The Large Man Chronicles

How ‘bout that new Large Man Chronicles header? Becky Hampson did that! She also did the logo that’s on The Large Man Chronicles tee shirts. Thanks Becky – I love it. That beach is where I want to be.

Now to our story:

I took on a job several months ago at the request of one of my co-workers. My buddy, Jerry, walks into my office on a perfectly fine fall day and says, “I think you and I should start a company team for Relay for Life this year. I’m sure the company will pay the sponsorship fee, and we can raise a few bucks, and we’ll feel good about it.”

Most of the time when someone who is not my boss walks into my office and offers a suggestion of something I should do that would require work…especially when it requires volunteer work, my initial reaction usually is to tell them to screw themselves, and I also usually don’t use the word “screw”. But this is a little different case, because Relay for Life is a huge fundraising event for the American Cancer Society, and Jerry, my buddy and respected co-worker, is a cancer survivor.

Well shoot! What am I supposed to say? “No Jerry, I’m really too busy.” He knows I’m not. He drives by my house everyday on his way home from work. He sees my wife mowing the yard, he sees me on my deck having a cigar and a beer while I support my wife’s passion for, and pursuit of, the perfect lawn. He knows I’m not doing anything but writing this stupid blog once a month.

Because Jerry is healthy today, it’s hard to get your head around the fact that he survived one of the most vicious forms of cancer there is. He survived because he has the heart of a lion – a lion that adores his wife and kids, and refuses to let them know what life would be like without that lion heart. Jerry beat back cancer because he didn’t have a choice. He also got some help – he credits God and his medical team more than he credits his own lion heart. I’m no expert, but I’m telling you that it took all three.

He once told me a story while we were driving home from some revenue generation in Cincinnati about the doctor that saved his life.  I will always remember that moment.

His exact words were, “…and that’s when I finally got the meeting with the Doctor that saved my life.” How powerful is that?

Those of you that know me, know how out of character it is for me to shut up and listen, but listen I did for the next two hours as he walked me through his survival journey. Any words that I spoke were in the form of a question: “What does that feel like? When that happened, what did you do…? How scared were you?

He never seemed to get irritated with me, and his direct answers were mostly, “Oh it sucked dude!!” Or, “It was bad. I don’t know how I did it.”

But he did it.

So, what the hell; if he could go through all that, I can certainly volunteer to help raise some money, and be a co-leader on our company’s team. We made this decision late last fall. We didn’t expect to spend much time on the project until late winter or early spring.

* ****

The neighbors who live behind me are our city’s “First Couple”: Mark is our Mayor, and Barb is his wife. They were the first folks to invite us over for a “get to know you” visit after we moved to town. We spent the evening with them and a handful of other great neighbors from the block. They were gracious hosts, and since that Friday night almost 3 years ago, we have become good friends. We share a burger, dog or beer now and then, we BS around a campfire, we do what neighbors do.  I think it’s fair to say that my 10-year old son has a little crush on Barb, and she follows every conversation she has with him by saying, “That kid is so stinkin cute!” The two have a connection that’s very sweet, and funny to watch. They both light up when the other is in the room. So this alone puts Barb on my favorite people list…if you’re good to my kids, well… what else needs to be said?

Until this year, Barb had been the chairperson for our local Relay for Life event for 5 years running, and has served on the committee for 15 years. As the Mayor’s wife, Barb (and Mark for that matter) will spend a good bit of time volunteering for local functions. In a city as small as ours, the volunteers that step up on a regular basis are the people who make it work. People like Mark & Barb are the lifeblood of our town.

Me on the other hand, I’ll write a check when I can, but I’m not much for rolling up my sleeves and getting sweaty for a cause. It’s not that I don’t care; it’s just that I’m
lazy. There are other factors too; it’s a lot of fear, it’s the inconvenience, it’s believing that I’m too tired, and that I don’t have time. These are all weak excuses. The sad simple truth is that it’s laziness.

As a family, we were happy to support Barb’s effort in the Relay for Life event last year – her last year (at least for a while) as chairperson. Relay is a big event for our little town. This little town is quite something when it comes to Relay for Life. I bitch and piss and moan about our little city at least 3 times a week. This little Podunk town doesn’t even have a Taco Bell. This little town has 2 seasons – snowy, and rainy. But this Taco Bell-less little Podunk town of less than 10,000 people raised over $72,000 for the American Cancer Society at last year’s Relay.  It was a cool event – it had a hometown community charm that I felt for the first time since we moved here.  My kids loved it, they felt the vibe, and they made me promise that we would stay the whole 24 hours for the 2011 event.

In the last 16 years, this little town has raised over $750,000 for the American Cancer Society. Barb tells me that by our 19^th year of Relay, or 3 years from
now, we will have raised over a million bucks. Not bad for a little Podunk town. I love those kinds of stories.

I would love to say that all this work, passion and fundraising are for a great cause, but it’s not. It’s a shitty cause.

The American Cancer Society does great things for millions of people; I believe that someone’s life gets saved every day as a result of the efforts by the ACS. But it’s a crappy cause.  I would much rather raise money for Teddy Bear distribution for rich kids, or have a telethon to raise money so we can make high purity make-up available to ALL beauty pageant contestants. How about a Relay for Beer?

These things would all be better than a Relay for Life, or the Susan G Komen 3 Day for breast cancer. If The Teddies For Trust Fund Kids Society, or TFTFKS were a real thing, and it had network coverage of its’ Relay event, then  that would probably mean cancer, and autism, and Alzheimer’s would no longer need a marathon, or a telethon, or a 3 day walkathon…no more “thons” for fear or misery. No more “thons” for terrible heartbreaking illness; I would rather not even have to talk about cancer. I would rather not have to talk about my wife’s Grandmother, one of my bestfriend’s father, and then his wife, or my mother. I would rather not have to talk to you about someone you love and your awful, heartbreaking loss.

I would rather just talk to Jerry; this living, vital, smartass, dude…this buddy of mine tilting his head up so he can look at me through his glasses, then asking me to help him with a project. I would rather be torqued off at Jerry because he came into my office on a perfectly fine fall afternoon, and asked me to help him raise money for Teddy Bears for rich kids. He would ask me this because he had recently survived the horror of not having a Teddy Bear, and he wanted to help others avoid the same suffering.  After the initial anger over the inconvenience, and the consumption of my time, I could get my head around something like that. It would be fun. This Relay for Life thing isn’t very fun. It’s not fun because of all the things I know.

But we’re gonna do it anyway.

In my very first Large Man Chronicle I promised that I would never try to sell you anything, and that I would never ask for anything. Today I’m going to break that promise. I hope this is the only time, but I never thought I would find myself here…so no more promises. I’ll ask you to trust that I probably won’t ask again. Never is just too big a word.

I am participating in the American Cancer Society’s Relay for Life event in my beloved home town of Warren, PA. I am relaying in honor of my Mom who I lost this year to pancreatic cancer. I will also walk the track in honor of all the other Moms who left this life too soon. The ACS goal is to create more birthdays…I like that. Hallmark probably likes it too, I’m gonna call them for some cash!

I am speechless (well…1,640 words later) over the support that our team has been given over the last 7 days. Friends and family, co-workers & customers have donated hard earned cash in a questionable economy, because they want to help.  If speechless is not the right word, then humbled, proud, or amazed would work.
The only word that doesn’t work is surprised. I’m not surprised. I run with a
pretty good group of people. Grateful is probably the best word…I am extremely
grateful to all of you who have supported this effort so far. We’ll write a tale about
that, after Relay.

So, if you haven’t already donated, and you would like to help, the link to my ACS Relay for Life page will be at the bottom of this Chronicle. If you can help, please do. If you can’t this year, no problem; I know I’m not the only person asking, so PLEASE, no apologies. We all do the best we can.

Like most places that take your money, the ACS makes it very easy with a credit card. If you don’t want to use a credit card, but you would like to help, send an email to thelargeman@gmail.com and we’ll give you an address to send a check…OR, go to the American Cancer Society and do something in your community. I would love to have you on my Fundraiser Honor Roll, but ultimately it all goes to the same place, and that’s all that matters.

Your donations are tax deductible, you can do it anonymously or you can leave your name. You can display what you donated, or you can keep it private. You can opt out of any future correspondence, or you can become a volunteer…you have lots of options, and they are all OK. If you choose to give on my page, my preference is that you leave your name so that I may have you on my “Honor Roll”, but it’s your choice. No amount is too small; no amount is showing off, and everything is appreciated!

http://main.acsevents.org/site/TR/RelayForLife/RFLFY11National?px=21582849&pg=personal&fr_id=30955

Let’s create some birthdays.

Thank you, God bless you.

To be continued…

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“Ok honey, I’ll be right here on the bench, reading my book. Shop ‘til you drop.” I said with a smile. “Just don’t go to another store without telling me. I’m gonna have my nose in this book, and I need to know where you are. Your Mom will be here in a few minutes, and if I don’t know where you are she’s gonna kick my ass.”

“Nice language Dad!” she replied with a frown. “KK – I’ll be here ‘til Mom gets here anyway. Everything in this store is like it was designed just for me. If I need your opinion, can I come get you?”

“Of course,” I said, and I watched her walk into the Slippery Eel, or the Wet Dolphin – whatever they call it. I don’t really remember the name.  I thought it sounded kind of suggestive and inappropriate for a place where a 12-year-old would acquire clothing, but I’m 51; going on 60…mannequins with boobs in a store where my kid shops seem inappropriate to me.

I watched my daughter’s little 12-year-old butt, along with the rest of her, wiggle its way into the boutique type store. I closed my eyes, rubbed them hard, and shook my head. How the hell did I get here?

We are doing the mall thing in Erie, PA. It’s a belated Mother’s Day trip – a week late due to circumstances beyond my control. My wife is looking at dresses, “by myself, please.”  My son is waiting in line to do some bungee jumping on this trampoline thing, “because it’s awesome!” And I’m watching my little girl grow up…at the Slick Whale. We’ll have a nice dinner later, and head back home.

I take a look at my book; I look up as the people walk by…young families, with young parents. That’s the way to do it, I think to myself. By the time those people are my age; they’ll be sending them off to college. When my kids go off to college, I’ll be back in diapers. How the hell did I get here?

 Back to my book; I try to turn the words into sentences, then a few sentences into some meaning, but all the motion of the mall is too distracting. I’m not necessarily in a people watching mood, but I can’t get comfortable knowing that I can’t get lost in this book. I’m watching over the pride…my son behind me, and the daughter in front, the mall is crowded so I’ll stay on high alert. I’ll watch the people and think about their stories as they walk by, and I’ll think about how the hell I got here.

I am not complaining…much. I am the luckiest man alive. Healthy, happy, reasonably well-adjusted family, a good job, house, three cars; I’m blessed beyond my expectations. That still doesn’t explain how I got here. For some reason, at this moment, I can’t stop wondering how it happened. It seems I just went on a date with this tall, blonde, nicely racked, chick…like three months ago, and then BLAM! I’m sitting in a mall, making sure my children and the modest contents of my wallet stay safe.

 I close my eyes and rub them again as if there is a genie inside my noggin that will pop out and give me the answers. I don’t even know the questions.

I watch the man pulling the oxygen tank on its little hand cart and I wonder if he is thinking, “How the hell did I get here?” I don’t think I could go to the mall if I had to walk with an oxygen tank. I can’t think of anything I would need from a mall if I were in that state. Every step, and obviously every breath, looks like such a chore. I admire this man’s will for normalcy; he just wants to do some shopping. I bet there is an adventure for every line on his face. I bet he has some tales to tell. I wish I had the onions to ask him what he was looking for…here at the mall, and for the rest of his life. I bet the story of how he got here is better than mine. This guy knows things that I would like to know.

I watch the girls with the piercings on their lips, eyebrows, and in their noses, with their fluorescent dyed hair combed over their face. The girls were staring at the boys with the jeans hanging off their asses, and their flat billed baseball caps worn 45 degrees off-center.  I look at the dude with the giant piecing in his ear lobe that leaves a three-quarter inch hole. His “skinny jeans” so tight the pockets are useless. I want to ask them questions too. Actually, I don’t really want to ask them anything; I just want to tell them some things. I want to share some of my knowledge of the world. I want to impart useful information to them. Things like flossing, and never ignoring your gums, always carry a handkerchief, no matter how senseless it seems right now.

 I want to tell them to not be so quick to trust words of love. Someone can tell you that they love you 100 times a day, but if their actions cause you harm, worry, or concern, they probably don’t love you – they just want you to love them. Acts of love are real, words of love are simply words…I want these kids to know this. They should also know that it’s never a good idea to ask a woman if she is pregnant unless you actually see her child being born. If she’s wearing Baby On Board tee shirt, it’s probably OK too.

I want to tell them that they should never judge someone by their appearance. And then, of course, I want to scream at them and say, “Stop mutilating your body, and pull your fucking pants up! You look like fucking idiots! I have news for you! There is this thing called iTunes now! There are no more record stores for you to work in! You’re gonna have to get a real job someday, and nobody is going to hire you with all that shit in your face and a three-quarter inch hole in your ear! But I love your spirit and individuality! Hugs! Just say no!” I would calmly scream these things…with love.

I watch the young couple looking in the window at Crate and Barrel, I wonder if they’re looking for stuff for their first house or apartment. I loved that feeling. I remember years ago, walking into Home Depot to get some spackle, and about halfway down aisle 12 I realized that I was actually going to the hardware store to buy something for my home. Not my parent’s home, not my roommate’s, and not my landlord’s…mine.  I wonder if it feels like magic to this couple, the way it did to me.

I see another young couple holding hands, and almost skipping into the pet store. Their excitement can’t be contained. I’m thinking they might be going to pick out a puppy. The puppy will be the “practice baby” before they try to make a baby of their own. I wonder if that feels like magic.

My son is about third or fourth in line now, his twitching shoulders tell me he’s getting excited. He sees me looking at him, so he gives me the thumbs up. I see my daughter, lost in the trance of retail stimuli; holding up tank tops and tee shirts. She holds them against her upper half as she looks in the mirror, then she tilts her head and shifts her hip to one side…the head tilt and hip shift will help determine the viability of the clothing. It’s like a science.

All is well. The pride is safe. I’m still wondering how I got here.

Then I see a Mom and Dad walking side by side, pushing a stroller. Inside the stroller sits a gorgeous baby girl, with violet blue eyes, and a pink Osh Kosh sweatshirt. Those blue eyes are looking with absolute wonder at all the bright colorful lights. She looks at the girls with purple hair and no faces, the boys with funny ears and goofy hats, and the Large Man sitting on a bench watching her and smiling. She looks right into that Large Man’s eyes and smiles a smile that would launch the space shuttle, and she claps her hands. And she answers his questions. She is taking in all the magic of life, she’s not asking how she got here, she‘s just happy that she is here. I think she was the genie that I was looking for earlier.

It doesn’t really matter how I got here, I’m here. So just roll with it, and enjoy the magic. Like a baby in a stroller. Let it be.

My daughter waves at me from inside the Slick Lobster, (whatever they call it) and stirs me out of my trance. She motions for me to come into the store, and mouths the words, “I need your help.”

So I walk in, she holds up two…uh…garments, and she asks me, “Which one of these short shorts are better?”

“For what,” I ask. “Are they like a bathing suit bottom?”

“No, these are short shorts! This is what everybody wears now.”

UGGGGHHHHH! She’s just 12. This is only gonna get worse.

Just roll with it Large Man…like a baby in a stroller. It’s magic…just let it be.

Thanks for reading

The Large Man

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In Loving memory of Joyce Angel Dolinger, my Mom… 8/24/33 – 4/4/11

I don’t think you need to hire a psychologist to sift through the writings of the Large Man to figure out how I feel about women. If you are new to the Chronicles, and you don’t know me that well yet, I’ll front you some insight: I like women. I like all women…a lot.

I love my wife. I adore baby girls, and I like just plain girls too. I like ladies, I like broads, and I like grandmothers. I like my mother-in-law, I like her sisters, and I like their daughters. I like my aunts, and all my girl cousins, I love my sister, and her daughters too. I like my neighbor’s wives – every one of them, I like my boss’ wife, I like my daughter’s friends, I like the women I work with, and I like the wives of the dudes I work with. If they are women; I like teachers, I like nurses, and I like bricklayers, race car drivers, doctors, some lawyers, and waitresses. (I REALLY like waitresses –‘cause I like food and beer too) I love housewives; I like single moms, married moms, working moms, expecting moms, and new moms, and of course, I love my mom.

I’m sure the love of all these women comes from the relationship with my mom; this seems to make sense.  My love of the ladies has to come from the love of my mom, or maybe a little of my need to be loved by my Mom. I’m not completely sure. Whatever it is, the root of this fixation will have to be tracked and figured out by some Freudian disciplined shrink sometime in the future…I hope she’s hot. I love hot shrinks.

 If you don’t know my Mom very well, the thing you would find most remarkable about her is her unfiltered honesty. Many people refer to this kind of honesty as brutal. That’s not really the case with my Mom, if you ask her a question, she will simply reply to your question with what she really thinks – she will most likely NOT tell you what you want to hear. When people are as honest as my mom they can seem difficult to figure out – or simply difficult. They’re difficult to figure out because there’s nothing to figure out.  What you see (or more likely what you hear) is what you get, and if you don’t get it at first, she can clarify things quickly for you. This kind of truth can jack with your equilibrium, and leave you a little off-balance.

That kind of honesty also allows you real clarity on both sides of the windshield. That honesty scrubs away all the smooshed bugs and road dust of life, and if you know nothing else, you know that my mom likes you…or doesn’t, and you know whether or not you like her. You won’t have to figure it out over a long period of time. Not everybody likes this trait, I do. I wish I was more like her.

Despite my self-deprecating sense of humor, I do believe I have a couple of decent qualities – maybe three. My mother’s unconditional honesty is not one of them – I’m not even sure I would classify that as a quality for me – it works for her, but I’m not strong enough to pull that one off. Her capacity for unconditional love however, is a quality, and I got me some of that! If I love you, you know you are loved, and that love stays.

I’ve picked up a few other things from this woman over the years that stuck too. Things that forged who I am, things that I like about me – those “core” kinds of things that last. Those things make me so thankful for my Mom.

I am thankful for the fact that I won’t be treated poorly. If you treat me poorly, disrespectfully, or rudely, I won’t travel with that baggage for very long. I work in a job that requires some compromise from time to time, and that’s OK. Every now and then the world I work in can create some confrontation; this requires a little patience and flexibility – mostly on my part because of my role as a sales guy, and that’s OK. In my working world, your private world, and anybody’s any world, there is no necessity or reason for stripping away someone’s dignity – that’s not OK. I won’t tolerate it. I have been around people who do, and I find it so sad. I can tolerate an incident; I can even tolerate a bad day or a challenging week, but I refuse to tolerate that kind of environment. My mom gave me that gift. She doesn’t take any shit – never did. I don’t either – never will. I like that about myself. With God (and my Mom) as my witness, I’m going to like that about my kids too.

I’m also thankful that it never occurred to my Mom that she couldn’t climb out of the Civil Service clerical pool at the Pentagon and become a GS-15 Procurement Officer with the Department of Defense; so she did. It never occurred to my Mom that because she was a retired woman at the age of 66 it probably didn’t make a lot of sense to go to college; so she did. And while researching a term paper in her Sociology class, it didn’t occur to her that a 120 pound 66-year-old woman shouldn’t go – BY HERSELF – into a migrant workers camp to interview real people about the real conditions that they were living in, and their real fears about the world around them, so she did. It didn’t occur to her professor that the student who would have the most profound impact on his Sociology class would be a retired, fearless, relentless, 66-year-old, 120 pound woman…but she did.

My Mom is a fearless badass. I didn’t get much of that, but…on the other hand…

…I don’t think there is any reason I shouldn’t write a blog, publish it on the internet, call it The Large Man Chronicles, and expect it to mean something to someone other than myself.  I might even get paid to write this stuff one day. Why not? Other people have done it. Why not me?

It never occurred to me that I needed to have an MBA to be successful in my day job – that’s not in any way meant to devalue someone else’s education, I’m simply stating that it didn’t register in my head that I wouldn’t be as successful as others in my field because I didn’t have the same education credentials. I have never “peed down my leg” when I’ve presented something to a room full of “big boys”. I have never been nervous for a job interview, and if my flag football team is down by 6 points with 20 seconds to go, I want DJ to throw me the ball – even though I’m the slowest guy on the field. I rarely let the fear of inadequacy into my kitchen, when that fear does show up, I cook the meal anyway. Thanks Mom!

I have an old friend who is this amazing artist – but he refuses to show his work until he gets his degree… in Art. He has always believed that a degree would give his work more credibility. I wish I could express how much I respected his thought process…if I did…but I don’t. Are you f-ing kidding me? Not to strip away the man’s dignity, but what a dumbass! What a waste. To date, he hasn’t finished his degree, so he deprives the world of his amazing talent, and he deprives himself the fulfillment that comes with success. All because there is a tape recording in his head telling him he can’t or shouldn’t, “because...” I guess he’s not really a dumbass; he just didn’t have my Mom.

The tape that plays in my head is a continuous loop of reasons why I can…most of the time it’s my Mom saying, “Why not?”  The volume isn’t always as loud as it should be, and there are certainly other voices on that tape – I have had some amazing mentors, supporters, and believers through the years. And of course, every now and then, that tape will give “Doubt” a chance to speak – I’m no Tony Robbins. (Although I am a Large Man) When that happens, it’s my Mom’s voice that pushes “Doubt” to the back of the room and allows me to hear her say, “Why not?” The best gift my mother ever gave me is the gift of what is possible. Thanks again Mom.

A final note on the unconditional love thing…

One of my son’s most respected teachers suggested that he should work on his reading over the Christmas break because he was falling behind the rest of his class on comprehension skills. I shared this with my Mom over the phone one day. My Mom (who had not heard my son read in at least a year or so) replied, “That teacher sounds like she’s trying to get some attention to me. He reads just fine.” End of conversation.

OK then.

The voice isn’t always rational. Unconditional love probably isn’t rational…except for when it comes to a mother’s love-and especially a Grandmother’s love. My Mom isn’t always right – nobody is. She would be the first to admit it… well…maybe. But that voice is not afraid to be wrong. Why not?  That voice believes it’s better to take a bold step and be wrong, than to stay in one place and be nothing. 

Thanks Mom.

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