RUGator

-We had to pay the State of NJ $15.00 to file a form indicating that my mother-in-law owed no estate tax.

-Is the College World Series ever going to end?

-Heard the story of a caddy who lived in a Banyan tree on the golf course where he worked. He’d put his garbage in a plastic bag which he’d hang from a branch every morning for the grounds crew to dispose of.

-Had a golfer I was caddying for (while he rode in a cart and I carried his bag) tell me that, as a teacher, I had a “racket.”

…I had to walk three miles to school. In the snow. In summer.

…we never talked back.

…there was no such thing as “your side of the story.”

…we wore our older sibling’s clothing.

…we swam in the Passaic River. And we were thankful.

…we ate our food uncooked.

…money didn’t grow on trees.

…we went to school when we had “the flu.”

…there was no such thing as air.

…we hunted for dinner.

…gas was free.

…politicians were honest.

…men opened doors for women.

…our parents hit us when we misbehaved.

…we ate our allowance.

…we paid for everything in cash.

…nobody cursed.

…we respected our elders.

…no one lied.

…we just made things up.

…we were just like you.

Pushing the vacuum cleaner back and forth along the floors this morning and I thought about someone too; maybe somewhere in Richmond or outside of Des Moines (as a kid, I would secretly pronounce it “des-mon-EEEs” while the social studies teacher tried to teach us the state capitals) or in North Dakota. What might that someone be thinking?

Would they be wondering too when they could sneak outside to smoke the cigarette they weren’t to supposed to be smoking anymore? When they could squirrel away into the bathroom one more time? How they could get away?

I was sad.

But then the dog barked to go out. The one that wears a diaper so he doesn’t pee on the carpet anymore. And by putting him out, I became temporarily saved.

Across the street, a neighbor was distributing newly purchased mulch into his flower beds. Doing it with his son; this day; this time. Today would probably not much be remembered. By him. Or them. But I would take note.

And upstairs, my girls would be in bed playing.

Needing somewhere to go, I was thankful (am thankful) that I could come here to record these things. Even if it’s just for the day.

A Saturday morning in western New Jersey.

A wild, nightmarish video for a song you can’t get out of your head.

“Dissolved Girl,” by Massive Attack

Sitting on the Metro, I’d have to shade my eyes.

On a fiercely hot and bright D.C. summer morning, I was on my way to The Mall. That night was still a daytime away. It would be baseball under the lights. But for now, it was the sun and a phone call which rang through my mind.

The caddymaster had called before I had been dropped off. An appointment was made. For the weekend, I’d have a loop. Teachers take what they can during the summer months. My penance was served on the golf course. Not as a player, but as a looper. It helped pay the bills.

The stops would come and pass. One after another. Until mine. I’d get off here. And walk the rest. To kill the time. Until the unannounced tears would flow.

Into my pocket I’d reach to find a gulf. No calls could come in. Silence would be the only sound. The phone, left on the train, was gone.

A store was located. Inside, I’d tell them about my predicament. At least I’d have no interruptions. Plans would have to be put in place. Services canceled. A call home from the store to alert the authorities. A new device order would be placed. Until then, I’d be a ghost amongst the living and the dead.

And the game would come. And go.

I’d sit in the stands next to an Angels fan, come to D.C. to see his team play. And I’d learn that the game had no bounds limited only to the Capital of Baseball. But by then (now) that moniker had been diluted ever since The Mick and Say Hey could be seen and heard. So many summers ago.

And then back to home, with a new phone, I’d get a call. It was the caddymaster.

A phone had been recovered. The last number dialed. Traced back to me, the phone had been turned in to the lost and found. The Metro authorities had it now. A good Samaritan.

And as I sit here tonight, putting these thoughts down, I could look at it, the phone, and see a scratch on its face and wonder what else too had been altered.

…”everybody’s doing something, I’ll do nothing…” to borrow a line from Seinfeld.

A blog about nothing? Why not?

I set up my first webcam conversation with an old friend last night. What a strange thing. There he was in Chicago and here I was in New Jersey. We talk fairly frequently, but to see him was something much different.

After 25 years, he’s still the same.

How is that?

How do you go 25 years without seeing someone only to have them remain the same?

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve come to appreciate what “friend” really means.

A dope rhyme has been loosely defined (by me) as a “sick style of rhyming.” And so…

“The ideals which have lighted my way, and time after time have given me new courage to face life cheerfully, have been Kindness, Beauty, and Truth. The trite subjects of human efforts, possessions, outward success, luxury have always seemed to me contemptible.” –Albert Einstein                           

Refreshing isn’t it, to see so many people only now clamoring for a return to service toward others. Now that the state of our nation’s collective health is deteriorating, everyone is having a mutual epiphany.

Yet what about the people who have been living with this mindset for their whole lives?

Nurses, firefighters, teachers, care providers, and other service-oriented people in this country (and around the world) already know this truth.

I was introduced to Jethro Tull in 1978.

Don’t ask me why I remember.

I just do.

Sitting on a chair waiting to see the principal, I was the new kid in town.

Mr. Allen wanted to meet me. “Wanna lay my eyes on a goddamn Yankee,” I heard him tell his secretary. What a warm, genuine man he was. A great kidder and totally laid back, he ran the school like a grandfather.

Ponte Vedra/Palm Valley School it was called. In Florida. The “land” side of A1A.

And on the chair next to me was another ninth grader. He too was waiting to see Mr. Allen. For different reasons. One look at him convinced me.

We made eye contact, me and this 15 year old Greg Allman, and I said “Hi.”

He sorted of grunted something I couldn’t quite make out. Holding up the little toy army soldier in his hand to show me, he repeated, “aqua-lung (said more like, ‘ag-wa-LUUUUUUUUNG’).” And then again, “aqualung…. look at my mother- $#&*@$# aqualung!”

And that was it.

I never saw him again.

But I did think of him today.

Thirty years later.

It’d be something neat if my life was some sort of interesting event after another. But it’s not. If there was some sense of meaning I could attach to things. Maybe it’s not like that.

Just a few minutes ago, I was staring out the kitchen window. Just staring. It’s snowing outside today. That’s all. Just snowing.

Trying to take a “snapshot” of my day. To hold on to. Maybe not.

I’m kind of running around the house trying to find something to do. What’s there to do?

I’m so used to “doing” things that not “doing” doesn’t seem to work very well.

“What did you do?” my kids will ask.

In golf, putting is the simplest stroke but the most difficult to master. As in life, the most powerful lessons are often the simple ones.

Simple but not easy.

That’s what I try to tell my students (and me).

Without a powerful “Why,” you cannot find yourself in this world. I know.

When I asked my mentor for help, he asked me, “What do you want to do?” Until I was able to clearly state the answer, I struggled mightily. And it took me a long time to uncover.

What is your “Why?”

Unless you have one, you’ll never understand putting.