The 45 Blog

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing. I snapped at my daughter before she went to work.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“What do you mean what’s the problem?”

“What’s the problem?

“Don’t you have a daughter and get scared she won’t come home after work?”

“Well, I got a daughter.”

“And?”

“You know. I got a daughter. We’ll leave it at that.”

“And?”

“C’mon, let’s get another round.”

“No, not yet.”

“O, c’mon!”

“Is her name Linda?”

“No, get the hell out of here.”

“Must be Amy. “

“No. Come on, it’s getting late.”

“Suzy. “

“No, one more.”

” Not Suzy?”

“No. Shut the hell up and get me a goddamn drink.”

Just back from the Smoky Mountains , visiting an old friend who’s staying there. On the way back to Franklin, I spotted an old ambulance converted into the old Ghostbusters vehicle. Loved it. A couple of adults either watched the movie and thought it was cool, or their kids begged them for the conversion, or maybe it was a nostalgia play. Not knowing their intention, I can’t assume anything, but the boldness and quirkiness is the stuff of artists and legends.

But on the way there, I got lost on some back mountain roads– all dirt. The GPS was not great. Some of the terrain actually looked like something you’d find in one of those off road magazines. I got to the dead end of a street with no turning room, except the muddy and rutted driveway, that was at a 45 degree angle, maybe a steeper grade. I felt the wheels slip, but fixed the position. Looking around, I saw a lot of possibilities for mistakes and accidents– like turn a little too far one way, and your tumbling or flipping the thing. Staying calm is the only thing to do. For things that feel seemingly weighty, big and risky, I’ve got a knack for slowing down, and thinking as clear as that water in mountain river.

Big decisions put me in this zone too.

People get nervous when I get this way– because I’m calm and resolute in situations that require stress. But that doesn’t help me think. Because the options don’t always sound comfortable at first– so I get why people freak out– and I get the lack of faith, but that’s what I’ve always counted on. So I wait, work and pray and know it all works out. No white knuckles on the big things.

Excited for Saturday evening. Quick speaking jam in the morning, then a tire repair, shopping, an event at the library, then home to mow, then steaks at the end of the day. Prior to starting the grill, I thought to myself– it was a good day, why not have a beer while you grill?

So I listened.

In my workout clothes, I headed to a shop where you can mix and match to make a six pack. I grabbed a couple Athletic Brewing, then some Florida Man.

Super excited! The beer and cigar while grilling– especially after a great day– is one of my favorite celebratory rituals.

Then, when I put the beers in the car, my headphone charger fell out of my pocket. While I was able to retrieve the buds, the case bounced under another car, and into a grate that covered a drainage ditch.

I drove home and got the grippers, but they were too short. Luckily, I frequent the cigar shop there enough to ask if they had a yard stick— anything to knock around the case so that I could get the gripper on them.

After an hour, no luck. A stranger came by with a husky strap to try to pull the grate up. It was a great gesture, but didn’t work.

So I went to home depot and got longer grippers.

Then I went back to the Jagermeister-colored grate.

This time I was consistently gripping, but I couldn’t get the case through the grate. I cussed a little– I think to show frustration instead of just asking for help. In truth, I wasn’t really angry– this small problem gave a little more purpose to the day– which is cool– sometimes the best medicine in life is being gifted a small problem to solve in a day or less.

The frustrated attempts I was exhibiting were a form of communication– it may lure people towards me– because I looked pathetic. Which is a shitty tactic but many rely on. It’s better to ask strangers for help than to have them think you’re a shit and incompetent.

As for me, a kind woman and her significant other wished me luck, but before moving on, asked if I wanted help. I was relieved. The man could tell I was shaky as I’d been at this a long time. Physically, it is really difficult. But mentally it was worse, because you get so close several times, just to lose it right as you get the case to the grate. Exhausting after several loses. The stranger helping me even experienced it. He pulled it all the way up, then it fell. He jolted himself 30 inches in the air he was so upset. It’s like gambling.

But , alas, it was a two person job. Again, the man got it as far as I did, then his wife cupped her hands under the grate, they communicated, and it was done.

As they drive away, I’m sure they know they got the better end of the deal. They got to help some one, he demonstrated teamwork and competence, and the wife experienced the kindness for offering help in the first place.

I only saved money on not having to buy a new pair, but the gratitude and amazement felt due to the generosity of others is a drug.

I need to be more conscious and return favors.

Viewing a Japanese art show, in Seoul, from my living room in Franklin, TN. My wife, daughter and niece visit a packed gallery where the artist has created sets of miniatures, then photographed the scenes and printed them in a large format. Very Lilliputian, somewhat unique, curious and absolutely charming. A bed of dry ramen. Walls of hershey’s bars. Diagrams of different corporate restrooms. However, the greatest piece is the part of my marriage that would signal to my wife and daughter that they ought to facetime me to share in the experience. That’s magical, af, as the kids say.

My wife’s garden invites color and song to the railing of our front porch. It perches there, looks around, listening to the weird little man ticking away on his keyboard, just on the other side of the pane.

Then another comes– some kind of finch. Their songs together get louder, a piercing piccolo trill with a dropped tone at the end, that I can feel in my forehead.

I didn’t see these guys last night, let alone hear them.

I was in the back, watching some tv, having a drink and a cigar. During the first third of the stick, I sensed something to my left, but didn’t confirm if anything was there.

But then, I checked.

A 5 foot rat snake, climbing the corner of my chimney, wanting to get into the dreams of my studio, just one floor above. I swatted it down, let him live.

Now he has the advantage, because every time I go outside, I’ll be looking for him and he won’t have a care in the world.

I’m different when she’s gone. When she’s here, there’s more hustle in me, knowing she’s in the other room, studying for a test she needs to take for work. When she’s here, I’m smiling under the covers, anticipating the first words from her mouth, “C’mon, let’s go for a walk.” When I come back, I journal. When she’s here, I giggle when one of her five alarms goes off for her morning snack of pumpkin.

There are three weeks of her absence, then she returns from visiting her family in Korea, while dropping our youngest off at a foreign college for a summer semester.

When she’s not here, I stick to my rules and patterns. Journal three pages, bible study, 3 mile ruck, a quick daily workout, ice, shower, go.

At night, after work, another walk , dinner, reading, writing, finish something, have a drink, go to bed.

The only difference is the resistance– my life moves at a slower pace when she’s not in the home. As to what causes the resistance, it could be anything. It could be the loneliness that sets in, that I feel right in the middle of my torso when I think the word “loneliness” into consciousness. It could be my fear of going out to talk with others and be forced into connection, only because connection is necessary. Last, it could be the rehearsal for the worst thing I can imagine , which is life without her, holding hands with the wind, calling it by her name whenever I feel heaven’s breath blow into my blood.

When my friend tells me about her job, and all the talking everybody does, and how relational it is, and how there’s so much drama, I made a quick diagnosis without her permission.

It was simple to see.

They all hate their work.

Their tasks are so meaningless to them that they’d rather gossip and gorge themselves on drama . Or the thing that they really want to do seems out of reach, so they just waste time.

We could easily say that a life without vision leads to this– but, more germane to the topic, it might be better to conclude that a life without good questions leads to this and even less.

Often times, employers are sold strategies and tactics to boost employee engagement and joy. It’s probably an industry worth billions . Yet I don’t think these tactics work. A better tactic would be to collect evidence on what really ignites a person’s curiosity and passion and see if it fits. If not, no big deal. Brag about him to one of your friends in a different industry– see if the person can fit in elsewhere– because ultimately engagement is the responsibility of the individual, not the employer.

Is having nothing to believe in, no purpose in life other than to loud the day away on whatever’s new , whatever’s contagious and whatever’s momentary. All the trends happen so fast. The whiplash chaos dizzies us into traumas so deep and varied that we want distance from ourselves. Our faded moral fabric has a hole in it. We stick our fist in , feel for something to punch and find nothing. It feels like outer space around my hand.

I’m at my Catholic Retreat with my friends, on the cusp of our confirmation. This is likely ’88 or ’89. There’s no warnings here. No agendas. I’m talking to John, or somebody else, and the lights go off. It stays this way for a good 15-30 seconds– enough time to cause anticipation and a little anxiety. You can hear necks move, swiveling to see what’s happening. Once in a while a knuckle or some other joint cracks in the silence. When you can’t hear anything, the the strobe lights come on– aggressively. Everybody looks horrific. Everybody’s angular movements in the chopping light– their bodies like twisted car wrecks. Then the music from Godspell comes pouring out of the speakers. But the best part is the clowns.

The Clowns come sprinting out like athletes , then divide up amongst the audience. Soon the sprint slows down to a strut , then they attack us with makeup and clothes– transforming us into clowns, just like them.

My clown’s name is Colleen. She’s two years my senior and has really dry frizzy hair that’s the color of cat piss and oatmeal. She has the best smile. Maybe I’m making that up, but she is truly the sweetest.

She sits down next to me, with a bowl of water , wipes the makeup from my nose and asks, “Who are you?”

” Ummm. James Robinson.”

“No! That’s your name. Who are you really?”

Emphasis on really. I think about it. She continues wiping the makeup off, repeating the question. WHo are you really? WHo are you really? Who are you really?”

I repeat the same answer as before– and, like before, I ‘m wrong and punished for it.

And somehow it all ends up beautiful.

You’ll feel this way again when you’re 45.

A good Sunday. Washed the cars. Smoked a chicken in the Masterbilt. Took things to the Goodwill and had an encounter with the most polite man in the world. Then I installed an irrigation system so that my wife and I can use our evenings more productively. As to why we hadn’t thought of this before, it was a different era. We happily wasted our time together watering plants– more her than me, but often together. It was nice– even childlike– I’d try to squirt her, then she’d retaliate. We’re almost 50.

Now that we have the irrigation equipment, we can both go into our private dens and work and study and read. Then we come out, talk, walk a mile, then repeat. It’s kinda perfect. Our family time consists mostly of walks and discussions– even if one daughter is absent, we may call her for the walk. Our youngest is in college and walks a lot– she almost always calls us. I wonder if she’s truly interested in talking to us, or is she just conditioned to do so?

Either way, it doesn’t matter. My wife and I love hearing from our daughters no matter what.