It’s Friday morning and I’m sitting alone at the Denny’s near the Mirimar Marine Air Station.

I’ve ordered scrambled egg whites and toast.

I’m sure this travel, this time alone in my mind can’t be good. too much time to think, to wonder, to worry.

My job pays well. the benefits are grand, but the personal fulfillment–I cannot help the people I work with. I’m asked so often to do things–common sense things, the right thing–but my company, my industry, my government has made those actions, those common sense things illegal. Can you see my dilemma? I’ve had people tell me I’m too generous. I sometimes give too much. It just seems right.

I am a perfectionist with low self-esteem and low self-confidence; everything must be done right, but I doubt my own ability to make it so.

I’ve come to the conclusion that I will not change the world. I am just an average man. I won’t be President of the United States, I’m not a Scott Fitzgerald or a Hemingway, I’m just me. Just one of some 300 million Americans trying to survive.

There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s just how it is. I need to fit into this. I need to accept it and just find joy in what I do every day, with what I have and with who I am.

that’s all…

My egg white scramble was very good.

The John Adams biography I just finished listening to was great.

The book I’m listening to now, 1776 by the same author (David McCullough), is also very good.

I’m looking toward to the long scenic drive home, seeing Kerry, Henry and Roxy.

It’s me.  I’m in another hotel room (White Plains, NY this time).

I just finished doing my physical therapy with my green rubber band. 

Sounds a little pathetic, huh?  Your 45 year old son doing remedial excercises in a hotel room? 

The hotel is attached to the training center for my company.  It reminded me when I got my job 18 years ago, albeit under a different company’s name.  You were so excited when I got the job.  You had a great grin smile on your face and  you were saying, “Oh Scotty! I’m so proud of you honey!” 

I traveled to Denver and stayed in hotel room, much like this, as I went to training classes for three weeks by myself.  Soon after that I went to Kalamazoo for six weeks for more training.  You rented me a guitar and faxed me copies of my favorite songs to play while I was alone in my hotel room.

Tonight I had another buffet dinner–much like my buffet lunch and buffet breakfast.  I was surrounded by other trainees; some were young, and some were older (like me).  I saw young ones, much like I was in 1992.  I wonder if their mom’s are taking care of them like you did me. 

Last week Kerry bought me a beautiful watch.  Funny how similar it is that you bought me my Seiko alarm watch so I wouldn’t be late to any of my meetings. 

I’m being taken care of- spoiled actually. Kerry and her mom are doing a good job in your absence.  I still miss you terribly and could use a hug every day, but I know I’ll just have to try and remember the ones I got from you so long ago.

So, it’s 2010 and you’ve been gone from this world  for almost three years.  If you can do anything about it, help me keep your memory strong in my mind.  I don’t want to forget you.  In my world, a mom is the best thing anyone could be, and you were mine.

Yup-

No hiding it.  I spent a nice week in San Diego (albeit for a meeting) and I brought along some nice paper and my favorite pen (which I just got off ebay for a great price): a 1945 Parker 51 Fountain Pen.

I left it at the hotel.

One of the things I wanted to do this year was more actual written communication with friends and colleagues.  The Parker 51 was part of that plan, but in predictable Scott fashion I left it in the a box of nice paper, and the box is at the hotel… or at least it was before I drove home on Saturday.

This behavior does not surprise me any more.  I should not be allowed to have nice things.  For some reason, God’s design for me is to be someone who can’t stay organized or take care of nice things… not putting things away… F’ up.  Pretty harsh, but often correct descriptor.

So, I’m off again to another meeting soon.  What will I leave behind?  What should I have accomplished prior to leaving-but won’t? Hell, I’ll be gone the week of my wife’s birthday.  Add that into this guilt trip I’m taking… and the trip ain’t even first class.

I’m the guy at the meeting with the shoes (purchased used) that now look all worn out, the wash and wear wrinkle-free pants, the unkempt goatee, and the sweater vest  (a poor attempt to cover fat).  My pen was different though.  NOBODY had one.

Why can’t I just be like everyone else and be focused for more than a minute and not a walking catatonic bafoon?

Bye Parker 51.  It was a pleasure writing with you for two weeks.  Maybe the maid or hotel security guy who gets you next will know what a value you are.

sitting at the Hotel Del. some guy in a silvery suit walked past me. two folks (who I’ll profile as tourists de la Midwest) were following him. his choice of footwear? COWBOY BOOTS: ostrich. his sunglasses: metallic silver typical of skateboarders. wedged into his right ear was a Bluetooth boom mic. he looked to be in his late 50’s. interesting choice for beach walkin…

Books and Audio Books

I’ve been doing some more reading lately; actual reading and “reading”. The bound pages in my hands are The Complete Henry Bech by John Updike,  Six Early Stories and  A Death in Venice by Thomas Mann, and The Enormous Room by e.e. cummings.  I’m  finding comfort in these old tomes, these old pages.  Thomas Mann’s stories are familiar and I find myself NOT having to re-read sentences that I have read previously.  I do that often.  It may be because my mind is always going. I can read sentence after sentence, but my mind is somehow thinking of something else.  My mind does the same thing when I pray.  It may be the subject matter, or it may be the environment.  I read a lot of my Updike in a bar.

My Favorite Place to Read

In front of my fireplace, a glass of wine on the table, and my parker 51 waiting to take notes.

The audio book I’m “reading” is John Adams by David McCullough.

This is the kind of book that should have been used in my history classes.

I’m finding similarities between myself and John Adams.  You know what that means?  We all have the same problems, the same struggles, the same thought processes. Time, fashion, mores, and technology change, but we are all human beings with the same insecurities and questions as our forefathers. This connection of “weakness” is as strong as steel cables forged by God.  Our doubts and worries bind us together. They transcend geography and time.

Adams’ feelings were fragile and often trod upon while he worked in Congress.  He felt inferior physically to Jefferson and many others, and Jefferson had his insecurities as well in regards to Adams’ political savvy.   There is always someone who can best you at something you feel you’re good at on any given day.  I feel that way so much of the time.  But, I feel some modicum of redemption hearing through McCullough’s words that Adams felt many of the same feelings as I do on a daily basis.  When I talk to friends and acquaintances I analyze myself.  I find myself identifying areas where I’m deficient in my knowledge.  Conversation is such an incredible test of knowledge.  I internally beat myself up for not being able to talk at my conversational-partner’s level when we segue to a topic that is out of my realm.  And readers, that be a lot of topics!

That’s not healthy.  I know.  But that be the way it is.

Anyway, I envy the mental focus (nay, not the lifestyle nor hygiene nor living conditions) of our Founding Fathers.  I feel pride and  and a sense of betrayal while listening to John Adams. Proud of the accomplishments of these men and betrayed by the poor teaching of the processes they went through.

Public school history portrayed the events of the revolution in some sort of mythical framework; it was like a cartoon.

The men and women of the revolution (and for much of the Civil War Era) are, as you all know, portrayed in only illustrations and paintings.  Yes, I know this is a technological necessity for the time period, but the lack of actually seeing where the events happened, or seeing relics of the actual events separates the reality of it for me.  It is true for all “ancient” history.  Maybe those who grew up in the geography of the history being taught have a better grasp of the realities of the situation. For me however, it didn’t hit me as hard as I’d have liked until I was older, and it took the works and words of Ken Burns, David McCullough, and Tim Boylan to open my eyes to what really happened there.  It wasn’t as simple as I believed, and that my just be my own naiveté. Learning about Adams’ and Jefferson’s relationship, the words and letters they wrote to each other, the thoughts and processes in designing and developing this fledgling democracy of America are now special to me; somehow sacred.

I am looking forward to listening to the rest of Mr. McCullough’s work on the short, stout Adams, and I’m intrigued to read more about his the tall and angular junior Thomas Jefferson (his love of books and words, and the correspondence between the two men).

Well my FEW dear readers, I am off to turn up the volume on my Radio Classics program on Sirius (Bing Crosby’s Christmas Special from 1943), clean out the fireplace, remove the ashes so I can start a good fire as I attempt to turn my living room into the impossible Christmas postcard I see in my mind’s eye.

Merry Christmas.

’nuff said

“Perfection” in Living

Since it’s the holiday season, 2009, I thought I’d take a moment to ponder upon holiday traditions, home, and what I would do if I had the money and means to do whatever I want… it would be a home in the mountains…

If I could pick a home of my choice it would be a craftsman style bungalow or lodge style home.

or maybe something with a view…

And, of course there must be a great room with a fireplace…

A home needs furniture, and I prefer a style like this…

(perfection)

Now, for me Christmas is a holiday for children and families.  Of course, many of us are children at heart, but it’s getting harder and harder for me to feel that way.

There’s something magical about a house decked out in Christmas decorations, a live tree with packages festooned underneath it, fresh baked sugar cookies ready for frosting and decorating spread out on the kitchen counter, the Christmas songs of Johnny Mathis and Andy Williams playing from the old record player in the corner.  You’ve listened to the records so many times that you’ve memorized the scratches and clicks–so much so that when you hear the song on the radio, it sounds different or wrong because the scratches are missing.

You’re youthful and untested nerves are on edge as you stand in line at the mall with your mom waiting your chance to see Santa and tell him what you want.  You’ve scoured the Sears toy catalog with the detail and intensity of a forensic scientist, and you’ve got your list memorized.  Your tiny heart beats more rapidly each step you take towards Santa’s helper. Now, you’re not sure if you want to sit on this guy’s lap.  He doesn’t look like the same guy in Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, or Santa Clause is Coming to Town, or any of the other Hanna-Barbera Christmas specials.

You’re next, and your mom leans over and whispers softly in your ear, “Go ahead honey.”  She lets go of your hand and Santa’s helper takes it and asks your name.  You blurt out, “Scott!” and suddenly you are suffering from pediatric tunnel-vision.  Everything is happening in fast-forward speed.  You hear your name being spoken as Santa’s helper tells Santa your name as you’re lifted onto the big man’s knee.

Your heart feels like it’s going to burst.  Everyone is staring at you.  There’s mom standing with a smile only a mom can know, waiting for your return to her loving arms.  Santa asks in his deepest voice, “Merry Christmas, Scott.  What do you want for Christmas?”  The photographer tells you to look at him and to smile.  Now it becomes a race to get out the top items from your list.  The next thing you know, you’re standing next to mom while she waits for the Polaroid picture to develop.  The adventure is over.  It’s anti-climatic conclusion is evident and now it’s simply a waiting game.  Your mind races–Did you tell Santa all you needed to?  Did your letter get there in time?  There’s no way to know until that perfect morning of mornings; December 25th, the one morning mom and dad always–ALWAYS–sleep too late.

The whole month of December has been anticipation, anticipation, and anticipation mixed with Christmas specials on TV, snow filled fun on the playground and in the front yard, dreams and fantasies of toys aplenty, Sunday school, and once you’re older, midnight Mass.

Midnight Mass is something you dread.  But, once you get there it’s different. It’s completely dark outside. Candles are everywhere. The church has become a medieval cathedral.  The choir is singing Christmas carols and hymns…”O’ Come All Ye Faithful”,  ”Joy to the World”, “Angels We Have Heard on High”, “The First Noel”, “Silent Night”, and “Ave Maria”.  You look over and see tears in your mom’s eyes.  You tug on her sleeve and ask her why she’s crying.  She tells you she’s not sad.  You won’t understand until years later.

Christmas Dinner is at your house this year.  The uncles, aunts and your cousins are coming over.  Mom has you dressed in your new clothes.  Dad and the uncles are watching the NFL game on the big Zenith console TV.  You and the cousins are all playing down in the basement with the toys they brought over as well as all your new stuff.

Well, you get the idea….

Merry Christmas.

It’s hard to explain how a few precious things
Seem to follow throughout all our lives
After all’s said and done I was watching my son
Sleeping there with my bear by his side
So I tucked him in, I kissed him and as I was going
I swear that the old bear whispered “Boy welcome home”

Believe me if you can
I’ve finally come back
To the House at Pooh Corner by one
What do you know
There’s so much to be done
Count all the bees in the hive
Chase all the clouds from the sky
Back to the days of Christopher Robin
Back to the ways of Christopher Robin
Back to the days of Pooh

(Kenny Loggins)

If you live to be 100, I hope I live to be 100 minus 1 day,
so I never have to live without you.
– Winnie the Pooh