Letting Go

This last weekend I had two things occur that directly recalled different elements of my childhood. The first was a recycling run. There was this stereo I had, formerly my mother’s, that had become inoperable (only the radio seemed to work and I had newer versions of those) and therefore a liability. I almost cringe when I use that word because of what that stereo meant to me as a kid. I bought my first album for that stereo. (Dark Side of the Moon, natch.) I spent hours sitting in front of that thing, both with and without headphones, pouring over lyrics and album credits as I tried to commit the words to memory. It was the stereo I first made mixed tapes on. (Yes kids, it was that long ago.) Not only did I record from albums using the tape deck, but I used an 8-track converter (ask your grandparents what an 8-track is) to record from tape to tape. (Years later of course they would come out with the tape-to-tape boomboxes and such, but this was a much more primitive time.) Sitting in front of that stereo is where I learned to appreciate Beethoven and Mozart, Ozzy and Judas Priest, Scottish pipes, Benny Goodman, and Wavestar. Then we come to now, and the chest that seemed to reveal so many secrets, offered me so much consolation in my teen years wasn’t working in even the smallest way. Since I had gone through purging some of my belongings in the last few years, it was fairly easy to decide to turn the stereo in at a special electronics recycling event. But I had to say goodbye to a part of my childhood. And, in a way, goodbye to my mother. She was the one that purchased the stereo. (So it was, in fact, hers, not mine, but I claimed possession anyway.) She purchased it to listen to her own albums: Beethoven, Benny Goodman, Brahms, Glenn Miller, and Puccini; all things she had grown up listening to. (I wonder if she didn’t sit on the living room rug listening to music as I did thirty years later?) I’m consoled with the knowledge that most of the albums (we’re talking albums here kids; big, black, grooved discs) I would have played on this stereo I now have in cd format or digital. And by the fact that I was able to give them to an electronics recycler and not have to defer to the expediency of happenstance. As for music, later that night I heard one of the tunes from my childhood, Seasons in the Sun by Terry Jacks. What a bittersweet, poignant tune. It reminded me of the time, as a kid, I would walk around with a transistor radio with an earphone (precursor to the earbud) and listen to tunes. In a way, that sad tune of a person dying and saying goodbye to those he loved, I was reminded that in most of life, we are presented with the best and the worst, with the beauty and the ugly, and it is merely our charge to discover within us which we choose to see. I see beauty. I can’t but help it.

Why I shave my head for charity

It’s a chaotic world we live in today. So many things compete for our time and attention. Most of us have jobs we have to get to everyday. If you are one of the lucky ones, you enjoy your job, so your time there isn’t a burden. Or as much of one. But there are those jobs that are difficult and, given a choice, we wouldn’t do whether it’s because of a difficult boss or a heightened sense of importance or responsibility. And then there are the things that we have to juggle with those jobs. Relationships, whether they be with significant others, children, or family, can suffer from a lack of attention. There all the news sources out there – a ton more than I had as a kid – telling us lies and truth and sometimes a little of both. We can get news on our phones, on our TVs, and on our computers. It seems there isn’t a corner of the world we can’t go to where we won’t see the news story of the day. And what a story of the day it is: a natural disaster, a disgraced leader, a war that’s been going on for what seems like decades. There doesn’t seem to a continent we can turn to that something isn’t happening that affects this ever-shrinking world. Then, in between all those news stories, we have advertisements that tell us what to do to look just that much better. Darkening our skin, make it more supple, brightening those teeth, lightening the hair, darkening the hair, covering the grey, lose a few pounds, lose a lot of pounds, get better cheekbones, get fuller lips, smooth out those wrinkles, wear the right clothes, wear the clothes everyone else is wearing, wear the clothes that confirm your individuality, buy the right car, buy a faster car, buy a bigger car, buy a house, buy a better house, buy a bigger house, take vitamins, take the right vitamins, take a supplement, boost your libido, boost your workout, grow hair, get hair. We face an onslaught of advertising that tries to convince of one thing: whatever you have now, you can get something better. We move through our lives, driving our cars, planning our careers, managing our relationships, looking towards the future. And that’s when it happens: the unthinkable. It can and will be different for everyone: a car accident, getting fired, a loved one getting sick. It’s the one thing that happens that casts a light over everything else we do. And in those shadows we see how much effort and energy we gave things that, in an instant, mean almost nothing. They mean nothing in the context of what we now have to deal with. I shave my head to remind myself of that. To remind myself every day that there are things out there under my control – how I treat people, how I drive, the hundred small decisions I make every day – and there are those things I do not control. It can be overwhelming, this world of ours, with its 24-hour news cycle, games on phones and on-demand entertainment. It can be distracting, with cars that park themselves, heat the seats and protect us like tanks. It can be exhausting, having kids and a spouse and a job. I shave my head to remind me to every once-in-awhile stop, look around, and just breathe.

Boys need to become men

I was at breakfast on Sunday when a crime occurred. Ok, not a crime in terms of laws or ordinances, but a crime of courtesy. I was sitting near the exit, so people were parading passed me the entire time. A table near me got up to leave, but I didn’t take notice at first. I’m not sure if there were more than the two people I saw. I looked up to see a woman leave the table. At the same moment, the exit door in front of me closed. I looked out the window to see a man look back at the door. Then the woman, an air cast on one foot, hobbled to the door and exited. She joined the man on the street and they presumably walked home or to a car. The idea one human wouldn’t hold a door for another is the worse crime here. But the idea a man wouldn’t hold a door for a woman, regardless of the relationship between them is, well, deplorable. I have lost count of the number of times I’ve been in restaurants, seen a couple approach a table or the bar, and the man – referred to as the ‘boy’ from now on – sits down first. Some like to add a particularly nasty touch and sit as she is in the process of taking off her coat. The urge to thwap the boy on the forehead has been nearly irresistible at times. I have even considered going up to her and telling her he’s not worth it. So far, I’ve been able to just bite my tongue. But Sunday was too much. There seems to be an almost complete lack of courtesy (and chivalry or valor) in boys thirty and younger. Not just how they treat women but common acts of courtesy as well. Now, I don’t want to sound like an old fogey talking about ‘in my day,’ because this stuff has been around a long time. And I’m sure I, when I was a boy, had my fair share of missed opportunities to show the quality of my character. I have given myself a day or two to think about this and I think there are two sides to this. First, boys need to learn (and their parents need to teach them) how to treat your fellow humans with respect. Parents need to instill in their boys the need, the desire, to be a gentleman. It takes a miniscule amount of effort; usually less than it takes to pointedly be an ass. You would be amazed the power of ‘please’ and ‘thank you.’ Second, girls need to learn (and their parents need to teach them) what to expect from a boy. Ask yourself (if you are female; males, chill for a sec): if he’s not willing to make sure you’ve sat down without incident, that you’ve made it through the door, what else will he eventually take for granted? A corollary to this is how to dress (i.e. if she’s in a dress = no t-shirt) but we’ll cover that at another time.