TBD.com

So, Facebook led me to a new social network for those over 40 - Tee Bee Dee. I have joined, but there is not much to do other than join in Group discussions, but some are quite good. I did join The Writing Group (TWG) and submitted my first story, which is also posted below. I encourage those interested in writing to check it out.

My Father's Shoes

Damn!

“Sam, any idea if we have black shoelaces somewhere? This one just broke.”

Eric slipped the black, cap-toed Oxford shoe off his foot and went to rummage about in his dresser for a new lace. Hidden in the corner, behind the silk handkerchief and the mostly unused bow tie, he found a package of waxed shoe strings, black.

In 1963, when Eric was 8 years old and some of television was still black and white (although his parents had splurged on a Magnavox a year earlier with his mother’s inheritance money: that was a discussion) he sat in the family living room on Saturday nights and watched Paladin and The Old Ranger and hoped he could stay up to see wrestling from the Sportatorium. His father would polish those Oxfords. Routine: light a match to melt the Kiwi polish – gingerly drop the polish lid on this intriguing flame – dip the rubbing cloth in the melted polish and spread a fine layer all over the shoe (laces out, of course) – brush the polish to a high sheen, sometimes spitting, sometimes not – buff the shoe with the lambs wool buffer. Do it again on the other shoe. Lace them up.

That routine never varied, although sometimes it would be Sunday night, not Saturday night, when church fell away from the family rituals. Once a month, black sole dressing was spread on the overly scarred edges of the sole. It took a while longer for Eric to understand how his mother covered over the scars in her soul.

Eric didn’t know how long his father had owned that pair of cap-toed Oxfords, with the small line of punches in the cap’s edge, but he did know that they were to be polished every week. For a while, Eric’s dress shoes joined those of his father in the ritual. Later, it would be Eric who would do the shoes, all the shoes, under the not-so-watchful eye of his Wooden Indian father and his nervous, quiet mother. Someone would get up from the TV for a beer now and then: first one, then the other, matching can for can.

Eric finished lacing the shoe and sat down again to slip it on, tie it up, admire his polish-work. He was going to a wedding today, the very first one he was to officiate. The shoes had an ancient look to them, but sported new leather soles. Eric didn’t know why he pulled out these old shoes to wear: he had a dozen other pairs of dress shoes more modern, more stylish, more him. “Something old, something new . . .” his mind wandered as he drove to the outdoor park where the wedding was to take place.

…something borrowed, something blue.” His mother would have been proud of his shoes that day. That was the last time Eric ever wore those shoes, and later, when he dropped them in the Goodwill box, he thought about those Saturday nights with and without his parents.

Got a New Look

Check out the new look on the blog. I have added some features, like the Video Log. I will try to change it out frequently. Also, I hope to get around to adding all those cool sites that people send me all the time, that never get collected in any one place.

I have also added commerce: click on the ads and give me mo' money!!!!

Spring Evenings

There aren't many memories I have that are more powerful than memories of spring or summer evenings where the light fades very slowly, and the breeze that kicks up at night is a welcome companion. Many of the best things I can recall are associated with just such evenings. I like the sound of the word "evening" and the connotation that this is the time when you balance out the day, you make your life "even" again. Some things I associate with late spring/early summer evenings:

• Softball games in Grand Prairie, TX with John Shipman, Greg Nix, Mike Edwards, John Nix, Danny Rucker, John Zacharias, many others



• UTA intramural sports - Mike Kessler on our soccer team: the only guy who knew how to play



• Barbara Merrill's Volkswagen stalling outside my house and I hear it through an open bedroom window: Mark to the rescue



• Watermelon fights at Amfisso apartments: swimming in the half-full pool with our clothes on



• Sitting by Steve's pool with Dr. Steve and Dr. Karl, or any of the 4th of July parties



• On the beach in Jacksonville with my bro



• Coming up the 18th fairway with Ken Rystad, playing golf until you couldn't really see the ball land



• Terilli's patio moments



• Walking to the UTA library from Border West, or walking to the Psych Building



• Pool parties at Mary McKinney's house



• Sitting by my pool now with Teresa, drinking good wine and talking



• Playing minature golf in Overton Texas with my grandparents, swatting mosquitoes and smelling the sawdust



• Watching the sun set from the Adea offices and listening to Steve say "this is your town"



• Most recently, drinking wine with Mary Webb and Teresa in Archer City

My life hasn't been all about motion, like some of my friends. Steve was always in motion: still is. David Casey was always in motion, though sometimes slow motion. Kevin is a motion guy: not still until the night is deep upon us does he wind down. I am not a motion guy.

It is the stopping that I remember most, and spring and summer evenings are made for stopping and looking, listening, smelling. I am not going to waste any more evenings.

Wondering and Wandering


As some of you know, I am in the throes of some kind of crisis – mid-life, meaning of my life, stagnancy vs. generavity – not sure what to name it, but basically I am 52 years old and think I ought to go ahead and do what I was meant to do, rather than what I know how to do. The only trouble is, I am not sure what I am meant to do.

So I am randomly casting about, reading things and thinking about things, and in general just trying to open up, since my tendency is to close down and try to plan outcomes, rather than let things flow. This morning, I see a video piece about some guy in Montana riding a covered wagon to California. And in the video, all these people who see him basically say, “If I wasn’t (married, tied down, committed, constrained, bound by velvet ropes, you fill in the blank) I would do the same thing. Up and go. Travel and see where it takes me.” So in my fevered state of mind, I think, “Yeah. Me too. Only how can I facilitate this? Is there an industry/website/organization devoted to helping people wander?”

Sidebar – I read somewhere that elder men in the Indian culture take journeys once they retire. They go on some form of walkabout. I think I read it in a Salman Rushdie novel. Matt Freeman (CEO of Tribal DDB) and I kid about what will happen when we go on our walkabout.



I Googled "wandering planning US" because how the hell do you search for websites about planning to go wandering (oxymoron of the highest nature).


I found this website, by a former teacher/principal/librarian and it has some stuff that was really eye-opening, but also some stuff that seemed very incongruous. I don't know quite what to make of it, except that I like the fact this guy is apparently making a living talking about thinking in a different way. Gives me hope.

The March, 2007 issue had some really interesting things to say about the value of wondering, and wandering. So I wonder if there is a way to help facilitate wandering, in the sense of helping people plan not to plan?

I would be interested to know anyone's thoughts on the topics, either personal or professional.