High Five Fifty

Blink.

Wait, I 'm fifty? Whoa, I am fifty.

So did I hit fifty or did fifty hit me?

I would say that if one has been negligent and is sitting at fifty going where the hell did life go, then fifty hit him. But if at fifty, one is sitting around a bonfire with a cold drink, say a Crown and Coke, and has friends sitting with him, and has two good kids and a fun and spirited wife, then he hit fifty. He was living life and working hard and playing well with others so the journey had been good.

I am the latter of the two. I hit fifty, a milestone. And life is good.

Other milestones have come this summer. My son will be heading off into the college world, and my daughter will be entering the high school building (8th grade is in our high school) where I trek among curriculum, students and chaos. Heidi and I also celebrated 23 years of marriage. Good milestones on my journey. Yet, with them, I have many more to milestones to reach.

At the age of fifty, I have been in the classroom 19 years. I have had a good career, but I am not done yet. I still get excited about the beginning of the school year. I revel in the text, emails and posts I get from students. I received a ton of birthday wishes on Facebook. I was blessed with some personal notes of how I had made an impact on students' lives. One of the fun parts is the students who harass me about 2001: A Space Odyssey that we watched in my SciFi class. I get an occasional note about a recently seen reference to the movie (Muhaha). And over the summer, visits from students were rejuvenating to what I do. I love my job!

The writing? I am still engaged. Paul, my best friend and co-author, are in a final hard-copy edit of our book, Cry of the Eagle. It will be done soon. My blogs? I am struggling there a bit. As you may note, I have not been to Tarzan in a long time. I still crank out a poem or two. Did one for Brenda's retirement, my son's graduation, and one for Grace. As some may know, I give out personalized collections of poems to students at graduation time called Wordz.. What is cool is how many former students I see tell me they still have their copy. Plus, I have been playing on Twitter with short poems of 140 characters, a bit of a challenge. All part of playing with words.

And today, I am at my computer writing. I have work to do, some bills to pay and a messed up basement, but I am writing. I am enjoying putting these words on this post.

So, I would have to say. I did not hit fifty, nor did fifty hit me. It was more of a high five. A sign that things are good, but still still have more to do.

High Five! After all, it is a jungle out there.

Breakfast Dates

It is said that breakfast is the most important meal of the day. And I could not agree more.

Yes, it is the meal that gets the day started. It is breaking your fasting from the night before. Scientifically, it gets the metabolism revved up for the day. And because of that, I have heard that eating breakfast helps one lose weight.

I think that may be a theory though. Yesterday, I went to a “King’s Men” Breakfast at a local church. We had stuffed (blueberries and cream cheese) French toast, sausage and hard-boiled eggs. It was fantastic. I thought it would be dangerous to eat like that then have a meeting, but the meal truly started us on a productive day.  I got things done.

Of course, part of it could have been the fellowship with the other men.  There were little jokes about being married that guys say, not in being mean or anything, but just being guys with a common ground. My favorite was the joke about the husband who had not spoken for seven years in his marriage. When asked why, he said, “I didn’t want to be rude and interrupt.” I had to chuckle at that one. And as not to accidently break any guy code, I will conclude by saying that guys getting together is good.

It’s the getting together over breakfast I like. Heidi and I have started having “Breakfast Dates.” All over Houghton Lake there are little diners with friendly, yet quiet, morning servers. I mention quiet because not everyone out for breakfast can deal with the really perky people. At least I can’t, I am not a morning person until after breakfast.

Anyway, we have breakfast. We, depending on what day it may be, plan the week, the weekend or that particular day.  For example, on Sundays, we pretty much know our routine for the day of family time, watching the Lions (in the fall), and computer work for the online classes we both teach. So, we will run through the week: meetings, appointments and things for the kids. This strategy meeting usually happens between ordering and getting our food. During the rest of breakfast, we chat about little, casual things from the weather to how to raise our children without causing serious physical harm or emotional damage to them or ourselves.

The neat thing about breakfast, even with the options, is that the choices are simple. “Do you want white, wheat or sourdough toast?” One has a certain amount of control and empowerment went ordering eggs to one’s liking, and it is not high maintenance for the server or the cook; there is no guilt or inconvenience when responding to “How do you want your eggs?” The server asked, and you respond.

Economy wise, breakfast is inexpensive if you, the consumer, allow it to be. For the price of a dinner entrée, I can get Heidi and I a breakfast we both will enjoy.

Lately, my kids want in on the Breakfast thing too. We have done them as a family, as parents with child, as father and son, mother and daughter and the various combinations that can happen. It is a quieter moment and easy to do. And, like most things, there is the Home Version, where we make that meal at home and enjoy it as a family. Dinner does not have to be the only family meal.

Earlier today, we had a sunny booth, a courteous waitress with a bright smile, two omelets and a nice conversation about the week and holiday plans. We had time with each other. No interruptions.

Yes, breakfast is the most important meal. After all, it is a jungle out there.

Dog Poop and Cat Litter

Scylla and Charybdis. Rock and a hard place. Hell and high water. Dog poop and cat litter. All are tough places to be between.

The dog poop is in the yard, and the cat litter is in the basement of the house. In between these two places are where the daily battles are fought: bills, raising kids, lawn and car maintenance, laundry, the dishes etc, yet I find myself prioritizing the care of their daily constitutions.

Pets are one of the ironies of the American Dream. We pursue this happiness of a dutiful dog and a cuddling, purring cat, yet we dread the crap that comes with it.

Our dog, Duke, is a chocolate lab for the most part. We got him last spring, a year after we lost our golden, Padme (yes, Star Wars), to cancer. Duke’s name was a string of factors that included Duke kicking butt in the NCAA tournaments, Grace’s favorite movie G.I Joe had a character named Duke, and John Wayne, The Duke, is a favorite in the house. Chewbacca was a close second for a name.

For the most part, Duke is a pretty good dog. But, even after training him to go in the lower backyard, he still does is business where it suits him. And with the autumn leaves in its hues of browns over the yard, we have a virtual mine field of doggie bombs. One wrong step, and the victim’s shoes are tagged with a substance that does not stick to a dog’ rear end, but to everything else non-dog.

We have two cats too many. There is Chance; Christopher’s cat since he was three. He is a cantankerous feline that only let’s Christopher carry him anywhere, yet he insists on sleeping on whoever’s bed he deems most fit for his highness. Lo, thou darest disturb his slumber when you seek to rest. Thou will be hissed upon. I swear this cat actual grumbles inappropriate language as he shuffles off.

Princess, yeah that’s her name, is Grace’s cat. She may not be the king of the pets, but the name fits. She seems to know that someday that she will inherit the lands and dominate. Her favorite pastime other than lounging is to harass the dog when he is in his kennel by lounging out of his reach.

King Chance, Princess and Duke. I just realized that I just subjugated myself to my family’s pets. And I, the court jester, stands outside in the early morning dark dressed in my robe, stand dutifully by as his lordship leaves another gem in my lawn. And I, the stable boy, kneel before the throne of cat littler with my plastic scoop. I place the royal feces in small plastic bags and tie them shut so the order does not overpower the land.

I have this bazaar dream that thousands of years from now, archeologists will dig up these precious nuggets of bowel movements and determine that our culture held cat crud in high regard.

I must go. Duke is whining at the door and Princess is sitting in dignified repose by her food dish and eyeing me with a dour look. I am remiss in my duties.

Has anyone seen the pooper scooper?

I must walk carefully. It is a jungle out there.