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.