There’ll be blue skies fallin’

There’ll be bad scenes and bad dreams

In a world so uncertain

Through the clouds it’s hard to see

I will grab you and lift you

As we hold on tight and sway

We’ll go walking

Across the fields of gray

…that’s good stuff! The only thing that would make this moment better is if Karen Stoutamyer was in her cheerleader outfit, sitting on my lap and whispering the words of the song in my ear. I guess that would really be cheating, ‘cause I like her husband, and she has had dinner with my wife, they have “broken bread together” so to speak…the associations are just too close. I think it’s perfectly acceptable for a hot woman to whisper sweet nothings into your ear while wearing cheerleader stuff if she’s never met your wife, and you don’t know her husband. Otherwise, well, the general rules of decorum have to apply. Damn, it’s a nice thought though.

Life isn’t fair. I should be allowed to have Karen whispering in my ear. I should have more money. I shouldn’t have to be away from home so much. I should have an American Standard Stratocaster. I should have a full head of curly blonde hair. I should’ve been able to kiss a girl named Angie, at least once. I should be able to know what’s around the corner or what’s next. I shouldn’t be only halfway through the funerals I have to go to this week.

Today I carried the casket of the man who gave me a Martin guitar when I was 12 years old. Do you have any idea what a big deal it is to have a Martin guitar? At any age, it’s a privilege – I was 12. My Uncle Roosevelt just gave it to me. “You can’t learn how to pick on them cheap ass guitars. Learn how to play Wildwood Flower on this one and you can have it.”

I did.

That guitar, and that man, taught me a lot of things. I will never be a good guitar player, but it doesn’t matter – I really enjoy playing my guitars, and that’s all that matters. One of the things the Martin guitar taught me was how to appreciate the finer things in life. One of the things the man taught me was that I’m entitled to those things as much as anybody else; “…if you’re willing to work for it, you can have it.”  That’s a good lesson, that’s why I always dated the pretty girls…my Martin guitar, and my Uncle Roosevelt said I could. I was sad to see him go, but he’s hangin’ out in a music store in heaven, listening to pickers, their stories, and sharing a few of his own. He’s playing Tom Dooley on a pre-war Martin, and he’s telling a patron that “Wayne Henderson makes a better guitar”…that’s a nice picture for me.

The second funeral I will attend this week is for a boyhood friend, Skip. The first time I was allowed to cross the street without holding my Mom’s hand, Skip was the friend I was going to play with. Skip and I were the same age; he is the first childhood friend of my memory. We grew up together with a cast of characters in an unscripted, improvisational neighborhood play where nobody ever really took the lead, but nobody ever stayed in a supporting role either. We all had our talents and strengths, and we all had our flaws and weaknesses. We had happy homes and sad homes, broken homes, and fake homes. We had boyhood adventures, lots of “near misses”, and we had fun.  Picture a combination of the movies The Sandlot and Stand By Me, that was our life. It was a good life.

This is where most writers insert the phrase, “Life was simpler then…” I don’t really think it was, at least not for us. I think life was less protected then, also less handled and less planned; you just lived it and didn’t over think it all. Almost everyone in my age bracket has had this conversation, or posted something like this on Facebook:

“When I was a kid, my parents kicked me out of the house by 9:00 in the morning, and I was forced to play outside. We used our imaginations, we built forts, we built dams in the creek, we played football all day, we played Army…baseball bats were bazookas and tree branches were rifles…and our parents didn’t know where we were until the streetlights came on. If I needed to travel any distance I got on my bike and I got myself there”

Like “50 is the new 30”, that paragraph is the new “I walked to school in the snow – uphill both ways!”

Both of those conversations usually concluded with “…and I turned out fine.” Really? Did you? OK, if you say so. I didn’t.

Skip, Rock, Dole, Killer, Fenner, Pee Wee, Tone Tone, Jaybird, Red, & Kohrs spent summers fishing and playing hotbox (pickle), we spent our falls playing football – two hand touch in the street, or tackle in the fields of our Elementary & Jr. High School. We spent our winters playing basketball on the playground of our school, or in Skip’s backyard patio court; always worrying about the ball making its way down the concrete stairs and hitting the sliding glass door and waking Skip’s father. This was bad…his glare could defrost a January windshield in like 10 seconds.

Skip DeVoe…the name rolls off of my tongue and through my memory like waves on the Carolina coast – full, robust, and eternal. I could tell Skip DeVoe stories for 2 days, and I wouldn’t be halfway finished. The boy was my good friend, the man, sadly, was a stranger to me. Life isn’t fair.

Skip’s hand were always shaking, but he could tie a treble hook on  a 6 pound test fishing line as deftly and as steady as the most skilled surgeon. Skip was beautiful…a strong, handsome kid, who was good at everything he did. He knew how to talk to the girls too. The ladies liked him because he was never shy about saying something nice…he gave you his heart. I think he kinda worried what you were going to do with it afterward, but he gave it anyway. He was fearless, I don’t remember him ever starting a fight, but if you wanted one, he would fight. He was never afraid to stand up to a bully, or to someone who was wrong. I only know a few people like that, people who would rather take an ass-whipping than take anyone’s bullshit. I realize that it’s a bit primitive to admire such things…but I do.

Even though I didn’t know what I was seeing when I saw it, the complexity of Skip’s soul, the depth of his character mixed in with the simplicity of his spirit, were all things that set a compass for me. Skip was just a good dude. He was loyal to his friends, he was kind to strangers, and he was generally happy with the moment. When we were kids, he was happiest in some kind of competitive game, but he could be happy lying down in the soft tall grass at “the short cut” staring up at the clouds and wondering.

I’ve written about this recently, but I believe the point is worth repetition; it’s sad that we seldom stop and think about, and appreciate, the effect that people have on our lives until we lose them…until it’s too late. If I could talk to Skip today, I would tell him that even though I didn’t know it at the time; he helped to teach me about courage – a vital component to parenthood and internet banking. He helped develop my competitive nature, without which, in my day job, I would be a complete bottom feeder. That competitive spirit has helped me enjoy the sports that I have played through the years, and the sporting events that I have attended or watched on TV – I love that stuff.

I think the biggest lesson that Skip taught me was how to just “get along”, and that you can get along without compromising your values and beliefs. It took me a while to apply the lessons learned from my friend, and like other lessons, every now and then I forget…but I get along alright.

I’ll go to this service, I’ll walk down memory lane with some old friends, and I’ll remember my friend Skip with a smile. Sometime today I’ll close my eyes and I’ll see his head fake as he drives around me to the basket, or I’ll watch his trembling hands quickly tie a lure onto a line and then, just as quickly those hands will gracefully cast a perfect arc just short of some lily pads, and he’ll turn around and give me a wink. I’ll see these things, and I’ll miss a guy that I haven’t seen in twenty-five years, and I’ll try to make sense of it all. I will do my best to celebrate the life that left too soon. I will try and understand that this is all part of some grand plan that just doesn’t feel so grand right now, it feels unfair. Life isn’t fair, but it’s good. Rest in peace my friend.

Thanks for reading.

It’s 6:00 in the morning and I’m standing in line at a McDonald’s in Canada listening to a group of older gentlemen discussing the events of the world, the shortcomings of each other, and several morbid or vulgar reasons as to why their friend Paulie hasn’t shown up yet.

“Maybe he’s getting laid!” one of them says, and they all cracked up laughing.

“Jeez, maybe he died!” another says, and two of them laugh hysterically, while another of the friends scolds over the laughter, “Hey, that’s not funny!”

There was a little more laughter, but it was less enthusiastic, then there was kind of an awkward silence.

Then the first guy says, “Maybe he got laid, AND IT KILLED HIM!”

BAAAAHHHH HHHHAAAAAHH HHHHHAAAAAHHHHH! Belly laughs, all in unison, like this was the funniest joke ever told.

This seems like it might be a regular rendezvous for this group; some coffee, some laughter, and some fellowship, for a handful of older guys who maybe don’t want to hang out in a bar. A friendly bunch of guys, wearing their “old guy” uniforms:  plaid or khaki shorts, tee shirts, sandals, and black socks. I imagine they get together a couple of times a week – their wives shooing them out of the house to get some peace and quiet. They probably tell the same stories over and over again, and they laugh at every tale like it’s the first time they heard it. I suspect these things, because I find myself trending in this general direction too. It feels like I’m watching an un-official meeting of a support group for getting older.

Things move a little slower in Canada, so I eavesdropped on the conversation for a few minutes as I waited in line for my sausage McMuffin. I envy these guys. As I watch and listen, I wonder how long they have known each other, who the leaders are, who organizes these get togethers …I’m 2,695 miles away from home, (I Googled it for the sake of literary accuracy) so I know nothing about this group. I envy them because even though I am just a distant observer, I can see the closeness and the camaraderie of the group. They are best friends, and they care about each other…they are taking care of each other, and that is admirable.

But this is where it got interesting…

As I’m staring and listening, one of the guys in the group notices my staring and listening…and he doesn’t like it. He looks up from the table where he’s sitting and watches me for a moment, and I see the puffing of the chest and the coldness of the stare, and while I do not immediately make eye contact with him, I feel his need to make eye contact with me.

Shit! This is not what I need at 6:00 AM in a foreign country. This guy is 70 years old if he’s 20, and he’s 150 pounds of weary, aged, skin and bones. Soaking wet he meets my 150 pound estimation. By contrast, I am a rather Large Man. I have a shaved head, a full beard, and steel blue eyes that can cut you like a razor when they have to. I look like a lot of things; somebody that a 70 year old man would randomly pick a fight with is not one of them. This isn’t a smart ass teenager who is showing off in front of his friends or a 20 something year old “boy” who caught me staring at his girlfriend’s ass. This guy has an issue with my interest in the group. I’m sensing a protective thing… from a man. In these situations, the difference between a man and a boy is that a boy will fight you, a man will hurt you. This is not a good set of circumstances for anyone.

I make the eye contact that he is looking for, it’s unavoidable. As soon as our eyes meet, he points a shaking finger at me and asks, “You got a problem?”

His right hand points and shakes with his index finger and thumb forming the shape of a pistol, his left hand is holding on to his coffee cup like it’s an anchor. He is not shaking from nervous fear, he is shaking from the ravages of age and from the adrenaline of anger…he is a grizzly protecting his cubs. He has some steely blue eyes of his own, and they lock onto mine. He has mistaken my interest as amusement, my admiration as maybe some kind of mocking. He is wrong, but he doesn’t know it, and he needs me to explain why I’m so interested in their private gathering in this public place.

As will happen in these situations, the vibe sort of spreads over the crowd; there comes a silence that feels like a gasp, but it’s just the collective holding of breath and the turning of heads towards the energy source. It is felt in the air because while we spend most of our time in our own world – our own bubble, when the electricity of an intense moment becomes bigger than what our bodies can contain, it is felt by everyone in the immediate area.  I believe this happens because we are all connected. There may be some other scientific explanation for these phenomena, but it would be wrong.  We are all connected. When a moment becomes big, we all notice, and we all become a part of it.

Because I have such a profound command of the English language, and I know how to stay cool under pressure, I responded the only way anyone could expect me to:

“Huh?”

He stands up and says in a raspy voice of age, “You heard me Kojak! I’m asking if you have a problem.”

“No sir.”

His buddies are looking at me almost in pity, they apparently think I’m about to take the ass-whipping of my life. Fortunately, my respectful reply of “No sir” disarms one of the more jovial gang members; he looks at his finger pointing friend and says, “Lemmy! What’s your problem? The guy just wants a biscuit!”

“Well he should get his biscuit and be on his way then” Lemmy replies to his friend, never taking his eyes off of mine.

“Is there something on your mind young man? Do you think there is something you should be concerned about at this table?” Lemmy asked.

“LEMMY!” the friend shouts with a scolding tone. “WHAT IS HE DOING?”

“He’s staring at us and… and he’s smiling like he thinks something’s funny or somethin’.”

“Maybe he’s gay”, says another of the friends, trying not to laugh. This gets a chuckle from two of the other guys in the group who are just watching. “Maybe he just likes you.” This generates a little more laughter. They are like school kids cutting up in class.

At this point I regretfully have to say that there is another conflict starting up, it’s inside my head. The Dumbass Male gene is engaging me; there is just the slightest tickle in the back of my brain that wants me to say, “Sit down and shut up old man before I bust your 150 pound ass. I’m not bothering you, and you have no idea what you’re stepping into”. That gene is wrestling with the Fear gene. The Fear gene is saying “Look at this dude, Large Man! He has NO fear! This is intense! You haven’t been in a fight in over thirty years, man…and you lost that one. This dude could be some kind of war veteran or something. He’s gonna fuck you up in a foreign country, get your clothes dirty, and you’re gonna miss your 8:30 appointment. Mess with this geezer and you’ll end up in a Turkish prison (yeah, I know, it’s Canada) like that dude from Midnight Express. Turn around and ignore him. Save yourself! You are a coward, and there is nothing wrong with that; jail would be difficult for a guy that looks as good as you!”

The Common Sense gene (a fairly dormant gene for me) stepped in and pushed Fear and Dumbass Male aside, and forced me to say out loud to Lemmy, “Sir, I was just admiring you and your group of friends. I was probably staring and smiling, but I promise you I wasn’t laughing at you. You look like a close-knit group, and I was just admiring you. I’m no threat to you.” I said these things while keeping eye contact with my challenger. I was trying to send a message of no threat, but no fear…so my message was only half of a lie.

The guy who was trying to be the peacemaker says, “See Lemmy… He admires you. Now sit down and drink your coffee.” Lemmy just stares at me.

Total silence takes over the McDonald’s in Surrey British Columbia. As we stood on that terra cotta floor, the smell of conflict hung as heavy in the air as the smell of the McHash Browns in the McFryers. It looked like somebody was about to get into a McFight and nobody knew what to do. The citizens gathered at this fast food emporium in this peace loving nation were waiting for the next McMove.

What will happen?

Will the old guy attack?

Did the bald guy say enough to quell the situation?

Will the McRib ever return to Canada?

“Just leave us alone.” Lemmy says, and he sits down.

“Sure” is my reply, and I turn around and wait my turn for a Sausage McMuffin and medium Diet Coke.

At that moment you could feel the air start coming back into the room. Crisis averted.

By the time I got my meal, Paulie, the absent friend whom they were so concerned about earlier shows up. I’m not sure if he was late because he was getting laid or not, obviously it wasn’t because he died. I got my sandwich and drink “to go”, and as I grabbed some napkins and a straw, I could hear the friends filling in Paulie about the potential rumble, while razzing Lemmy about what a “badass” he was.

As I walked out the door I heard, “Look Lemmy – you scared him off! He’s so afraid of your left hook that he got his biscuit to go!”

BAaaahhhhhaaaahhhh…they all laugh. While they laugh, Fear and Dumbass Male continue their debate inside my head, and Common Sense is keeping my legs moving in the opposite direction, and I’m good with that. I made my 8:30 appointment, with clean clothes…and it’s much better telling you this story from Ray’s Place in Kent Ohio, than from a Turkish prison in British Columbia.

Happy New Year & Thanks for reading…

Big Love,

The Large Man

What’s the deal with Tim Tebow? How does such a simple young man create such polar passion? Everybody except my football and common sense mentor, DJ, either loves him or hates him. I get the love, I LOVE watching this guy play football (well, if we exclude the first 51 minutes of every game he plays), but I don’t understand the hate.

It’s not that I’m above hate. I’m very capable of feeling and expressing hate. Hate is an ugly, ugly, awful word, but I hate. In the right context, I think it’s perfectly acceptable for a human to hate something. I hate any kind of cooked cabbage. I hate the way it smells, I hate the way it looks, I hate the taste, and I hate the way it feels in my cabbage – hating mouth! I hate the way I feel when somebody has invited me to their home for dinner, and only after I accept do I find out that they are having corned beef and cabbage. I hate it.

I’m not a theologian, or a teacher of the Gospel, and I’m only a casual student;  but I don’t think Jesus hates, and I don’t think his Dad hates…probably not even cooked cabbage, but I don’t know these things, it’s just what I think. I don’t know exactly what the Bible teaches about this stuff either.(I am not currently a church goer) So much of it seems to be subject to the interpretation of the man or woman – the human, who is delivering the message, and I have trust issues with some of the messengers . I have some belief, but I don’t have a lot of faith in most messengers. This is tricky, but it’s mine, and I don’t care if you agree or disagree with my position on this matter. It’s mine.

However, I have faith in your faith. I believe in my friend Diane’s belief that Jesus is the path, an amazing chick named Natalie once told me that the easiest thing she has ever done was to turn her life over to her Lord; I believe Natalie too. I trust these messengers. Don’t get me started on Karen and Marty…I absolutely trust their faith; I enjoy being around them and seeing the peace that this faith brings. I believe all these people when they talk with me about their God because they believe; they’re not just hoping that it’s all true. There is some power in that for me.

I don’t know Tim Tebow, but I believe him too. Also, I don’t care. “Praise the Lord until your heart explodes with the glory of amazing Grace”, is what I say. I mean, if that’s what you want. But if you don’t, that’s cool too. I DON’T CARE. I can’t remember a time when someone else’s devotion to God has hurt me. I have no recollection of any interaction with a non-believer who has caused me harm based on their lack of faith either. Some of you readers may have a different story.  The debate on where we should, or should not, display a manger scene could probably be inserted here…but it’s my blog, and we ain’t goin’ there. We’re not going there because both sides of this issue have a valid point.

A customer showed me a website today called “I Hate Tim Tebow” or some such nonsense. Hate? Really? I wonder how someone would hate another person for winning, for being an inspirational leader, or for looking good in a blue and orange football uniform.

Is it the whole Gator Nation thing? I kinda get that – I’ve never been a University of Florida fan, but only because I always liked Bobby Bowden (FL State head coach 1976 – 2009) and I thought Steve Spurrier (Gator coach 1989 -2002) seemed like kind of a dick. Or, is it the faith thing?

Why do people of extreme faith scare so many of us people who are unsure, or “not of” faith? Based on the body of work we’ve seen so far, Tebow isn’t Jimmy Swaggart. Tebow isn’t Jim Bakker. Tim Tebow isn’t a priest who molested children, he hasn’t burned or drowned an accused witch in the name of God, and he hasn’t made anyone wear a scarlet A on their sweater when they banged their psych professor (is that how that story goes?). Tebow hasn’t committed any of the atrocities that have been inflicted upon mankind in the name of Faith and God.  In fact, in all my Tim Tebow research, I haven’t heard of him casting a single “stone” or judgment outward towards anybody…he doesn’t even complain about refs or the balls that his below average receiving corps consistently drop. Tim Tebow doesn’t go on TV and ask you for money so he can line his already well lined coffers, he does raise money for Christian based charities…and he gave like a gazillion dollars of his own money to help build a hospital for critical care and needy kids in the Philippines; I guess some people might think that’s kind of a dick move.

Also, and this is kinda funny, based on the body of work we’ve seen so far, he isn’t a very good NFL quarterback either. He isn’t able to consistently decipher a zip read, and he seems  to have difficulty with accuracy on most of the timing routes – like a 15 yard out. Tebow’s “Mike” or blitz recognition is suspect to say the least, this has him forever fleeing the pocket prematurely, and he seems to suffer from a brain freeze at the sight of a Tampa 2 defense. This is funny because no player that I can recall has been as consistently bad as Tebow…I mean it; this dude really sucks as a quarterback…most of the time. For three 15 minute quarters, and for 10 minutes of the fourth quarter you wonder how he was ever even successful in high school. And then the magic happens, down by 13 points against a top NFL defense…with only 3 minutes left in the game, Tebow somehow turns it into a Denver Broncos overtime victory 16 -13.

Can I get an AMEN! Or a HOLY SHIT!

I love magic! I love watching magic acts; I don’t care what the trick is – it’s MAGIC! I don’t think that because God knows that Tim Tebow is going to thank Him for the victory after the game, “First and Foremost…” that He forces Marion Barber to run out-of-bounds or fumble. I don’t think God makes Miami or Detroit kickers miss field goals so He can hear Tim Tebow give Jesus credit for his good fortune. I think God is comfortable enough in his own image that he doesn’t really care if Timmy brings Him up or not. That’s what I think, but I don’t know. I wonder how Tebow will start an interview after he loses a game. (IF he ever loses again – that’s a big IF) Will he thank “Jesus Christ his Savior…” for the…the loss? I don’t know how he’s going to handle that, but I don’t care. It’s fun to watch.

Here is what I do know; true leaders, wholesome heroes, and genuine articles of any kind are rare. Tebow seems to be all of these things. Tebow has a strong faith in God, but he has a strong, non-arrogant faith in himself too. This is a nice lesson for our youth – shoot…this is a nice lesson for ME! In every conversation about his shortcomings, he humbly expresses how his teammates “lift him up”, and how he will “work hard” to improve his game. I don’t know about you people,  but I think I would like to work on a team being led by someone like that.

I got a mini lecture from a Facebook commenter when I posted on my page that Tebow was a hero:

(Paraphrasing) “Heroes don’t play [sports]…heroes save people from burning buildings…fight for our freedom overseas”

Yes they do – I couldn’t agree more, but heroes are not limited to only those roles. Heroes inspire people; heroes tell you that they know you can when you think you can’t, heroes can be people who hold themselves accountable in the face of adversity, and heroes build hospitals for kids in underdeveloped countries. I don’t need someone to tell me what a hero is; I’ve seen more than a few, and I know them when I see them. Tim Tebow is a hero; a big, good looking, Christian, non-quarterback playing, Florida-friggin-Gator, winning, hero…I love this kid.

 Hate Tim Tebow? Really? It almost seems to me that if you hate this guy, you’re just looking for someone to hate.  Don’t hate the player, or the person, or the Faith…hate the game. Hate the cabbage.

Hopefully there will be a “next time”, until then…

Thanks for reading.