A Little Bit Of Kindness

This time of year is usually filled with plans and goals people set for themselves for the new year, a time of change, a new beginning. I was never one to make a lot of resolutions. Mine were always just how I planned on trying to be better. The past few years, some of the bloggers I follow have gone the route of selecting a word for their next year. For example, a few of them who were going through some hard times chose resilience. Some chose resistance. One I know chose information/education. They were planning on learning more about their own life and owning the progress they wanted to make. A couple chose compassion. One chose empathy. Another chose love.

I have already written about my efforts to be kinder so I decided that my word for the new year is going to be “Kindness.” I am going to make a conscious effort each day to be kinder. Not just kinder to those I know, but kinder to strangers, kinder to others I come across each day. I want to find ways to show kindness without the grandeur of “Look what I did!” and focus more on quietly, anonymously if at all possible, doing kindness for others.

My challenge to myself is to see how much and how often I can be kind without others noticing. I am doing this for my own benefit. I will not be keeping a score sheet, neither will this turn into an obligation so that I have to force myself to be kind or not make some arbitrary goal.

I just want to be better by being kinder.

How are you going to be kind?

What word are you choosing for this year?

I Am Trying

I am trying, really trying to be kinder. This time of year is slightly liminal for me. There are several weeks this time each year that just feel in flux. I realize a lot of the reasons, but none of them make any real sense to anybody except myself. I have a lot of very good memories of this time of year throughout my life, but they are tempered with as many less-than good memories from the same timeframe.

Most of this lives in my own head, nothing really that is owned by another, just myself. Sadly, I have seen moments when I let the atmosphere inside my head dictate what the outside does or says. Nothing horrible, and genuinely just venting for the most part.Thoughts that turn into verbal vomit. And mostly when I start to do this, I realize what I am going through at that moment and school my tongue. It may be harder to quiet my thoughts, but I attempt to leash my words. There is no other person that needs or deserves to hear my thoughts. 

However, as much I squelch these thoughts, the inside of my head seems to be broadcasting like a pirate radio station. One of the million watt stations from just across the Mexican border. And I have determined that it is an AM radio station because the signal is amplified by the clear skies of late-night airwaves devoid of the interference of the brightness of the sunlit day. 

I wonder if anybody else remembers when AM radio was more prevalent than FM or digital broadcasts, and after dusk the stations would start coming in from the ether. KNBR out of San Francisco, KFI out of Los Angeles, as well as stations out of Washington and Calgary, Alberta. Music, talk radio, and once in a while one would broadcast old radio shows that were popular prior to TV. There were nights I would scan the AM dial looking for and listening to these stations until the encroaching sunrise would degrade the signals to white noise static.

Now, late at night, I spend a lot of time scanning the dial in my head looking for “something else” to listen to. Sometimes I can focus on a story or music that is more pleasing or relaxing. Sometimes it is just static. Sometimes, it is not as pleasant. 

I will get over it.

I am trying to be kinder to others, and I think a lot of that means that I should try to be kinder to my own self. While I am not a terrible person, I freely admit that I can be, and have been, unkind. I care more about being unkind to others than myself. But when I am unkind to others, or remembering when I was unkind, it makes me feel less than charitable to myself. And inside my head it does not matter whether it was something I did or said yesterday or decades ago.

Liminal.

I have, and do try to apologize to others for my actions or words. I will not apologize for others, for I have no control over that. I would hope that I would be afforded that same consideration, but I have learned by my own experiences that there are many others who would either blame me, or at least lay the cost of the actions of others at my feet. I have enough of my own debts to cover to feel the need to pay someone else’s

As far as past events in my head, they live there. I do not know how to purge them from my thoughts. I like the quote: “The past is a place to learn from, not to live in.” Kind of a dust in the wind thing. But the inside of my head gets pretty dusty sometimes. 

I am trying.

Do It Right

 Dad taught himself to cook.

For a while, dad had to stay at home and mom ended up going to work. At one point, dad was getting around and doing what he could to help out at home. He took care of us kids and we helped around the house as well. We were not old enough to help with cooking, so dad taught himself how to cook really, REALLY well.

Dad could always cook. He was self-sufficient, but he decided that he wanted to build his skillset. Most of his recipes were home-cooking style, just standard home fare, but he stepped up his game. He learned new techniques and used different ingredients. I loved everything he cooked. He would cook for family and friends. If he was a part of a gathering where food was being offered, he probably cooked it.There were also a lot of dishes he created.

He got good enough that at one time he was encouraged and considered opening his own restaurant. It was a pretty serious consideration and he had supporters and backers. He had scouted locations and did quite a lot of research on foods and the business. At one point, he had thought about it enough and decided that he was not going to pursue that adventure. His reasoning was that he did not want something that he loved to do to turn into work. He did not want to risk losing the joy of something he loved to do.

Dad was thorough with everything he took on. He was not likely to rush into a project, and had to consider his physical limitations with anything he took on. He was always looking for ways to improve things. If something broke and he fixed it, he would find a way to not only make the repair, but to make the repair stronger and make it last longer.

Quietly, and mostly by example, I learned this from him. Probably not to the high level he mastered, but I think it was a learned behavior for me.

One of the recipes that dad came up with was really a pretty simple one: Dutch-oven potatoes. It is a very basic recipe, one that I am sure had been thought of by others, but dad’s version always tasted better than others, even mine. Especially mine. Very simple, with very few ingredients. Potatoes, bacon, onion, beer, and salt and pepper. It was probably the most requested dish for him.

He and some friends were getting together one night, and dad had asked me to help peel the onions and potatoes while he prepped something else. I was a young teenager and not always prone to going the extra mile to get things done, including peeling all those potatoes. Truth be told, I was probably a little resentful that I was not going to get to go with them. While I did peel the potatoes, I was slightly lazy about getting all of the peel off them. Not whole strips or anything like that. Just spots of peel.

Vern, one of dad’s friends, had stopped by to help get things ready and was helping me peel the potatoes and asked if dad left some of the peel like I was doing. I made some smart-mouthed comment about it and kept going. Vern quietly picked up potatoes and began cleaning up after me. I noticed immediately, and also immediately started cleaning up what I had missed, then completed the task without missing any peel on the rest of the potatoes.

Vern, as well as most of dad’s other friends, were all very similar in values and standards. Vern reminded me by his example that since I was representing my dad in what I was doing, I should also meet dad’s standards. While I have not always managed to apply myself 100%, the lesson I learned that day has stuck with me all these decades since. 

Broken down and simply put, if you are going to do something, do it right.

I have always tried to follow that reasoning. I wish I had followed it more strictly when I was younger. Things in my life might have been very different. It seems as though every day I have to remind myself that if I am going to do something, do it right. 

I am afraid that I fail more often than I succeed. 

Hold doors for others. Pick up trash and put it in the garbage. Put the cart back in the corral. If you are clearing your dishes from a table, take other plates with yours as well. Be courteous, polite, and kind. Listen to hear what the other person is saying, not just to wait until they are done speaking so you can talk next. Be a better person. Make the world a better place. Offer a hand to help others. Make someone else’s load a little lighter. Care for others. Truly care, not just care for what you might get out of it. 

As I said previously, I am afraid that I fail more often than I succeed.

The Struggle is (can be) Real

(Reposted for readibility issues)

First, I will be very open that I blame myself.

Mostly.

Partly.

Anyway, I know that I am pretty rough around the edges. I am kind of living proof that, regardless of what Mythbusters said, you cannot polish a turd. I know how to be nice, I have enough of a vocabulary that I can speak well and express myself without resorting to vulgarity. Expressing myself is usually fairly easy. Doing so without resorting to vulgarity is the hard part. I do better while writing than I do while speaking.

Maybe I should get a bark collar to shut me up.

No, I would probably learn to like it.

I have a pretty developed sense of humor and can tell some pretty funny jokes. Again, the hard part is doing so without resorting to vulgarity. I need to work on that.

My phone makes a specific tone when I get certain alerts on it. Usually related to oen of the cameras outside detecting motion. Most likely, it is a car turning around in the cul-de-sac or a neighbor's cat prowling the yard. Either way, the same tone goes off when I come home. The camera first detects the motion of Max (my truck) pulling into the driveway, followed by the garage door opening as I walk up the driveway. Dougall, bless his heart, has learned that the tones mean that someone (hopefully me) is coming in. He hears the tone, then lifts his head and looks toward the door or out the front room window. If I am home when he reacts to the tone, I tell him "Your Uber is here!"

I laugh every time. He does not appear to appreciate my joke.

I can speak and express myself. I consider myself to be fairly intuitive and appear to have the presence of mind to use common sense. I am not a poet, neither a writer, and claim no creative talents. I try to be kind. I pick up litter. I make every attempt to get along with others, although I do not suffer bullies. I defend those who cannot or will not defend themselves. I am not a jealous person, but fully admit that I may be envious of another at times. (Queue the Homer Simpson meme...)

One more thing I can lay claim to is that I am old and getting older. I used to be older than dirt, now I am older than rocks. Getting old/older means that you start to lose a lot of friends. Age, illness, life in general, means that shit happens. About the time of my 20th high school reunion, I did a little investigating and discovered that my graduating class had at that time, more deaths than any three of the years prior to or following. Out of the seven years of graduating classes, the year I graduated had a lot of dead people.

I preach that correlation does not equal causation. Still, that is a very interesting statistic. What was it about that year that was so fatal?

So, I have lost friends and I have lost family. Some due to death, some due to just growing apart, and I surmise that it will keep happening. Distance has a lot to do with it. Many people who once were friends have moved or I have moved away from them. Distance may make the heart grow fonder, but it does not foster a relationship that includes "Hey, want to get some pizza?" Some friends have the appearance of only wanting to be friends as long as I can get them something, as long as I can do something for them. Once that stops happening, they stop calling or texting and stop reaching out.

On the family side of things, I have lost a bunch due to death, a bunch due to distance, and lately the determination has been that I just do not have what they want. Whether it is something tangible, something personal, or maybe they just do not like my jokes, the common denominator is me. Most of my family is separated by distance. Understandably, it is difficult to reach out when you live so far away. Life happens. People get busy. People have their own lives to attend to. I would not think to set their priorities for them. I do recognize that I am not one. I will get over it.

Mom and dad taught me that you do not always have to like everybody, but you should at least be courteous and respectful. Do not bully another person. Do not allow another person to bully you. I know that they both always wanted to have close ties to family. There were reasons, but they did end up relocating to other parts of the state and country, and I suspect that some of the reasoning for that was to just stay out of the proximity of the anger and hatred they received from "family" and it was easier to just go somewhere else. Over the years I watched how they were treated. I understand the choice to just be somewhere else.

I also got to witness firsthand the animosity from other family members as I became the target by default. I will get over it.

There were other words I had written, but I decided that they were words that I need not share. I do not need to stoop to that level. What is in the past, is in the past. I know that there are relationships that will never mend, and that I am the poorer for that. Maybe if I were a better man, I could see that happening. List it as just another of my failures. I will get over it. Besides, nobody reads these notes except myself. I do not promote this blog, and neither do I share it with those I know. They really do not want to read this.

And, as I mentioned, I blame myself.

I used to have hair

I used to have hair.

Long ago, in a galaxy far, far away…

Growing up my hair was nothing spectacular. Blonde, kept short as was the style back then. Straight, until it was not. When I was about seven or eight years old, my hair started to curl. It seemed as though it got a little more curly every time it was cut. Almost all of the boys my age got a haircut about three times a year. August, just before school started. December, just in time for the holidays and holiday pictures. Then again in the spring, maybe closer to the end of school. Probably easier to say sheared by then, but it was cooler and easier to take care of over the summer. 

As I got old enough to start to take care of my own hair, I would let it grow a little longer once in a while. Junior high and high school frequently saw me with an afro. I kept it clean, I kept it neat, but it was an afro. When I got it cut, it basically stayed an afro, just shorter. My senior year it was long. Long enough that if I shook my head, I could feel my hair still moving after I stopped shaking. 

I grew it out even though it was not the style of the day (my amazing rebellious attitude…) and even though I got all kinds of hell from a lot of the kids. Kids, like chickens, will target anybody else in the flock that is different. And, like a chick with a black dot on its head, my afro made me different from just about everybody. “Crotch-head” was one of the names I was called. Lucky me. I would get spit wads and chewed up gum thrown into my hair. Kids are lovely. 

Later, when I started to grow into my hair and was a little more likely to be large enough and likely enough to fight back, things settled down into mostly just name calling. People are lovely. Then again, a six-foot tall orange dandelion gets attention.

Even more later, I grew my hair out long enough to pull it back into a ponytail. I would get it wet in the morning after I got up, brush it out, then put a holder in to keep it in place. Even used hairspray to help tame flyaways. It was long enough that it almost reached the middle of my back. But since it was curly, as it dried my ponytail ended up looking like a curly pigtail. I did not do it for any kind of look, it was just on a whim. When I rode my motorcycle, it was a six-foot tall, leather-clad Mario Batali look-alike. By the end of the day after being in and out of a motorcycle helmet and taking it out of the hair-tie, my hair would take on a life of epic proportions. It was possessed. It was majestic in the rage it showed.

I cut it short again later. Long hair is a lot of work, very curly long hair is more. Plus, I did not like the idea of having a “handle” on my head, in which someone in a less-than friendly manner may try to get my attention. So, long hair and long beard were trimmed. Easier to maintain. I may have cut in in self-defense, but it really is just simpler. It also dries faster when it gets wet. Now, every few weeks I get out the clippers and cut my hair and trim my beard. I have had my mustache for almost four decades now, and my beard for over thirty years. Sometimes I think I will shave them both off, possibly my whole head, just to see what I look like. 

It would probably scare the dogs.

Drive

 Drive:

Verb

1. To operate and control the direction and speed of a motor vehicle.

2. Propel or carry along by force in a specified direction.

3. Urge or force (animals or people) to move in a specified direction.

4. (of a source of power) Provide the energy to set and keep (an engine or piece of machinery) in motion.: "turbines driven by steam".

5. (of a fact or feeling) Compel (someone) to act in a particular way, especially one that is considered undesirable or inappropriate.

Noun

1. A trip or journey in a car.

What a word. “He felt the drive to drive his car on a small drive.” 

There are times I wish I had been more driven, more focused, on what I could have been. “What” is open to discussion. Professionally, personally, romantically, socially. Career related, I cannot say that I kept my focus. I know that some young people get an idea of what they want to be when they get older. A local nine-year old boy has started his own business (with help of his parents and family) of baking bread. It started when he asked his mom to teach him how to bake, and now he gets orders from others and bakes bread. He wants to be a baker when he grows up. Focus. Driven. I do not know that I wanted to “be” anything when I was growing up.

Personally, I wish I had the drive to be a better person, be more proactive at being a better person. I wish I had been a lot less selfish when I was younger. I have so, so many faults that I wish had the drive to grow out of. These faults harm no others, but I wish I had been a better person. I have a list. I will not list it here. 

Romantically, I wish I had the drive to just be romantic. I either lost that when I was young or never found it. I believe it is closely related to the selfish part of me. I have theories. I talk about them to my dogs. They listen.

Socially, I was never one to be a part of any team. I did not play team sports when I was younger. I love being a part of a team, I love the work-together dynamic. I just fail at it. (See: Romantically.) 

I am driven to learn things, to learn about people, and places. I love history. I love learning about what makes a person who they are. I suppose that is related to me feeling that I do not know who I am. Or, rather, why I am not the person I believe I could and should be. 

I see my faults. I hide them well, but the person who hides a body always knows where it was buried. 

Sometimes I wonder whether the drive to travel is me seeking another version of me, or if I am just running from my failures. Running from what I lack. Running on empty.

I will get over it. I wish you peace.

The Struggle Is (Can Be) Real

First, I will be very open that I blame myself.

Mostly.

Partly.

Anyway, I know that I am pretty rough around the edges. I am kind of living proof that, regardless of what Mythbusters said, you cannot polish a turd. I know how to be nice, I have enough of a vocabulary that I can speak well and express myself without resorting to vulgarity. Expressing myself is usually fairly easy. Doing so without resorting to vulgarity is the hard part. I do better while writing than I do while speaking.

Maybe I should get a bark collar to shut me up.

No, I would probably learn to like it.

I have a pretty developed sense of humor and can tell some pretty funny jokes. Again, the hard part is doing so without resorting to vulgarity. I need to work on that.

My phone makes a specific tone when I get certain alerts on it. Usually related to oen of the cameras outside detecting motion. Most likely, it is a car turning around in the cul-de-sac or a neighbor's cat prowling the yard. Either way, the same tone goes off when I come home. The camera first detects the motion of Max (my truck) pulling into the driveway, followed by the garage door opening as I walk up the driveway. Dougall, bless his heart, has learned that the tones mean that someone (hopefully me) is coming in. He hears the tone, then lifts his head and looks toward the door or out the front room window. If I am home when he reacts to the tone, I tell him "Your Uber is here!"

I laugh every time. He does not appear to appreciate my joke.

I can speak and express myself. I consider myself to be fairly intuitive and appear to have the presence of mind to use common sense. I am not a poet, neither a writer, and claim no creative talents. I try to be kind. I pick up litter. I make every attempt to get along with others, although I do not suffer bullies. I defend those who cannot or will not defend themselves. I am not a jealous person, but fully admit that I may be envious of another at times. (Queue the Homer Simpson meme...)

One more thing I can lay claim to is that I am old and getting older. I used to be older than dirt, now I am older than rocks. Getting old/older means that you start to lose a lot of friends. Age, illness, life in general, means that shit happens. About the time of my 20th high school reunion, I did a little investigating and discovered that my graduating class had at that time, more deaths than any three of the years prior to or following. Out of the seven years of graduating classes, the year I graduated had a lot of dead people.

I preach that correlation does not equal causation. Still, that is a very interesting statistic. What was it about that year that was so fatal?

So, I have lost friends and I have lost family. Some due to death, some due to just growing apart, and I surmise that it will keep happening. Distance has a lot to do with it. Many people who once were friends have moved or I have moved away from them. Distance may make the heart grow fonder, but it does not foster a relationship that includes "Hey, want to get some pizza?" Some friends have the appearance of only wanting to be friends as long as I can get them something, as long as I can do something for them. Once that stops happening, they stop calling or texting and stop reaching out.

On the family side of things, I have lost a bunch due to death, a bunch due to distance, and lately the determination has been that I just do not have what they want. Whether it is something tangible, something personal, or maybe they just do not like my jokes, the common denominator is me. Most of my family is separated by distance. Understandably, it is difficult to reach out when you live so far away. Life happens. People get busy. People have their own lives to attend to. I would not think to set their priorities for them. I do recognize that I am not one. I will get over it.

Mom and dad taught me that you do not always have to like everybody, but you should at least be courteous and respectful. Do not bully another person. Do not allow another person to bully you. I know that they both always wanted to have close ties to family. There were reasons, but they did end up relocating to other parts of the state and country, and I suspect that some of the reasoning for that was to just stay out of the proximity of the anger and hatred they received from "family" and it was easier to just go somewhere else. Over the years I watched how they were treated. I understand the choice to just be somewhere else.

I also got to witness firsthand the animosity from other family members as I became the target by default. I will get over it.

There were other words I had written, but I decided that they were words that I need not share. I do not need to stoop to that level. What is in the past, is in the past. I know that there are relationships that will never mend, and that I am the poorer for that. Maybe if I were a better man, I could see that happening. List it as just another of my failures. I will get over it. Besides, nobody reads these notes except myself. I do not promote this blog, and neither do I share it with those I know. They really do not want to read this.

And, as I mentioned, I blame myself.

Grant Lewis Collett October 6, 1963

Sixty years ago, on the night of October 6, 1963, my father Grant L. Collett was working as a Conservation Officer for the Utah Fish and Game as it was called at that time. He and his partner, James Hammer, were working in the Clarkston/Cache Junction area looking for a poacher that was taking game in that area. They had been working with other law enforcement officers, but were heading home at the end of the night.

Dad and Jim were southbound when a northbound car struck dad's truck nearly head-on, deflected off into a stubble field and burst into flames. The impact killed the driver of the car, while the passenger managed to crawl free from the burning car. Passersby stopped and were attempting to put the flames out with dirt from the field. Jim had a bruise from the seatbelt and a small laceration on his chin. The two-way radio in the truck was still working and Jim called out for help. Logan and Cache County fire units responded, as well as Cache County Sheriff's Office and the Utah Highway Patrol. 

When the car struck the truck dad was driving, the impact forced the metal dashboard to fold into the cab, crushing dad's right leg above the knee. The engine of the truck was pushed into the cab which forced dad's left femur out through his pelvis and fracturing his hip. It also rolled the firewall into the cab, trapping dad's left ankle. Rescuers had to use a pry bar (seen leaning against the truck below) to get the door off of the truck to get him out, and they broke his ankle pulling him from the wreckage. (The round object in the center of the grill on the car is the metal Fish & Game door placard that was embedded in the grill from the door of the truck where dad was sitting.)

One of the officers responding from Logan had the wherewithal to stop at the hospital. He knew that one of the doctors working there that night had just returned to Logan from a stint in an Army MASH unit in Viet Nam, and took him to the crash site. He performed trauma first aid on dad during the trip in the ambulance.

Mom had gotten a phone call stating simply "Grant has been in an accident and she needed to come to the emergency department. She was sitting in the waiting area when she heard the siren of the approaching ambulance, and watched as dad was wheeled in on the gurney with the doctor sitting on him doing chest compressions and yelling "Someone get me an OR, I have already lost him seven times and I don't know if I can get him back if he dies again!"

That was mom's introduction to how serious things were.

Two days later, dad was transported by ambulance from the Logan hospital to Cottonwood Hospital in Murray, Utah. They wanted to fly him down, but this was pre-helicopter times and the concern was since he was in such bad shape, if things got bad in the plane, they would not be able to get him to a hospital in time. The doctors at Cottonwood Hospital got dad stabilized, and once he was strong enough, they amputated his right leg just above the knee and inserted a replacement hip on his left side, placing steel plates to hold his pelvis back together. His ankle was in a cast, and the kindest thing they could do for him was to alleviate his pain. Since they initially did not think he was going to survive, they kept him sedated with morphine, ultimately getting him addicted to the painkiller. Dad later made a comment that getting off the morphine was worse than the pain he felt from the crash.

Dad suffered pain from the accident for the remainder of his life. He felt phantom pain in his non-existing right leg. His left ankle bothered him, and he was plagued with arthritis in his hips that resulted in requiring a second hip replacement. He also suffered other health issues resulting from the crash, including cardiovascular issues, and during one of his many surgeries for this, he died in surgery.

I often wonder what his life would have been like had this crash not happened to him. I wonder how I would have been different. As a young child when all this happened, our relationship was not what one would consider "typical." 

Dad Could Sing

 

Growing up, I remember that there was almost always music being played. At home, the giant Zenith console stereo (complete with turntable and AM/FM stereo) was playing KSOP out of Salt Lake City. Mom and dad loved listening to the artists and groups that they would go see at the Terrace Ballroom. Salt Lake was a stopping point for a lot of the big name artists and groups passing through,and more than a few of the up-and-coming artists would play gigs as opening acts. Think Lester Flatt and Earl Scruggs, Jerry Lee Lewis, Waylon Jennigns, and Ray Price. In the late 1950's and early 1960's the big names were playing more traditional music and the openers were bringing in the addition of electric amps and adding rhythm guitars and bass guitars, as well as piano and drums to the act.

Mom and dad would go to listen and dance to the songs that dad later learned to play on his own guitar. Dad had a Gibson Heritage similar to this one pictured. It was a beautiful guitar and had wonderful tone to it. Dad and a few of his friends would get together and play, and they got good enough that a couple of the local clubs in Logan would ask them to play once in a while. One of the local groups, The Petersen Brothers, would frequently ask dad and his friends to join them on set or to cover for them when they needed someone to fill in for them.

I can remember as a young boy dad having his friends come over to play and rehearse, but they would play just for fun mostly. All their wives would sit in the kitchen talking, laughing, and drinking coffee. These nights were ones where I learned I needed to be quiet because if I was careful, I cold stay up past my bedtime and listen to them play and sing. Even once I was finally convinced that I needed to go to bed, I would frequently sneak out of bed and crawl out to the hallway and lay on the floor just outside of the living room where I could listen to the music more. I absolutely loved listening to them play and sing. I always wished I could do both, but never was able to discipline myself to learn to play any instrument, and only have a passing fair voice. It carries, but it does not always carry a tune. 

I do not know where his guitar ended up. I was told one time that my nephew Justin got it, but I do not know whether he kept it or if it is still around. 

Dad was always whistling or humming or just plain listening to music. Back when mobile 8-track players were big, he bought one for each of his cars (the very model pictured...) and even mounted an AM/FM stereo with 8-track in the camp trailer they had so he and mom could have music when they traveled or camped. This, I am sure, is where I got my penchant for always having tunes. The next cars they bought had AM/FM stereo with cassette tapes - quite a step up from the 8-track players. And while country western music was mostly what dad listened to, he later expanded his horizons to other types of music. Jazz and Opera were making their presence known. Ragtime.

I know that there were many subtle influences that dad had on me. I am grateful that the love of music was one that held tight. I grew up in a time of musical renaissance with folk beginning to share the stage with rock, and country getting electricity involved. I remember the "outlaws" of country music (Waylong Jennings, Willy Nelson, Jessi Colter, and Tompall Glaser) and the stir they caused with their music and straying away from the traditional country music artists. But I also remember The Who, The Guess Who, The Rolling Stones, Derek and the Dominos, Cream, The James Gang, the Muscle Shoals groups, as well as the (gasp!) Disco Era!

Saturday Night Fever and Grease were rock operas. They were just disguised as movies with music. Meatloaf and Bat Out Of Hell (and BOOH2 and BOOH3) were rock operas. Hell, Rocky Horror Picture Show was. And people loved the music. 

Dad loved music too. And dad could sing.

Apple - Tree?

I was born early. My twin and I were premature. Small enough that the two of us slept in a dresser drawer for a while. We were close as babies and toddlers. We even had out own language we used while learning to talk. Mom would have to use our older sister to translate at times. We were partners in crime, sometimes literally with some of the things we got into. We once out a live chicken in bed with our parents because we thought it might be cold. We had to climb out of a bedroom window to get outside to catch it.

It was not cold.

Mom and dad were pretty hot about it.

Later, as we got a little older, my sisters grew a lot closer and it kind of became me vs. them in a few things. One this was that they had friends that were their friends and I was not a part of that group. So, I would once in a while find myself home with mom. She was always be my friend, and would do a lot of things with me like make Elderberry jam and syrup. One time, I was out playing in the yard and was climbing our apple tree. When I saw the apples in the tree, I went in and asked mom if we could make an apple pie.

Mom had me gather some of the apples while she started to make the crust. She was "teaching" a very young child how to make a pie. What she was really teaching me was to be thoughtful of others in need of a friend. At least to try to help someone be less lonely.

I try. And maybe, once in a while, I mange to be there for someone else. 

Where is my community?

I know that after a certain age (which I am most certainly past at this point) you start to lose a lot of friends. Age, illness, and life in general will take it's toll. I have gotten to the point where I am most certainly in the friend deficit column.

But I also believe that I am the reason that a lot of people, who I once called friend, have been absent in my little corner of the world. I have moved about a dozen times, and each time I dropped the ball when keeping in touch with others. I failed myself, not that they failed me. I do not cast the blame on them.

I was never the "cool" kid. I was never the one that others wanted to befriend, the one that they wanted to hang around with. The friends I had growing up as a child, were ones that I found and tagged along with. They were fine with hanging out with other friends, and would certainly let me be there as well. But they were not the ones to call me to get together or come to my house to be with me.

As a very young child, there were a lot of social differences between my family and others. It was a small community, and while the adults were more or less passive about who they would or would not include in their social groups, their children were brutal. Name calling, bullying, throwing rocks and chasing me and my two sisters, were not out of the norm.We were different. And while I know that the kids were merely repeating thoughts and words of their parents, it did not make it hurt any less.

Junior High (Middle School) and High School were a little more subtle, but the group dynamics were also more clarified. I really just did not fit in with any group. I was not a jock, nor was I a stoner, nor was I one of the chosen few who rode their parents affluency though the years. I was not understood by many of the teachers in my schools, and it was not until later that I found out where my IQ level stood, and what my ACT score was, both of which kind of surprised me. But my school guidance team decided that I did not posses the right stuff to move into that peer group. I was "allowed" to graduate without the credits needed, mainly because they were finished with me and did not want me hanging around anymore. The reasons for my grades (or lack thereof) was boredom in school and lack of challenge, lack of direction. I suspect that part of that had to do with my two sisters, both of whom failed out of high school.

Family is another comedy in this story. I was born five minutes prior to my twin sister. We were early and small enough that we slept together in a dresser drawer for a while because it was easier than a crib. When we were learning to talk, we had our own language that only our older sister could understand. Mom told me stories about having to get her to translate what we were trying to tell mom. We had each other. We did not have a lot of kids our age until we grew up a little, but we were each other's best friend.

That lasted until Chris and Sam started getting closer and suddenly, it was as if a switch were flipped and while it was not open warfare, there was a lot of two-against-one going on. I was odd man out, so to speak. Later, they shared a lot of friends and a lot of habits including alcohol and drugs. Another group I did not join as it just was not my thing. I did not fit in there, either.

More on the family dynamics. There was (still is) a lot of animosity from step-siblings, cousins, aunts and uncles stemming from decisions that mom and dad made. Not bad decisions, just personal decisions that other people, mostly family, did not like. This animosity was mostly underhanded and behind the back, but on occasion would evolve into verbal abuse and once or twice included actual threats. 

Now, let me return to the community or tribe part of this missive. More and more I feel less and less that I have any real community. Friends from my early life connect briefly and infrequently. There are talks about getting together for food or we share jokes online. But the reality of it is that they all have their own lives. They have their own community. They have their village, their tribe.

My tribe is becoming smaller and smaller. Most of my extended family are dead or dispersed to other parts of the world. They belong to each other, but I do not. Any semblance of belonging has dwindled to passive remembrance and never any contact. One cousin went so far as to blame me specifically for all of society's ills as she sees it, and every perceived offense is directly related to me. Alright, so be it.

My immediate tribe has relegated me to contact if needed or convenient. An afterthought. At best, I have been forgotten. at worst, I have been openly insulted and blamed (once again) for their shortcomings.

To be honest, I blame myself as well, so their is that paradox.

Some blame me for who someone else became. Some blame me for who they became. Mostly, I am called if needed. Extraneous. I mean, it is nice to be needed, but it would be nice to be needed for who I am instead of what I can do. It would be nice to be needed because they want to need me. 

I will get over it.