Hearing a 20-something tell me how they have it all figured out. I remember saying the same thing. It’s the irony of it. Points for enthusiasm you poor, dumb kid.
dailyprompt
I lived my childhood dream! Now what?
My dream was to be a soldier, policeman and firefighter. The first two were kinda easy, but we never think of the scary part of dreams when we are planning our glorious, successful lives. What good is a dream if reality has to sneak in and ruin it. In my dreams I never woke up wondering what the hell just happened. It was a dream, silly. Of course, I never got hurt. People were always glad to see me. I was the liberator and peacekeeper. There were pretty girls who wanted to kiss me. It was great.
The fireman, that was a tough one. See, I didn’t know it but I didn’t realize how terrifying a burning building is when you think about running into it. Stand back and wave a hose? No problem. Run into a building? Don’t know about that. I did a couple times, smoke inhalation is a booger, took weeks until I felt like I could breathe again. I’ll leave firefighting to the heroes that everyone really are glad to see.
So, I lived my childhood dreams or learned enough to know that I wasn’t the one to run into burning buildings.
Now what?
Daily writing prompt
When you were five, what did you want to be when you grew up?
It’s not about you…
It’s not about you, it’s about me.
We are self-centered creatures. Everything is about “Me” even if it isn’t. That helps explain why people you don’t know insist on explaining their pronouns, sexual preference, and victimhood affiliation. It’s not hate or fear that makes people avoid people they don’t like or trust, they just don’t care.
The sad truth is we don’t matter enough to most people to be hated or feared. The riots and protest on television aren’t about you. They may peripherally touch you in a small way, but not much more than that. All the shouting and protest just seems like a way for small people to make themselves feel more important; waving their arms and shouting “see how important I am”. It’s like survivor’s guilt, stolen from the victim and coddled to draw the attention it can bring.
That’s my rant. It’s not about you. It’s not about me. We are not responsible for the past, only ourselves and the future we try to make. If we could take all the energy wasted on screaming victimhood slogans and hating people who have never hurt them, and turn it into productive effort, like self-improvement, things could change. Maybe for the better.
Al Madsen, mentor, friend and role model
I was young, stupid and cocky about it. As a young Private in the Army, I thought I was everything they wanted. I was wrong. My first Platoon Sergeant looked more like a dancing master than what I thought a soldier should look like. He was short, thin and a little stooped, always had a smile unless I provoked a frown because I wouldn’t listen. He was the best soldier I ever had the honor to serve with. I learned more about what it took to succeed in the military and being a man from him than anyone else I’ve ever known. After I started becoming more of a man and soldier, we became friends and I learned even more. Because of him, I started paying it forward as a way to honor him. I trained the men trusted to me with dedication if not always his level of patience. I hope he can look back over what and who I became and appreciate how much he influenced me.
Landfall
As I start writing, I can hear Band of Heathens singing “Hurricane” in my head. I was born in the south and lived on the Mississippi Gulf Coast off and on for several years. The storms would roll in off the water and the raw power would thrill me. The waves would build up and slam into the seawall, throwing up huge sheets of spray. Before they dredged the channel, the shelf ran more than half a mile offshore, smooth and shallow, it made the show more spectacular. Lightning strikes were so close that light and sound were simultaneous.
I wasn’t even 3 years old when Hurricane Camile came in. No one remembers it now. People want to take about Katrina or Hugo, but then, at that time, it was Camile. The weather started rolling in days before, the northern front is a huge basket of wind and rain that sweeps ahead, moving east to west. The gust front alone will destroy the best man can offer. Driving in behind the front is the tidal surge, deceptive because before the surge, the water recedes from the shoreline, only to come back in a wall that washes inland taking out anything that resists too hard. It will pound you for hours with howling wind and rain, so much pressure in the air that breathing is hard. When the eye passes over, it feels like a blessing, you aren’t free yet, but you can breathe again. The southern wing moves from west to east, almost gentle with half the wind and lighter rains than the front.
What I remember most is the mad run to safety, when my mother realized that our shabby trailer wouldn’t survive the storm. She loaded us up in the car, four kids and a gassy hound named Boondock and we made the run. I-10 wasn’t even built yet. We rode Highway 90, the coast road, literally right on the beach with the hurricane bearing down on us. The old concrete span bridge between Mississippi and Alabama was being washed over by the high water. My mother timed our sprints as the water rushed over, we moved. I still remember the feeling of the bridge shifting under the car, rising and falling with the tidal surge.
Camile made me feel its power, the fury of her existence. The awe. I’m probably smart enough now not to throw a hurricane party on the beach with a hurricane coming in, but it’s tempting. Whenever I’m near the coast and a storm is brewing, I want to go out and meet it, just to feel that awe again.
Yant Ha Chet Phet
This is a Thai Tattoo that represent spiritual armor, one of a standard set that is traditionally done by monks. I’m not a monk or Buddhist but I like the symbolism. I’ve been battered and bruised and managed to survive. I have a spot reserved on my right rib cage, just over my liver, about 7 inches tall and 4 wide.
I already have its partner on my left rib cage, so I look a little uneven. Have to get that fixed.
Moto-polo-golf
I’ve always been competitive, I grew up when winning was defined by the score. Racing anything, the winner was the first across the finish line. High score on Atari, check the score board and know the results. Soccer confused me. How can you tell who wins unless the score tells you? I guess I’ve mellowed a little. a draw is OK once in a while.
I only have a few hobbies now. Over the years, I’ve trimmed them down to Motorcycles and golf as obsessive, expensive time-consuming pass-times. I don’t race anymore. I am sadly aware of my mortality and ride for pleasure instead of position. Golf on the other hand is not as dangerous or violent. I’ll play anywhere, any time and meet you on even ground. Still, it doesn’t get the blood racing. Maybe I need something new.
If I invent a new game, it should combine my obsessions and competition. How about Motorcycle-Polo-Golf? It can combine racing for position to hit the ball. Positioning to block the other players and the accuracy and coordination of golf. Think of it The MPGA tour sponsored by Harley Davidson, Titleist and the local orthopedic hospital. There would need to be some rules, of course, but let’s not limit ourselves just yet. Just lose yourself in the imagination of the game.
I could do that for hours.
Here, Kitty, Kitty…
I’ve always considered myself following the spirit of the great cats, specifically Mountain Lions. Aloof, reserved, a little grumpy. Not flashy or flamboyantly dressed, just practical, going about my business. Also, kind of lazy, until I need to do something. I’m even kind of cute and if you’re brave enough to try to pet me, I purr (snore) like a thunderstorm.
Most importantly, they play. With everything that goes into surviving, it helps keep things in perspective. Sometimes you need to chase a mouse in a pile of leave, just for the fun of it. The mouse probably has a different opinion though.
Everyone tried to warn you
Well, Mister Know-It-All. How are you feeling now? Those aches and pains any better? Any worse? Can you really look back at me and say we didn’t see this coming? I won’t keep beating the dead horse, we both know me, which means, nothing anyone else can say will drive us from our chosen path. I can’t even apologize to be polite, because we know I’m not sorry.
But try to remember this; We always had fun. Now our head is full of memories and adventures. Friends, family, loved ones and enemies. Even our enemies made our life interesting. If you can manage it, smack a cute nurse on the butt. It may not go anywhere, but you can remember the good times.
I hate shopping
I’m a guy. My idea of shopping is, if I need something, figure out who sells it run in and out as fast as possible. I’ve been dressing the same since high school, Levi’s, t-shirts, some type of boot or running shoes. Clothes aren’t that hard to manage. My hobbies are expensive enough that I will spend time researching before I buy anything. The idea of shopping doesn’t fill me with joy.
To task then. I do have women in my life who enjoy shopping and would probably appreciate it if I updated my sense of style. I would let them decide the where and when. Subject only to my personal objections. I refuse to wear red, makes me look funny. As usual, I would divert them from altering me by suggesting that they should find something nice. When my feet start to hurt, we could stop by a beauty a salon for mani/pedi. I love having my calves massaged. And, since I was such a good boy, possibly a stop by a local brewery for beverages and such.
