For example, the unabridged edition of Stephen Kings “The Stand” or “It” are true masterpieces and I love every last word in them. Of course most of his work is like that. His “Firestarter” book is still one of my favorite and I’ve read that at least a dozen times.

            So, in conclusion, I like novels, I like short stories and I truly love the written word. It’s powerful and sparks a person’s imagination in ways that are rarely reached. I don’t know if I will ever write a full 300 page novel. I hope to one day. But for now, I will stick with the fact that I write the way I write and I allow the stories to flow from my muse and onto the page in a manner that is as true to the story as can be.

            Have a great week, now, go read some short stories.

Halloween Special

Tom Welling once said “I have so much chaos in my life, it’s become normal. You become used to it. You have to just relax, calm down, take a deep breath and try to see how you can make things work rather than complain about how they’re wrong.”

            I can relate to every aspect of that quote. From the chaos of my life to wanting to complain about people and things that are wrong. However; it took me traveling halfway across the country, on a semi-unexpected trip to actually realize how tense and stressed out I’d become over the past year.

            Actually, truth be told, I have not had a real vacation in quite some time. Sure, I’ve been getting a lot of days off from one job this past year. Only because I earn too much time a month to be able to stay under the mandatory leave carry over date. Also, I should say first and foremost. I don’t really care for time off. Simply because I like to be productive and I know there is plenty of work waiting for me and I should not put it off. Yet, last Thursday morning, I found myself climbing aboard a plane and headed for the great Midwest of the united States of America.

            The trip was uneventful. I had one transfer and both seat-mates were more than happy to not talk to me. Not that I am much of a talker. My communication is primarily through my blog. Which you are reading right now. So, kudos to you. When I arrived at my destination, my relaxation finally kicked in. I knew I had no financial or work pressures on me. My family, who I was there to see, were more than happy to allow me any amount of time I needed to decompress.

            Which I did.

            In the course of three days, I soaked in a hot tub no less than five times. I smoked at least six cigars and I ate more food than I had in probably a month. I also visited a car museum which housed no less than twenty original Hudson’s and one Tucker. I bonded with my mother, my sister, my niece and even my brother-in-law.

            I tried to convince my family that on Halloween they should watch horror films and tried to introduce them to “The Evil Dead” by Sam Rami, but they opted out for more saccharin films about the upcoming Christmas season. I balked. I protested and in the end, I went outside to smoke a cigar. Yet, I enjoyed every moment of this happy-go-lucky-fantasy-land.

            This all being said, one high-light of the trip was taking a journey with my mother to Dearborn, Michigan to see some of the greatest people I’ve ever met in the horror community. The “RudderRabbits”.

            At first, on Friday, when I informed my family that I had been invited to a Halloween party not thirty minutes away from where I was staying, I thought they would balk. To my surprise, they didn’t. My mother even asked to go with me to meet some of my more dark friends. When she expressed concern about where we were going and who these people were I quelled her fears by saying “In the horror community, there is a saying, If you don’t like the Rabbits, then you won’t like me.”

            She, my mother, calmed down.

            On Saturday, when it came time for us to hit the road, I don’t know who was more excited, me or the woman who gave me life. I bet it was my mom.

            Upon our arrival at the Rabbits house, my mother immediately picked out the black flamingos with the skeletal outlines. She was impressed. I just smiled and knew she would have a good time.

            Now, I should preface the rest of this story by saying that only one of the Rabbits knew I was coming. If you don’t know, there are at least four Rabbits at any time living and breathing in the horror community. Each one as awesome as the next. However; the primary Rabbit had no clue that I was going to be lighting his doorstep for the Halloween party. When I walked in, Mrs. Rabbit smiled and called my name, so did two of the smaller Rabbits. When the elder and masculine Rabbit turned around in his chair and his gaze fell upon my face, well, all I can say is that he was completely surprised.

            The grin on his face, the twinkle in his eyes and the almost clumsy way he got out of his chair and almost knocked it over told me how stunned he was. I just smiled and gave him the biggest hug I could possibly give. A few minutes later we were in his sanctum sanctorum. His book room. Not just me, he’d invited my maker. She, my mother, was more than happy to stand by and watch us drool over limited, lettered and first printing books by some of the best horror writers of the twenty-first century.

            My mother expressed interest in some of the things we were saying and Mr. Rabbit quickly dug through his shelves, pulled out a tertiary copy of a book he had and handed it to her. “Enjoy. It’s an amazing story.” He said.

            My mom, perplexed and stunned by the generosity of my pal, took the book and thanked him. I took the book from her hand and added it to the pile of books he’d set aside for me. A pile that I’d not asked for nor even expected. A pile of books that I’d simply expressed interest in.

            Later, on the ride home after three hours of basking in the joy and energy of books, horror and kids dressed as fantasy ponies and adults dressed as classic horror figures, my mother admitted to me that this was one of the best Halloweens she’d participated in. The kids, the friendship, the laughter and even the embarrassing stories she told about me as a young lost youth in Washington, DC. Had made her realize that even though some people read and watch things that are dark and disturbing, they care about things that are important to the further existence of life. (That is a summary and not a quote.)

            When we arrived at our destination, we were both happily satiated and filled with comfort and joy. Our Halloween had been one of the best we’d experienced in years. For me, it has been over twelve years that I’ve been able to immerse myself in the wonderful and horrific world of death and hopelessness that awaits us all.

            So, in conclusion, I want to thank my family in Michigan for giving me a great vacation and my pals, the Rabbits, who have renewed my full enjoyment of the hubris of humanity. You, the Rabbits and my family, are totally awesome. I only hope that other travelers on this mudball will know how awesome both of you are.

            Okay, too many words and not enough space, have a great week and I hope you all had a great Halloween!

            See you next week.

For Mike S.

Johnny Cash’s gravely and deep baritone voice fill my ears right now. He’s singing about the Grim Reaper taking souls. Which is fitting, the Reaper took a friend of mine today. I’m not happy about it. I’m not pissed off, just saddened down to my soul.

            My pal’s name, Mike S.

            I remember the first time I met him, we were at church, I was working in the audio visual booth, well, on the cameras actually. I was getting my headset and preparing to head out to my box where my camera was set up. Mike was escorted into the booth by our director. Mike had a big grin on his face.

            But it wasn’t his smile that caught my attention at first, no, it was his full head of neatly trimmed, stark white hair. As white as Santa Clause’s. He was about my height and only a few years older than me but I felt an immediate connection to him. When he was introduced around his smile grew bigger and his quiet voice greeted us each as if he’d known us for years. His handshake, firm and confident. When he spoke to you, he looked you directly in your eyes.

            We didn’t become instant friends, which was fine with me. For you see, we had that in common. Like me, he never judged a person on first impressions, no, he took his time, observed you and if something was amiss in your world and it showed in your actions, he took the time to figure out what was wrong and see if he could help.

            Him and I worked the same shift on the cameras every third Sunday. When our church expanded, him and I stayed on the same shift even though we had an influx of cameramen. Eventually, his family and mine became friends. He had a lovely wife and two beautiful daughters. All of us went out to lunches, and occasionally, dinners. And, on rare occasions, when the Green Bay Packers were playing the Chicago Bears, we’d get together at his house and watch the games.

            My daughter was much younger then. Barely seven, I remember her sitting on the floor of their living room and playing with their pet dog while we sat on the couch and ate nachos, tacos and various other football food. Mike and his wife made us feel welcomed and comfortable, even though I rarely feel comfortable in social situations.

            Mike was able to break through those barriers.

            When our work at the church increased, he was the only other cameraman who stepped up to the plate to work almost every Sunday for two services. Between services, we’d go up to the A/V room, sit on the floor, eat yogurt, granola bars and bananas and talk about work and how things were going with our family.

            When he confessed to me the troubles and pains he was having with his wife’s fight with cancer, we prayed, we hugged and we cried. When he expressed frustration with work, or with life in general, I comforted him. Just as he did with me.

            When our church started falling apart, he and I were the only two A/V guys left standing. I felt bad for him. I had been promoted to director, he was still on cameras not a few weeks before. When the dust of destruction settled, him and I would meet before church, discuss how we would block the shots. One of our pastors’ had gotten another director to come in and help out. We liked him and his wife, yet we didn’t always agree with what they wanted to do. But we remained.

            Then, one Sunday he dropped a bomb on me. His family was leaving the church and going to start attending another. I was heartbroken but I couldn’t stop him. I knew there was nothing I could say to keep him or his family in our flock. I just nodded and wished him and his family well.

            When I found out his wife was cancer free… I rejoiced.

            When I found out he had cancer… I cursed and prayed.

            When I found out his treatments weren’t going well… I cursed more and prayed more.

            When I found out he was in the hospital… I cursed so much I got hoarse. Then I prayed.

            When he got out of the hospital, I reached out to him. It wasn’t the first time I had done so, but I was hoping to hear from him. I called and left voice messages, I texted and even posted on facebook. He never answered back. Can’t say as I blame him. I know when I’m ill, the last thing I want to do is talk to anyone.

            Then, when I found out last week he was back in the hospital, I cried, I prayed and I cursed. I wanted to go see him. I wanted to talk to him. I wanted to tell him how much he meant to me. But I didn’t. Instead, I went to see older friends.

            Friends who I believe could have waited.

            Then, I found out things were going south fast. But I still didn’t go see him. Instead, I headed out to see my older pals once again.

            When I found out he was going home for hospice care… I was empty inside. I cried.

            When I found out he died… I was frozen.

            My friend, a man who had been in my life for barely a decade had expired without me telling him how much he meant to me. To my family and how not a week goes by and I don’t think about him and his family.

            I know he left in peace and tranquility. But I am anything but peaceful and tranquil about this.

            Another person who actually took time out of his life to get to know me and still liked me for who I was is now gone. I am down one more friend. No, I am down one more very close friend. I don’t have many. Three maybe four left in my life and I’m getting to old to even try and find another.

            So I’m going to say it here and now what I should have said at least a week ago:

            “Mike, you were a true friend to me. Your friendship meant more to me than I will ever be able to express in words. Your faith was something that I wished I’d had. Your commitment to family was enviable and your service to this country and church was admirable. I love you and I hope that you are in a better place today.”

            As I wrap this up, Johnny Cash is now singing about meeting again. I suppose that is a fitting ending to this blog. Because I can’t wait to meet Mike again.

The Interview

“You’re going to be interviewed at one o’clock today.” My supervisor informed me upon our first meet up this morning.

            “Interviewed? For what? I can’t be interviewed. I haven’t shaved all week, my shirts a mess and I don’t interview well.” My excuses peppered out of my mouth like bullets from a Gatling gun.

            “Doesn’t matter. They want to know about the trains, the collection and the winter wonderland layout. You are the expert, you get interviewed.”

            “C’mon, you can’t make me do this. You stand on camera and I’ll feed you the answers.”

            “Nope, I’ve got to talk about other things. Also, they are going to ask about your qualifications and how you got started here.”

            “I’m sick. I need to go home.”

            “You’re not sick. You’re not going home and you will do the interview.”

            “I’ll give you a hundred dollars.” This made him pause. Then he shook his head and said “Nope, this is all you.”

            “I hate you.”

            “Olive Juice too sugar pants. Don’t be late, it’s at one… and in case you don’t understand that, thirteen hundred hours.” And with that, he turned and left.

            I walked back to my office and looked for something I could break. I couldn’t find anything so I sat at my desk and seethed. Pretty soon, my thoughts of suicide or “accidentally” breaking a non-essential body part faded to the tasks I needed to do for the day. Also, one of my volunteers showed up and he was full of energy and looking for work to do. Which is good, this provided me an excuse to forget all about the interview.

            By the time I was supposed to be on hand to do the interview, I’d forgotten all about it. I was actually in the midst of building a scene for Winter Wonderland and gathering up supplies I would need to finish the task. Which is about the time my walkie-talkie squawked and a disembodied voice requested my presence to the interview site. I cursed under my breathe and tried to come up with an excuse to not show up. Unfortunately for me, I couldn’t come up with an idea outside of calling in paramedics to the museum. So I trudged down to the interview room.

            My supervisor was standing there, a rictus grin on his face made me want to punch him. The interviewer was standing beside his camera man and they both were grinning at me. The LED lights from the camera was casting an eerie glow on the Christmas train layout I designed and built with the help of several people.

            “I hate you.” I repeated my sentiments.

            “You’ll do fine snuggle bear. It’ll be over before you know it.”

            “I’m not your snuggle bear today. Eat hot death.”

            “You two done with your mating ritual?” the interviewer asked.

            I stared daggers at him and wished he’d spontaneously combust and that his flames would leap onto the cameraman and they’d both go up in a fiery winter fueled blaze.

            “He’ll be okay, just tell him where to stand and ask him questions.” My boss said and then turned to me and pointed a finger at my chest “No snark, no wit and no dick jokes.” He warned.

            I shrugged and realized I would rather be on death row at that very moment.

            “Stand here.” The cameraman said.

            I looked at him. He was pointing to a spot on the floor between his camera and the front of the train layout.

            I shrugged and moved my feet to the spot. I then looked at the man performing the interview and said “You sure you want to interview me? I don’t look good. I take terrible pictures and video. I also have very little control over what comes out of my mouth.”

            “You’ll be fine. Besides, no one knows more about the collection or trains than you do.”

            “Not true, I know several guys who know more than I do about trains. If you want, I’ll call a couple of them and have them down here in an hour.”

            “Just how many guys would you have to call to be able to give me all the information you have about this stuff?”

            “No clue. But I can get them here for you.”

            “Nope, no time. You’re here. You’re approved and you’ll do fine.”

            Moments later I was being interviewed. It took half an hour. When we were done, I started to walk away and then the cameraman stopped me.

            “We didn’t mic him. The audio is shit. We need to do a retake.”

            My blood froze. I started to head for the exit. My boss stopped me, pointed back to the camera and like a big wimp I turned and slugged my way back to the one eyed monster I loathe.

            A few moments later, I was miced up, and being asked the same questions again. However, this time, I was informed I could shorten my answers. Which I did. When we finished I was told my first interview, the one without the mic was better, more eloquent and more touching.

            I informed the interviewer that I can’t recite verbatim what I’d previously said nor should I be expected to. Which is about the time he told me he interviewed me a couple years ago and that I told the most touching story out of all the people he’d interviewed. He was hoping to catch that magic again.

            “Then ask me different questions.” Was all I could answer.

            His response was this “Tell me how you feel when you see people looking at what you do.”

            Here was my answer:

            “How do I feel? Good. I love being able to stand in the background and listen to parents explain to kids what they are seeing. To hear squeals of joy and gasps of surprise when they walk into a room where I’ve worked for endless hours to create something that will bring to the surface of their consciousness the joy and wonderment they felt as children. I don’t want credit, I don’t need to be acknowledged, I just need to know that what I’ve done, what I’ve toiled at is appreciated. Nothing more, nothing less. I feel a great sense of pride when return visitors from years past recognize changes that have been made and I’m there to overhear the comments be they good or bad. I feel pride in knowing I helped create a sense of wonder in kids of all ages as they walk away from their experience and I feel a sense of satisfaction when I hear people talk about going home and trying to create something similar to what they’ve seen. I feel a sense of accomplishment when I see the wonder in visitor’s eyes. I feel like I matter in some small way in the inspiration they have garnered from not just my hard work but the hard work of my co-workers. That’s how I feel.”

            “Perfect. We’re done.” Was his answer.

            As I walked away, I silently kicked myself in the ass for actually being human for a few moments.

            Have a great week. And avoid interviews.