William Martin
  • Home
  • About
  • Blog
  • Poems
  • Short Stories
  • Non-Fiction
  • Links
  • Contact Me

Hai Karate! (Or How My Fights Differed From the Movies)

7/23/2014

1 Comment

 
I was watching a movie the other day (have you ever noticed how many of my posts start that way?), just relaxing on the couch when the big fight scene came on.

It was a John Wayne western. I don’t remember the title. I think it may have been “McClinchismcahill Cogburn” or something of the like.

Short interlude: I am a big John Wayne fan, but have you ever noticed that the Duke wore his gun waaaaay back? I mean, practically in his butt-crack back?

In my best John Wayne voice: Just a minute there, pilgrim. Let me dig this gun out of my ass and we’ll just see who’s in charge here.

Anyway, the big fight scene came on; you know the one… everyone throws their punches by telegraphing them from about a mile away –always a ginormous roundhouse, while the person about to be hit conveniently holds his head still and, in fact, often pushes it out there a bit more to make the hitting easier (we don’t want to inconvenience a man who is going to all the trouble of swinging his fist from somewhere south of Australia). The receiver of the punch then flies backwards, usually landing on a balsawood poker table that demolishes in a spray of splinters. 


Picture
Of course, one of the characters was at the top of the stairs when he was hit and, surprisingly, he barely leaned back against the handrail which completely collapsed in about three sections.

I am amazed that civilization has made it this far with the inferior wood and crappy craftsmanship of the 1800’s. No wonder they had outhouses. If they’d had indoor ceramic toilets the things probably would have exploded in a cloud of dust with the first strong bowel movement.


Picture
Once again, as so often happens, my mind wandered a bit. I thought of how when I was a kid, these movie fight scenes were always great fun. And we had the first surge of martial arts films as well. Those were really cool, because besides the telegraphed punches, you also got to enjoy over the top punch sound effects and dialog that was always a half-second out of sync with the actor’s lips.

As I got older, I learned that real fights don’t happen that way. And me being me, I had to make this discovery through experience. I couldn’t just take someone’s word for it.

One of the first fights I got into was with a semi-psychopath. We played football in P.E. and I had accidentally (and unknowingly) blocked a kid who went backward and hit his head against psycho-kid’s nose.

The next day, psycho-kid was in the locker room putting on cleats. Cleats. We never wore cleats in P.E. With my highly tuned deductive reasoning I said, “Huh.”

He came at me on the field. I didn’t know why, but his charge had serious intent and his eyes had a curious vacuum. I managed to step back and hit him about three times, but then I found out another interesting fact about psycho-kid: he was a wrestler.

So that’s what he did. He wrestled. He took be down and must have been having one helluva fine time twisting me into a pretzel. He finally stopped moving and I realized that he had me pinned, but was covering my face with his torso. I couldn’t move my arms. I couldn’t move my legs. But the worse part?

I couldn’t breathe.

My thought process went something like this: Damn, he’s got me pinned. Shit, I can’t breathe. Damn, he’s not moving off me. Shit, I REALLY can’t breathe. You know, Joe, if this continues, you will black out and probably die. That would really make mom sad.

My thoughts finally reached a point of panic. I was trying to move in some way….in any way. All I could do was turn my wrist a little.

But that little was enough. The powers that be thought it right and just to send me my deliverance.

I turned my wrist and his testicles plopped into my palm.

I squeezed. I squeezed hard. I squeezed like a man with scurvy trying to get the very last drop of juice from an orange.

I think I remember hearing his scream, but I’m not sure.

The next thing I knew I was on my hands and knees, getting up.

Then the next thing I knew I was on my hands and knees, getting up. Déjà vu, which is always a weird feeling. What I didn’t know was that as I was getting up the first time, psycho-kid kicked me in the head. A ‘friend’ told me afterward it looked like psycho-kid was trying to kick a field goal from the 40 yard line.

When I got up, psycho-kid was running away and everyone else started in with the “I was just about to jump in…” and “In another few seconds I would have…” crap. Total crap.

Later that day, I was called into the principal’s office for fighting. He was a very serious man and even moved a chair directly in front of me so he could get the whole story. His brow was furrowed and he nodded now and then as I told him everything…except for the part where I wrung out the kids nut-sack like a wet dish towel.

He looked at me very seriously and said, “Joe, did you squeeze his testicles?”

The poor man looked so intent when he asked the question I couldn’t help but laugh.

“I may have just a bit,” I said.

“That’s what he said,” and then the principal laughed. “He said, and I quote, ‘it felt like a volcano went off in my balls.”


Picture
Cool principal. He said that since psycho-kid started it, he would be suspended. I was to go free.

You wouldn’t see that happen today.

The other lesson I received in the reality of fighting versus fictional movie fighting was fairly brief. It happened after a barrage of martial arts films were engulfing theaters throughout the U.S.

To be brief (and because I honestly don’t remember how it began), another guy and I were facing off to do what some macho types call “the man dance.” I was ready. I’d been in enough fights…I had a little bit of a size/weight advantage. This would be easy.

Then the guy pulled a knife.

That put a whole new spin on things. This could get serious. Suddenly my advantage didn’t seem to comfort me near as much. But I had seen a few martial arts films.


I dropped into what I thought was a reasonable imitation of a martial arts crouch. I put my hands out as if I knew how to karate chop.

Picture
My memory is not positive, but I may have yelled, “Kai!!”

He came at me. I pivoted and aimed an arcing kick at his wrist to disarm him.

I disarmed him and watched as he turned and ran away (by the way, the running away thing happens quite often in real fights).

I was pretty proud of my martial arts prowess and being able to disarm a knife-wielding opponent. Then I looked down and saw the knife sticking out from the side of my foot.

I think my thought process was something like, Damn, these are fairly new Nikes. And now there’s a cut in the side. The cut in my foot wasn’t much and I settled for gaining a knife for myself in exchange to some damage to my tennis shoe.

I’ve not been in too many fights since then. I think I may have slowly discovered that the running away thing is actually a strategically smart move.

Maybe if people actually fought like they did in those old movies I would fight more.

Just so long as the other guy sticks his head out there for me to hit and there’s plenty of that cushy, easy-break furniture around.


Picture
Be well (and no fighting),

                                          -- William


1 Comment

Something's Living On My Skin

7/5/2014

4 Comments

 
             When I was a kid I never had problems with allergies. I saw other kids suffering with red, swollen noses, the classic ‘itchy, watery eyes,’ and seemingly endless wads of Kleenex surrounding them. They were obviously miserable, but in my typical immaturity I also thought most of those kids were nerds. To me they conjured images of Piggy from “The Lord of the Flies,” wiping his glasses and talking incessantly about his auntie and his ‘ass-mar’ (asthma).

            Then something or someone threw a switch.

            My dad always had a few animals on our small acreage and he also grew, cut, and baled alfalfa from his field. I always hated to help with gathering the bales and stacking them into the barn, because it was hot, dirty work and –in the interest of full disclosure—I was lazy and those bales were damned heavy.

            I was 18-years-old the morning my allergy switch was thrown. I grudgingly walked out to help haul the hay bales in and when I grabbed the first one, I sneezed. Then I sneezed again. And again and again and again … ad nauseam. My entire face itched. I rubbed my nose and my eyes. I scratched my arms, my chest and, if I could have figured out a way, I would have scratched the inside of my throat with a toilet brush had I thought of it. At one particular point of epitomic empathy I looked with misery at all the wads of Kleenex surrounding me.

            It was sudden and it was horrible. My allergies kicked into gear every year thereafter and I spent the latter part of spring and summer in an allergy medicine stupor. The only bright side to the whole mess was that I was excluded from having to haul hay after that –a small consolation to be sure. I would have hauled hay for weeks to avoid the yearly four month torture.

            A few years after my allergies started Paul Simon came out with a song called “Allergies” from his album “Hearts and Bones” and the song’s lyrics nailed the experience:

                                  “Allergies, allergies. Something’s living on my skin…”

            If you haven’t heard the song before, you should YouTube it. It’s not a bad song.


Picture
             Years later, when I had a job that provided health insurance, I began seeing an allergist. My first experience there was a real treat (sarcasm). I didn’t know how it worked. I thought they just gave you a shot at the beginning of the allergy season and you were good to go. The truth is that they have devised an excruciatingly clever way to torture you first. They have you lay face down on a table and then they prick your back with a needle every square inch. That’s when the real fun starts. They dab a little bit of this and a little bit of that on each pin prick to see how much of a reaction it gets. It sounds simple enough, but it’s actually pretty medieval. Imagine a herd of fire ants having a huge picnic on your back. ‘Nuff said.

             Once they determine everything you might be allergic to, they begin giving you a mixture of shots of those very same things and as we all know, receiving shots is always a joy (more sarcasm). The idea is to slowly build up your immunity to whatever you’re allergic to. The whole process took a year or so. The shots became less frequent and eventually I no longer suffered my usual allergic symptoms. They finally took me off shots and I’ve been fine ever since.

             Until last night.

             My wife and I traveled from our home in western Oregon to visit her parents in eastern Oregon. While having dinner, I suddenly sneezed. The sneeze came on so fast I barely had time to turn my head. Had I been a half-second slower I would have sprayed potato salad across the table. Later, when we began playing our usual rounds of pinochle, the allergies set in with a vengeance. Soon I was sneezing, my nose itched and dripped, my eyes watered and burned. I had no allergy medication and it was the fourth of July, so there were no stores open. I made a valiant attempt to drown my symptoms with beer, but surprisingly, that didn’t work as well as I’d hoped. 


Picture
             After two hours of playing cards, sneezing, and trying not to sneeze on the cards, my wife had a light-bulb flash on over her head.

             Wife: “Hey, I just remembered. I have some Benedryl in my overnight bag. Would you like some?”

             Me (speaking with a Kleenex stuffed up each nostril and looking at a blurred version of her through my red, itchy eyes): “Hell no. I’m enjoying this way too much to even consider taking something that might even slightly alleviate any of it. What are you thinking?”

             Wife: “Smartass. I’ll go get you a couple. You look like a walrus with those things hanging out of your nose”

             The Benedryl didn’t kick in very fast, so I tried a few more beers. I still had no luck with that helping relieve the symptoms, so I switched over to whiskey on ice. Hard to believe, I know, but the whiskey proved to be just as ineffective as the beer.

             The Benedryl finally kicked in about the same time as the alcohol. That’s not to say that my allergy symptoms improved, just that between the two I no longer gave a damn.

             I finally crawled into bed, high (or is it low?) on Benedryl, whiskey, and beer, and with Kleenex shoved up both nose holes. 


Picture
             I missed watching the fourth of July fireworks, but I really didn’t give a damn about that either. In fact, I didn’t really give a damn about anything.

             I didn’t sleep very well, but I did sleep a bit. And I will admit that as I climbed into bed, I felt pretty much like a nerd.

             Why is it that so often my past immaturity comes back to slap me silly with irony? That being said, I’d like to apologize and say I now sympathize with my fellow allergy suffering nerds.

               Be well,

                        William

P.S. This blog posting is not meant to promote, nor condone, combining alcohol and allergy meds. That is, unless you really don’t want to give a damn about anything for a while.
    

4 Comments

Tuffee in the Moment

6/18/2014

4 Comments

 
My daughter moved back home from college last weekend. It’s not really a boomerang thing, because she finished the academic portion of her medical imaging major and is now moving into her externship at our local hospital.

Of course, I’m very proud of my daughter and I’m happy to have her back home.

She’s good company.

She also brought her dog with her. Since we have two dogs already, my initial reaction was, “Hmmmmm.” (I found out years ago that “Hmmm” sounds much more intelligent than “Uhhhh” even if I have no actual thoughts running through my head).

Her dog is a Shih Tzu and his name is “Tuffee.” I spent the day with Tuffee and I thought of how his name actually fits. He’s a pretty tough dog. At least emotionally.

Tuffee started out as my father’s dog. When my father passed away, he became my brother’s dog. My brother ran into some difficulties and couldn’t keep the dog, so Tuffee became my sister’s dog. She and her husband moved about a year ago and weren’t able to keep Tuffee, so my daughter came to his rescue and took him in.

That’s four different owners between two states and over a span of (I think) six years and Tuffee has stayed tough. He and my daughter are now inseparable.

She left yesterday to go pick up some more of her things and was gone overnight. She left the dog. At first Tuffee seemed a bit out of sorts. He wouldn’t eat. He moped about the house a bit. But within a few hours he was up on the sofa, kicked back and relaxed.

He slept in her room alone last night and spent the day with me today.

I took him to the groomer’s. He was okay with that. No problem, just jumped up into the cab of my truck and looked at me as if to say, “Let’s roll.”

When I picked him up he seemed happy. I couldn’t tell whether that was from my coming back for him, his getting away from the groomer’s place, or because he was cleaned up and trimmed. In any case, he jumped up in the truck, tail wagging, and panting in a way that made him look like he was smiling. He kept that smile all the way home.

When we got home he jumped out of the truck, ran up to the house, and went in and ate his dinner. He pranced around the house a bit (Shih Tzu’s tend to prance when they walk) then jumped up on the sofa, stretched out and fell asleep.

It was then that I realized that Tuffee has that Zen thing going on. No matter what happens, he’s pretty much unflappable. No matter who he’s with, he seems to enjoy their company. If there’s nothing to do, he just kicks back and enjoys the sunshine or takes a nap.

He lives in the moment.


Picture
We joke around a bit and alternately call him “Tuffee,” “Tuffee McTufferson,” “The Tuffster,” “Tuffarino,” and any other variations that come to mind.

I think I can learn a lot from Tuffee. He doesn’t stress about anything. He doesn’t worry about the future. He doesn’t live in the past. Nothing seems to get to him.

I think he’ll be good company too.


4 Comments

May 27th, 2014

5/27/2014

0 Comments

 
0 Comments

Butch and Sundance

5/19/2014

11 Comments

 
Picture
     Tonight I put on one of my all-time favorite movies, “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.” As I settled in to thoroughly enjoy it for the umpteenth time, I couldn’t help but ask myself, “What is the appeal of this movie? Why is it a classic when, when it first debuted, critics almost universally panned it?”

     It’s been played hundreds if not thousands of times on the big screen, network television, cable television, VCR, DVD, and BlueRay. And I’ve bought into it in every form. When I was a kid and there were only three networks available (ABC, CBS, and NBC) I scheduled my months around its showing. When cable television expanded to include more than a half-dozen stations, I scheduled my month around it. When VCR conquered BETA MAX in the early 1980’s, I bought the VCR Cassette (un-Godly priced, and in all its edited-to-fit-your-screen-and-for-family-friendly-viewing-format), but then I could watch it when I wanted –which I did, over and over again. When my best friend confessed that he had not seen it (along with “Little Big Man”) I almost choked and MADE him go to the theater (they were playing in a double-billing, which REALLY shows my age) to watch it.

     So why does this film resonate with so many? (Okay, I won’t include others in this post, although the film’s popularity and universal recognition as a classic kind of does that for me.)

     Sure, Paul Newman and Robert Redford star in it. They are, arguably, the best looking actors of their generation –and two of the best at their craft. But I think the reasons go far beyond that.

     The reason is unconditional love.

     Now, the term “unconditional” is bandied about quite a bit lately, but how many can honestly…truly…say that it’s true? One can say they love their mate “unconditionally,” but what happens if the spouse reveals a string of infidelities that simply boggle the mind?

     “Unconditionally” quickly becomes, “Well, I meant that, but I never thought it would reach this point.”

     Sure, there may be those who will immediately go towards the homo-erotic thing in regards to the film, but I don’t think that’s the case here.


Picture
     I think what the film portrays, to an extent very few films do, is the connection between two people that transcends sex, love, and even mutual passion. It’s about two people who connect on an intellectual/belief/soul level: Who accept themselves and appreciate each other for who they are, unconditionally –two people who instinctively know and understand what the other brings to the relationship, and who (perhaps, subconsciously) appreciate those qualities without judgment.

     Yes, the characters nag each other and even make reference to each other as “being an old lady.” But how else to explain the (almost) sharing of one woman? How else to explain the devotion to each other even as other members of their gang are killed and/or dispersed? How else to explain their mutual agreement to flee the U.S. and head for Bolivia? How else to explain their shared sense of humor, sense of displacement, and sense of inevitability? How else to explain two individuals who know their death is imminent, but are able to accept it –and even joke about it—as long as they’re together?

     How many have known or even slightly experienced a relationship like that?

     It’s the stuff of legend. It’s the stuff of Hollywood. It simply cannot happen in real life.

     But wouldn’t it be cool if it could?


Picture
*If you’ve not yet viewed “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid” (and shame on you if you haven’t), it’s available on DVD, BluRay, Netflix, et.al.*

*And if you enjoyed the film and love character driven stories, make sure to check out “Blackthorn,” a (somewhat) sequel to the Butch Cassidy legend starring Sam Shepherd*   


11 Comments

10 Things I wish I Would Have Said More Often as a Kid:

5/3/2014

3 Comments

 
I was thinking the other day of the differences in how I was raised and the way my wife and I raised our own daughters.

Times have changed.

We didn’t fall for that approach that many parents our age fell for, the “Love and Logic” thing. I have nothing against the phrase, but it seems that many young parents took it to mean there should be no boundaries put on their kids’ behavior. Supposedly, whatever problems the kid caused or trouble they got into could be discussed with them and their bad behavior pointed out be reasoning with them and demonstrating the logic behind the reasoning. I just don’t see how that flies with a two-year-old. Little Johnny probably hears, “Johnny, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. Okay Johnny?” all the while wondering if he can have ice cream or not.

Picture
I’m all for explaining to the child what types of behavior are unacceptable, but rather than get into the reasoning behind it being unacceptable, I think it’s more important to let them know the consequences of bad behavior. Kids aren’t stupid. They can figure out the reasoning on their own pretty easily.

But this approach too, is quite a bit different than the parental approaches that were used when I was a kid.  I’m not going to pass judgment on the overall approach to parenting in the 1960’s and ‘70’s (Horror of horrors! They spanked kids!), but in thinking back, I do wish I would have met that approach –and other aspects of growing up—in different ways. Like a lot of things, I broke it down by thinking what I could have done or said differently. And so we come to my list.

10 Things I wish I Would Have Said More Often as a Kid:

1.      “I know you are, but what am I?”

Picture
This sounds childish, I know, but the idea behind it is an epiphany that took far too long for me to have. There are those people who will try to tear you down in order to build themselves up. As a kid I didn’t recognize this, especially when it came to adults (yes, adults do it to kids too). I thought I deserved tearing down. Now I know that there are a lot of assholes in this world and any attempt to tear me down is a reflection of their own problems and issues. It really has nothing to do with me.

2.      “You’re being very rude (insert adult’s name here).”

Picture
I was raised to respect my elders. I was told they knew more and were wiser because they had lived longer and experienced more. It took me far too long to realize that a lot of my elders were, and are, full of crap. And age isn’t an instant qualifier for respect. Whether you’re an adult or a kid, you have to earn it. Of course, I also realize that calling an adult on their rude behavior back then would most likely have been met with a knock alongside the head. But I could have tried.

3.      “I can do that. No problem.”

Picture
As a little kid I wish I would have said this more often because I was often told what I wasn’t capable of doing some things. I was either too dumb, too uncoordinated, or simply too young.

That only instilled a decided lack of confidence in my own abilities and talents.

As a teenager, I wish I would have said it more, because I’d be asked to do some minor chore and I would whine, bitch, and moan about having to do it. And that was so unfair to my mom. I should have just jumped up and said, “I can do that. No problem.” She deserved it.

4.      “Just because I’m young it doesn’t mean I don’t know what I’m talking about.”

This ties back with the “I can do that. No problem.” thing. I actually learned things, formulated considered, valid opinions, and could express those opinions articulately. But I was often shut down because I was “too young” to possibly know what I was talking about.

5.      “Yeah, so I enjoy writing. So what?”

Picture
As a kid, writing was kind of a double-edged sword. I had a couple of great teachers who were supportive and excited about my creative writing. On the other hand, I had some who were close to me who didn’t understand it or even thought it was a little weird. If I could go back I’d say, “So what? It’s who I am.”

6.      “Nah. Thanks. I think I’ll take a pass.”

Peer pressure as a teen. I could find plenty of stupid things to do on my own. I really shouldn’t have allowed others to cajole me into doing more. ‘Nuff said.

7.      “To be honest, I’m pretty uncomfortable right now.”

Picture
This kind of goes with #6, but also relates to how shy I was around girls. I often didn’t know what to say to them. I felt awkward and uncomfortable and, in looking back, those feelings often caused me to behave in ways that could simply be viewed as asshole-ish. Of course, there were a few times when I deliberately acted asshole-ish, but those are other stories. If I had been open and honest about my shyness, I’m sure who I was with would have relaxed and would have helped me relax and get past that awkwardness.

8.      “I’m rubber and you’re glue. What you say bounces off of me and sticks to you.”

See #1

9.      “I really have no idea what I’m doing right now.”

Picture
There were a few times as a kid when I was in way over my head. I look back now and realize I should have admitted that instead of trying to bluff and bluster my way through. I could have saved myself a lot of trouble and pain and I probably could have saved many others the same.

10.      “I love you.”

This simply didn’t happen in our house when I was growing up. Openly verbalizing your love was waaaay awkward. It wasn’t until I was in my late 30’s that I finally began telling my mother I loved her, but I still didn’t say it enough. It wasn’t until my dad became ill with cancer that I finally got up the backbone to tell him I loved him. And it was awkward. But I didn’t care. He hemmed and hawed a bit, but didn’t say it back. Later on he did. 

Picture
If you feel it, say it. Who knows how many opportunities you’ll have? Out of five of us kids I’m down to one brother and one sister. We say it to each other now. Sometimes kiddingly, but we know we mean it.

You can learn as you grow up, but how cool would it have been if I had only understood so many of these things when I was younger?

I probably could have conquered the world. Or at least many of my own doubts and fears.

Be well,

William


3 Comments

April 28th, 2014

4/28/2014

0 Comments

 
0 Comments

A Requiem for My Brother

4/27/2014

9 Comments

 
My oldest brother, Byard Lee Martin, passed away a few years ago. I know "Byard" seems like an odd name, but it was my father's name and, I am told, is actually a name that was somewhat common ages ago. There was an eight year age difference between my brother and I, so in growing up, we really didn't spend much time together. While I was busy reading Spiderman, he was caught up in high school and in his battles with my father.

My brother's relationship with my father was difficult to say the least. My dad could be physically abusive, mentally abusive, and emotionally abusive. It was a painful trinity. When Byard Lee was born, my dad was only eighteen --still a kid himself. My dad was too busy with his own friends, work, and outdoor sports to pay much attention to my brother and attention was the one thing he needed most. Without going into a lot of detail, my brother had a pretty rough life. Yes, some of it was due to his own decisions and actions, but a lot was due to the environment and things beyond his control. You know, the whole nature/nurture thing.  

The day Byard Lee died, I called my uncle (who he had lived with for awhile some years ago) to give him the news. His response was that my brother didn't have such a great life anyway. 

I drove to the town where my brother lived the day after he died, hoping I could help his adopted daughter and his biological daughter in any way I could. I never really had a chance to build the bond I wanted with my brother while he was alive, so I wanted to at least be there for him in his death.

His daughters suspected me of coming down to try and "pilfer" anything I could grab. I didn't waste my time telling them that Byard Lee really didn't have anything. Ironically, they were the ones who called me the day before, the day he died, asking for my help and support.

Because of what they thought and because of their own ignorance, I wasn't allowed to speak at my brother's funeral. In fact, no one was allowed to speak. His services were conducted at the Veteran's cemetery and they were short, efficient, and cold.

I wanted to do something for my brother and to help get past some of the grief I felt. They say we often miss most the relationships we never had a chance to develop. I knew that was the case for me. I wanted to write something for him --but more for me-- something that would help alleviate some of the pain, guilt, and longing for a relationship that would now never be.

Byard Lee's life was one of pain, but there was one thing that stood out in my memory and that is what I decided to write about.

So this is for my brother, who some would say I didn't even know that well. That may be. But even so, I miss him more than I can begin to say.
He Could Laugh
For My Brother
Byard Lee Martin

Byard came into this world,
Born of parents who –
Whatever their shortcomings –
Did in their own way,
The best they could do,
Not fully realizing,
The gift of this dark-haired,
Wide-eyed child.

But Byard could laugh…
As a kid playing with his sister and brothers,
Playing and learning,
Pretending what could really be.
His face lit up and happy,
The laughter coming from deep inside him.


Byard grew up lacking and wanting,
Lacking the affirmation all of us need.
Wanting his love reflected,
Often angry and lashing out,
Fighting to find his place in this world,
Needing a figure to help him find the right of things,
To reaffirm the goodness within him…

But Byard could laugh…
With an intelligence and wit,
That went beyond his years.
A natural insight into the absurdity of life,
Seeing the odd quirks in everyone,
And in himself,
While finding that glimpse of joy,
And sharing it with each of us.
Laughing with his family,
The laughter shaking him from deep inside.

Byard lived much of his life,
Tormented but trying,
Making whatever sense he could of the world,
Using whatever tools he was given.
Not always grasping all of his hopes,
But always reaching,
And in his own way,
Doing the best he could do...

And Byard could laugh…
Laugh at the madness of life,
Seeing through the bullshit,
Of any person or topic that didn’t ring true.
Laugh at the ridiculous importance the superficial felt,
With an innate sense of what was real,
Knowing deep down inside,
That the heart was all that really mattered,
The laughter pulling us all together,
Real.
Coming from his heart.

We will all miss him and the chances we never had,
To share the love that was always there.
But those thoughts feed regret –
Something my brother would want us all to be free of.
He would want us to remember the laughter.

Rest easy Byard,
My brother,
Be free as well,
Knowing we will remember your laughter,
Knowing that all of us loved you,
More than we could say,


But we did the best we could do…
                                                          – Joe 




Picture

Picture

Picture
9 Comments

Dingy Dog

4/20/2014

6 Comments

 
More than a few years back, Molly, my dog of eight years died. She was part Australian cattle dog and part (we think) Kelpie. Basically, she was a mutt, but she was a pretty cool mutt. She could launch her 45 pounds into the air to catch a Frisbee or a ball in a way that made you think she might be able to fly. She was lovey when you needed it. She was also loyal and put up with a ton of shit from a guy who was too immature to totally appreciate what a great dog she was.

Her death was a sudden thing. She went outside, then came back in and lay down on the floor by my desk. A few minutes later she began making noises like she was going to vomit.

These things happen when you own a dog, so no biggie.

I told her to go outside and, (obedient dog that she was), she got up and staggered towards the living room before collapsing in the hallway. Within a half hour, she was dead.

We tried to get her to a vet in time. To his credit, the vet did all he could do. He put her on oxygen, gave her a number of shots, but it was too late. Later, he informed us that his guess was that when Molly was originally outside she may have bitten at a wasp and was stung inside her throat. She went into anaphylactic shock, her lungs quickly filled with liquid, and that was all she wrote.

It was the only time I can remember crying over an animal. We were raised to believe that animals were animals and people were people –the same emotional attachments should not apply.

Since we don’t have a lot of property around our house we had the vet dispose of the body and my wife, two daughters and I buried her favorite toy in the back yard as a way to have some kind of closure.

The loss of Molly came during what was one of the worst years of my life. There were other losses, a motorcycle accident, and more that I won’t go into here.

I swore I wouldn’t get another dog for a long, long while. I didn’t want to discredit the loss of Molly that way. I didn’t want to invest time and emotion in another pet that soon. I made a vow that I wouldn’t even consider another dog for at least a year.

And then, eight months later, we met Maggie.


Picture
Maggie is a German Shepherd. German Shepherds are regal, intelligent, strong, dignified. She was a sweet puppy, but I don’t know if she had that natural dignity thing down yet.

One of the first things she did was dig up the toy we had buried in memory of Molly.

And because she was a puppy, her ears flopped over, making her look a little less than smart.

Picture
As a puppy she was about the size of what her head is now.  

Picture
Now she’s about 85 pounds of dingy. Oh sure, she tries to understand what you’re saying. She demonstrates this by cocking her head to one side.

Picture
Picture
She can’t catch a Frisbee, but she’s hella-strong. As a joke we tried playing fetch with her using a fence board. She was okay with that.

Picture
She’s a sweet dog, but is able to convince anyone who comes to the door that she’s a maniacal, rabid, monster with razor sharp teeth. Of course, all they’d have to do is toss her a cookie and she’d be their friend for life.


She stays within her boundaries, but still likes to keep an eye on what’s going on in the neighborhood.
Picture
Picture
She recognizes the sound of the UPS truck and it bothers her whenever it goes by, because sometimes it stops at the house and a stranger comes to the door. Strangers are exciting!

She’s used to receiving a Meaty Bone and having her dog run cleaned just as soon as I get home.

And she can be lovey.


Picture
I still miss Molly. I’m not in love with Maggie.

After all, she’s just a dog, right?


6 Comments

Swimming in a Sea of Estrogen

4/11/2014

1 Comment

 
Picture
As I pointed out in my last post, I’m a manly-man –primarily because I can piss outdoors. But I often receive odd looks from other manly-men because of what might be called manly-man idiosyncrasies:

I don’t really follow sports. At all. None. If I were to follow a sport, it would be soccer, a sport most manly-men in the U.S. do not follow and many consider unmanly.

I sometimes use words like “idiosyncrasies” and then point out that I should get some kudos for doing that.

I don’t camp out very often.

I rarely go fishing.

I would rather read a good book than play touch football.

I don’t understand the whole slapping-of-the-asses thing in sports.

I used to hunt, but I haven’t done that in well over ten years (although I still enjoy going to the range and shooting once in a while).

There are a bunch of other manly inconsistencies, but these seem to be the biggest. If I walk up to a group of men, I often feel awkward because they’re usually talking sports and all I can do is stand there, nod my head, and say lame stuff like, “Yeah! That play was amazing! Go my favorite sports team! Kick that three-pointer!”

One of these days someone will ask me a specific sports question and my whole façade will cave in. I will be in definite danger of losing some major man-points.

I can still do some manly things. I can lift up a car hood and scratch my head. I can make minor home repairs without majorly injuring myself. I can do three pull-ups. I can even use a fairly wide variety of power tools.

But now for the big reveal: I actually prefer hanging out with women. Not because they’re better looking, sexier, and don’t scratch themselves as often as men –although I don’t discount any of those things. No, I think the preference is because most women are interested in the same things I am.

Here are some examples. They’re generalities of course, but hey, it’s my blog and I’ll do what I want.

Women read. That’s the biggest thing right there. Because I also read, I can discuss books with women and not feel like I have to fake my way through it. And, admittedly, a woman reading is just damned sexy.

Picture
Now, is that sexy or what?
Women like movies. Granted, many of the movies are chick-flicks, but women seem to get into other movies that don’t require explosions and high body counts as well. And you can discuss movies with women after viewing.

I like the perspectives that most women have. Most women have quick wits, are funny without being cruel, have positive attitudes, and often show insights into life situations that men simply won’t talk about.

Women are often far more supportive than men. I think it’s probably awkward for many men, but women have no trouble saying stuff like “Hugs,” “Aw, don’t worry.” “That was really nice,” etc. Most men will say something along the lines of, “Hey, either fix the damn thing or get over it and move on.” Not that that’s not constructive, but it does lack a bit of finesse.

Maybe my appreciation for the company of women comes from spending so many years surrounded by women (my wife and two daughters). I know my thoughts and feelings might be biased because of that, but it is what it is.



And that's the best kind of bias to have.

And if I lose some man-points because of it, well, I’m okay with that too.
1 Comment
<<Previous
Forward>>

    William Martin

    Just observing, sometimes remembering, often shaking my head, then writing.

    Archives

    August 2017
    March 2016
    February 2016
    January 2016
    October 2015
    July 2015
    December 2014
    November 2014
    September 2014
    August 2014
    July 2014
    June 2014
    May 2014
    April 2014
    March 2014
    February 2014
    January 2014
    December 2013
    November 2013
    October 2013
    September 2013
    August 2013

    Categories

    All

    RSS Feed

    Enter your email address:

    Delivered by FeedBurner

Powered by Create your own unique website with customizable templates.