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.

You must think like me or you are wrong!

 I have a couple of bloggers that I follow that for the most part are like-minded. Some are fitness related (as in, yes, the fat guy is trying to keep a positive mindset) and some are simply just people who write words and share their thoughts that I like to read. 

Sometimes, their posts can be a little entertaining. I am sure that it is because my mind is pretty skewed. One blogger who likes to run, posted "Running may not make you live longer, but it will feel like you are going to live forever." Rather than thinking that running makes you feel better, my mind interpreted that as "Running makes you feel like your day will never end."

Another blogger, who lives in California, posted one time about how horrible her day had gotten. It was after quite a dry spell, and since she lives close enough to work to be able to take public transit or walk, she had gone someplace in her car. The car that she had owned for over two years. She had gone someplace on a day when it rained and she ended up stuck in a parking lot for two hours because the car she had owned for over two years was getting rained on and she did not have a clue how to turn on the wiper blades. Did not know whether she had the owner manual or where it was. Did not know how to look up online the correct process for turning on her wiper blades. And yet, she was allowed to drive.

Another blogger, who I was kind of (ish) a friend with for a while, and who is a professional college professor using her knowledge and talents to expand the minds of young people, took umbrage with a comment I made that if you refused to accept that one person might have a political opinion that differed from yours, they are allowed to have and express that opinion. The post that killed any chance of a friendship we might share was when I mentioned that if you proclaim to eschew any kind of violence towards others (apparently only those who agree with her political leanings) but have no problem describing torture and death to someone with a different viewpoint from yours, you might be part of the problem. Might be.

Another person absolutely lost their mind when I brought it to their attention that the Second Amendment does NOT allow people to own firearms, but is in place to protect against government infringement of the right to own firearms. More entertaining still was when I suggested that maybe since I might disagreed with their gun control thoughts I should infringe on their First Amendment protection for freedom of speech. If I find their words offensive, I should follow their line of thought and suggest we control what words people can use.

Just a thought.

You Did Not Miss Me While I Was Breathing

The Kerrville Folk Festival is a music festival held for 18 consecutive days in the late spring/early summer at Quiet Valley Ranch near Kerrville, Texas. The Kerrville Folk Festival was founded in 1972 by the husband-wife team of Rod Kennedy and Nancylee Davis. Much like the fabled Luckenbach Texas where “everybody is somebody,” the Kerrville festival is a gathering of singers, songwriters, musicians, and people who just love music. The last time I visited Luckenbach, there was not a lot going on, but it was amazing to watch the groups of people playing instruments and singing, moving from one group to another much like the murmurations of starlings. It was just so laid back and comfortable. It made me wish that I had some musical talent other than listening to and appreciating music.

The first time I went to the Kerrville festival, I missed an artist who would grow to be one of my most favorite songwriters and performers, Mary-Chapin Carpenter. I missed her performance by just one week. This was shortly before she would become the name that she is now. Both of these venues showcase amazing voices and wonderful storytellers. I think that is one thing that I need that makes me really appreciate a song or an artist. I want to hear the story. Much like a good book, the story carries the emotion of it for me.

I was listening to her music this morning as I made my way to work and one of her most haunting songs came into rotation: John Doe Number 24. Carpenter based this song on a true story. In the early hours of October 11, 1945, two police officers came across a scantily dressed black youth rummaging in an alleyway in Jacksonville, Illinois. He was believed to be mentally ill, and because of his bizarre behavior he was committed to an institution later that month where he became known as John Doe No. 2. In spite of attempts to trace his family, John Doe No. 2 - later John Doe No. 24 - was never positively identified, and he would spend the rest of his life being cared for by the state. He died November 28, 1993. Carpenter read his obituary in the New York Times while sitting in a Starbucks café in Washington, and wrote the song from his perspective.

The most poignant part of the story, at least to me, is the last stanza:

I'm wandering down to the banks of the great big muddy

Where the shotgun houses stand

I am seven years old and I feel my daddy

Reach out for my hand

While I drew breath no-one missed me

So they won't on the day that I cease

Put a sprig of crape jasmine with me

To remind me of New Orleans

There are a lot of words in this song that I am feeling lately. This last stanza is probably the strongest.

I wish you peace.