Our Disposable Life

I volunteered at my church’s thrift store yesterday. I love that we have a thrift store. I love that it is run so well and that it offers such a wide variety of very good stuff for very little money. I’ve seen the looks on young mother’s faces as they are told that the shopping cart full of like-new clothing for their two middle school age kids comes to $64. I’ve seen the tears form and the thankfulness come pouring out. It’s a beautiful thing. But yesterday I noticed something else not so beautiful.

My favorite part of working at the store is trash duty. As you can imagine, an enterprise like Hope Thrift produces prodigious amounts of trash. You can also imagine that when a thrift store decides that something is worthless...it’s ridiculously worthless. Anyway, yesterday I emptied the huge rolling trash receptacles—the ones that are shaped like cubes that you could fit several dead bodies in—at least five times. It was a huge trash day. There’s a big dumpster out back. My job is to separate the run of the mill junk from the cardboard, since the cardboard goes in a different dumpster. The reason I love this job so much is that I get to throw everything made out of glass into the dumpster...violently. There is nothing quite so therapeutic as the sound of breaking glass!! My favorite is when I run across a set of like. . . Iowa State shot glasses or something. They make a heck of a satisfying sound breaking into a million pieces.

But yesterday, I took more time actually looking at the things I was throwing away, noticing what kinds of things people sour on, get tired of and eventually reject. So much plastic. I think we humans have an intrinsic understanding that no matter how convenient and lightweight plastic is...it’s cheap. We don’t prize things made out of plastic. Once it serves its purpose, we move on. Plastic things are disposable. Lots of things are disposable, and I have two huge dumpsters packed to the gills to prove it. The kids today, these millennials are trying to ween themselves off of convenience. Their big mantra is sustainability. We grownups mock them for it, shake our heads at their minimalistic world view. Well, if you spent a day hanging around the Hope Thrift dumpster, you would develop sympathy for their desire to produce less trash. But, this isn’t what struck me yesterday as I was firing fastballs with tea cups into that big green dumpster. I was thinking of how our relationships have also become disposable.

Pam and I have been married for over 35 years. We’ve enjoyed great successes and our share of failures great and small. We brought two little ones into this world and watched them both become beautiful grownups. We’ve built a home and crafted a family. But none of it would have happened if we both weren’t totally committed to each other. If either of us had walked away as soon as it got hard, or thrown in the towel when suddenly marriage was no longer fun and games, none of the life we now enjoy would have been possible. Our relationship, like all marriages has featured moments of great joy, deep love and combustible romance...but also epic disappointment, titanic frustrations, and times where the only thing combustible about our relationship was our tempers. Ok...my temper. But we stayed together because we aren’t disposable. We aren’t made of plastic. Human beings aren’t built for convenience, we are built for commitment. Our society is filling up dumpsters with all manner of things never intended to be so easily discarded, like small gold-framed pictures of a woman in her wedding gown—I threw one of those away yesterday. There was a lump in my throat. I hear stories of newborn babies ending up in dumpsters, the barbaric end game of this disposable culture.

So, yeah...yesterday I was reminded of just how much I love my wife while working next to a dumpster.

Thanks, Hope Thrift.

Out With The Old

Nobody would ever accuse me of being trendy. I use that word not as a pejorative, as in—someone obsessed with stylishness over substance. What I mean by trendy is someone who is tuned in to the very latest things when it comes to decorating and such. Be that as it may, I do consider myself sufficiently with the times enough to know not to cover my office walls with hideous paisley wall paper. I say all of this because this week, my office has been rendered unuseable by a horde of workers with a mission to completely renovate  the entire place from ceiling to floors in one week. You see, my business partner—more precisely the three women in his life—have decided that our office feng shui is all wrong. Yes, after ten short years, everything about the place from the floors to the drapes to the wall colors to the furniture is hopelessly and irretrievably outdated. 

They all knew this would be a hard sell to their minority owner, since I would have been completely fine with my ten year old feng shui for a minimum of ten more. But I am nothing if not a team player, so I politely nodded my approval to all of their ideas...

Blair: Doug, look over this color palette and tell me what you think.

Me: Well, er, I...

Allison: What about your accent wall, Doug? Don’t you think it should be a couple shades darker?

Me: Sure, I think, er...

Blair: Of course, this chair rail will have to go. Sooo 1990’s

Me: Wait, you’re taking the chair rail down?

Allison: Doug, we will be going with a blue-ish tint with the office carpet so your diplomas will probably have to be re-matted. Although, this might be a good opportunity to take them down anyway...nobody hangs their diplomas in their offices anymore.

Me: But, I thought, er...

Blair: Doug...these golf prints? The 1970’s called. They want their pictures back!

So, now all the furniture in my office has been shoved into the center of the room and covered in plastic. The walls have been painted a steely gray color. The chair rail is history, and by this time next week there will be wood floors all over the place, new televisions hanging on the walls—our old ones weren’t adequately smart—and two brand new chairs in the lobby. The old law firm chic having been replaced by industrial chic. I have been assured that this is what the new 21st century clients will love.

Here’s the thing. Once everything is finished and in place, I’m sure I will like it just fine. It will all look great. But then again, I was totally fine with my old law firm look. Sure, I bought those golf prints back when I actually played golf, and sure, when I hung those diplomas it was to impress clients with my credentials. Now, I give them chocolates and ask them if they would like a low-fat chai latte.

The times, they are a-changin’ and I must keep up. To do so, my wife is going to have some work to do over the next couple of weeks to properly accessorize the place—new pictures, new knickknackery etc..

I’ll share a picture when she’s done.

Some Things, I Got Right

Every other year since the early 1990s, my big brawling family heads to the Outer Banks for a week. Each year we all hike up to the top of Jockeys Ridge to watch the sunset and take pictures. Some years they turn out better than others...

This one was taken by my niece’s husband, Matt. I look at it and think, How in the world did I ever get someone like her?

This is my crew. Each of them special, invaluable. Each one of them brings something unique to the family table. None of them could be replaced.

I suppose it’s the same with you. Families are that way. Unique. Invaluable. Astonishingly photogenic! 

When I look back at my life I can spot a thousand mistakes. There were things I should have done but didn’t. There were things I did which I had no business doing. There were opportunities missed. Ill-advised projects attempted. Bone-headed decisions. But when I look at these pictures I am reminded that there were some things I got right. 

Lucy Is On The 10-Day DL

Unfortunately, Lucy has landed on the 10 day disabled list retroactive to Saturday morning. The injury was sustained during one of her favorite activities, chasing this:

Yes, the Chuckit Paraflight 2000 has been Lucy’s go-to toy for her entire life. This particular version is the fourth one, the other three having long ago been destroyed from use. Nearly every day, weather permitting, the two of us go out in the backyard. When I pull out the frisbee she begins a series of hysterical jumping maneuvers as she awaits the first throw. I loft the thing on a practiced trajectory, high and arching from right to left. I’ve done it so many times, I’m like one of those pitching machines. Lucy takes off on a dead run and then at the perfect moment launches herself skyward, snatching the frisbee out of the air with the elegant lines of an Olympian long jumper. It is a thing of athletic beauty. Then she brings it to me, insisting on a little bit of tug-o-war before relinquishing it for another throw. She tells me she’s done when she catches the frisbee, turns to me for my applause, then drops it to the ground and prances around the yard in a victory lap.

But I am not a pitching machine. Sometimes my throws are off target and she either can’t catch it, or her valiant attempt places her body in a contorted position from which a successful catch is nearly impossible. Such was the case yesterday morning when my second throw of the day was too high. She overran it a bit so when she launched herself to catch it she found herself too far under it and to its right. Instead of just letting it go she attempted an acrobatic catch by contorting her body wildly mid-flight in one of the most athletic displays I have ever been privileged to witness. Somehow she was able to snag the thing, a truly miraculous catch. But when she landed back on terra firma her legs were wildly out of position. She landed awkwardly, while somehow being able to maintain her balance. But when she began running back towards me she abruptly stopped and held up her front right paw, like she wanted to shake. Then she tried running again, only to stop again, holding out her paw again. Poor girl. 

So, this morning she still has a bit of a limp but is better. As a precaution, there will be no more Chuckit Paraflight 2000 workouts for a week or so. She will NOT be happy with this verdict and will no doubt want to seek a second opinion. But my decision is final.

Time For a Fight

Here’s an update on my friend with breast cancer:

She’s had an up and down week. She received some good news from a biopsy. She received some bad news from the doctor who detailed the course of action required to battle the thing. He described what she should expect over the coming weeks and months. It won’t be pretty. There will be nausea, diarrhea, loss of hair, etc. etc. First of all, I like a doctor who doesn’t sugar coat things. I would rather know exactly what I’m dealing with at the beginning, than to wake up a couple of weeks in and discover that one leg is considerably shorter than the other and be like, “What the??  GAKKKKK!!!!” But that’s just me.

As she was explaining all of this to me, she said something really encouraging—and she probably didn’t even know she was doing it. She said, “I’m not discouraged by any of this...just mad.”

I loved hearing that. For one thing, she has every right to be mad. I would be furious. What has she ever done to deserve this? Not a damn thing. I have no idea why things like this happen. Absolutely none of it is fair. But hearing her say she was mad tells me she’s ready for a fight. I’m not sure that this cancer knows exactly what it’s up against. We’ve all heard that old expression, “Never mess with a woman from the Valley” and its pre-#metoo codicil, “Don’t piss off a broad from Buena Vista”

To help fortify her for the fight, I have promised to text her a steady supply of Dad Jokes. I figure that having to endure a stream of horrible jokes will toughen her up. Comparatively, chemo will seem like child’s play. So far she has responded with some form of the face palm emoji and/or replies that start with the words...Lord help me Jesus...

So, it looks like my friend has no intention of being a passive bystander in this battle. She will fight. Her faith is strong. So she will bring some very righteous indignation to the battle. Godspeed, girl!

Bummed

This morning, I fully expected to wake up to the sound of wind and rain slashing against the windows of my house while Lucy lay wedged between us, trembling in fear. Instead. . . Crickets.

As of 6:55, still not a drop of rain. However, the wind is starting to pick up. I’m disappointed. Am I the only one who kinda enjoys bad weather? Seriously, crazy thunderstorms, blizzards, hurricanes, they are all exciting to me, at least the build up and anticipation are exciting. Dealing with a whacked out Lucy, shoveling snow and cleaning up fallen tree limbs isn’t much fun, but the storms themselves are a blast. Admit it, you like them too.

I have a theory as to why this is...uncertainty and danger are therapeutic...in small doses. When a huge storm is in the forecast there’s this feeling that comes over you of dread, a sliver of fear that you might be at the mercy of the natural world. The reason that this brings something close to a thrill is because it reminds you that you are alive and that the safety that you assume is all a paper thin illusion. This explains why we talk so much about the weather, why the only reason most of us turn on the local news is for the weather forecast. It’s the one part of our daily lives which can’t be sterilized and sanitized. We are at its whim, and if it turns suddenly nasty and violent, there isn’t a single solitary thing we can do about it. Pretty cool when you think about it.

So, this morning, I’m bummed.

A Gift and a Curse

So, I’m writing another book. I published the first chapter on this blog a couple weeks ago for your opinion. You all said, “Finish it.” But I was going to write it no matter what you guys said. You see, once a story gets in my head, it takes up permanent residence, then begins crowding other things out. Before long it’s dominating practically every idle moment, to the point where I start forgetting how to do important stuff like sleeping. Maybe this is why so many writers go crazy. Their brains become hostages to their imagination.

I’m five chapters in and each is more difficult to write than the last. The time travel plot is deviously difficult to manage. You have to think three dimensionally, taking care to ponder the future consequences of every twist, every word of dialogue. How will this decision effect my character thirty years down the road? Can I alter his or her entire future by a single encounter, conversation, or even word? If so, I’ve got to be careful with each phrase, lest I unintentionally destroy the story. It’s tedious and nerve-wracking, and I can’t shut down the process as easily as I can shut down the computer.

But, writing such a story has me thinking about the power of words, and their capacity to bless and curse, to lift us up and tear us apart. We all have the power to destroy someone’s confidence by one careless phrase. We have it within us to make someone’s day with a single affirming observation spoken in kindness. It is an awesome power we human beings share with no other creature—the gift and curse of language.

May we all devote ourselves to using this power with humility and great care, understanding what great blazes are started by a single match.