It's the Roots

It's what we don't see that matters.

A shrub is planted in clay. The root system is limited. Can't breathe. Can't branch out for water. I don't care what the guy at the store told you or what he sold you, there is no magic potion. It can be fixed, but it'll take some hard work. Amend the soil. Raise the shrub. Things like that.



Problem is, we don't see the roots. Leaves wilt, get sickly. Spindly. We throw fertilizer on the ground. Spray it with Superthrive or something with the word "Organic" in the title. We just want it to look pretty, like it's suppose to look. Like we imagine. Like what we want.

But it's what we don't see that's the problem.

My kids are good kids. I say this because karma shouldn't work this way. Not after my teen years. I'm not taking credit for them being good kids. My wife and I raised them, shaped them, but they're their own person. If I punched them in the face until they were 10 then, yeah, they might be a little goofy. At least I haven't screwed them up.



I figured some things out since high school. I corrected some wrongs and made some rights. Maybe I turned that karmic river just before it went over the falls. Just in time to have kids. They don't have training wheels anymore. We've let go of the bike and they're heading down the road on their own. What's inside them, whatever makes them tick, makes them think and feel and decide, I'm not sure how much I had to do with it. Whatever it is, that's what will determine which way they turn when they're out of sight.



They got some good roots. Now hope for good weather. Because a hurricane can break even the strongest tree in half.

Knocking Out Rays

Grampa. Working on suntan, 1950s-style.

The High Wire

I had a talk this weekend. At at state-wide conference.  

The stage can be intimidating. Terrifying. Make a tough guy quiver. The spotlight magnifies every move. Every word. Sometimes, you don't know what the next word is until you say it. You're piecing together sentences a word at a time. Most of the time, you pull it off. Sometimes, you run into a dead end.

If you're funny, if you're entertaining, the crowd is more forgiving. But there's a balance. Try too hard, you look desperate. Start apologizing, you look pathetic. Stay present. Be honest. Know this, you'll never win them all. Some won't like you. No matter what. But that's not why you get on stage. Not to get their approval. I don't know why you do it. It's just not that. 

Even the most seasoned speaker gets nervous. Maybe not like it was in the beginning, but it still happens. When it does, the veteran knows that the crowd has no idea your heart is trying to break your ribcage. They don't feel the cold panic harden your gut. They don't know any of these things. 

Unless you look down.

You stay focused in the present moment. Allow space for all your fears. Allow those life-threatening sensations to surge through you. But you don't look down. You stay here. You focus on the next step. And the next. 

Even when your thoughts become stones. Why is that asshole in the front row glaring at me? What's the deal with the sourpuss in the third row? I'm going to fail. Failing. I'm failing. And they're going to laugh. They're laughing at me. I'll die up here. I'll die. Die. Die, die. DIE.

But they're thoughts. Not stones.

You take the next step.

Hot Pepper

An acquired taste.

The Dream (Once Again)

13 years now, same dream. Same freaking dream.

Somehow, I lose the job I have now. The job I love. And I have to go back to the golf course in Illinois. I go back as an assistant superintendent, mowing greens on the weekend and changing oil and writing up the job board. And the whole time, I'm thinking, "How the hell did I lose my job?"

And "This sucks."

I've had the dream so many times that now when I find myself clocking in at the shop, I'm thinking, "You know, I always had this dream, that I'd lose my job and end up back here. BUT NOW IT REALLY HAPPENED!"

Followed by, this sucks.

What does this mean?

So after 13 years, I had the dream again last night. Only this time, there was a twist. For the very first time in 13 years, a new angle. This time, as I'm driving in to mow on the weekend, I think something different. I think, "Maybe I'll stay in Charleston and find another job."

I'm a slow-grower. But I'm getting there.

Fat Booth

I feel better already.

Just a Little Stick

Surgery sucks.

My daughter just consulted with an oral surgeon. In June, they're going to cut into her gums to extract a sunken tooth. Unlucky for her, the offending tooth never emerged. Instead, it drifted in the opposite direction beneath her other teeth like a buried treasure. She can't feel it, but the x-ray is messed up, man.

The surgeon, he's consulting with her and my wife, talking about cutting through muscle and bone, through skin and tissue, and my daughter, she's taking it all in. Not crying or shaking. Nothing. Like no biggie. She's 13.

Whaaaat?

I had my fair share of surgery when I was a kid. Tubes in my ears, three times. Adenoids removed, twice. Tonsils, once. I detested the smell of antiseptic. Despised the drafty hospital gown. The cold floor on my feet. The worst, by far without a doubt, were the shots. There were always shots.

The last surgery for me, I was 13. I was standing there with a grumpy nurse in a small room. Waiting. And Waiting. "Just a little stick," she said, when I asked. "To make your mouth dry."

Still young. Still trusting. I pictured a tongue depressor that would make my mouth dry. They must've invented something to replace the evil shot. The shot, surely created by the devil.

But then the needle arrived.

And I assumed the position.

The needle went in, like shooting rocks. I hunkered down and took it. Just like always. Not crying, not this time, just wondering why there had to be pain in the universe. Why can't it all be milk and cookies? Why can't everything feel awesome?

When she was done, when I was rubbing the dull pain in my ass and grumbling, moaning and maybe whimpering (maybe), she said, casually, "If you curl your toes, it doesn't hurt as much."

After. She said it after.

I know, if I live long enough, the days of poking and prodding, of curling my toes will be back. My daughter, she's got it ahead of her. And you'd never know it.

She's a heavyweight champ.