The Arbor Master

One summer, I got a job at the Houston Arboretum, helping to take care of the trails. It was by far the best job I’ve ever had. Although, my grandmother would be quick to point out that it wasn’t a job, because I didn’t get paid. So, I guess it was the best unpaid internship that I’ve ever had.

I was paired up with the park caretaker to do pretty much anything he asked. We hit it off right away. He worked me hard, and I was exhausted when my shift was finally over. But in return, he taught me about the trees and plants, and I absorbed it like a sponge. I loved learning, and I still remember most of what he taught me to this day, some 27 years later.

The only downside was the poison ivy that ran rampant throughout the place. And since our job was to clear brush, repair or make trails, and cultivate plant health; we were constantly in the thick of it. I didn’t actually know that I was highly allergic to poison ivy until I worked there. One brush with the plant’s oil, and I’d break out into severe blisters. But I didn’t let it stop me from going back, even though I contracted poison ivy three separate times that summer.

But it was all worth it. It was the best experience, and if I were to describe my ideal job at the time, that was it. A seemingly endless forest to hike and explore. No signs of the city anywhere. Just peace, nature, and God. I considered that as a viable career choice, but the pay, even for the caretaker, was atrocious. I guess people like enjoying nature, but they don’t want to pay someone to take care of it for them.

Sox

I used to bowl. Not very often and not particularly well, but enough that my mom and stepdad decided to get me a personalized ball. And when they asked me what nickname I wanted on it, I was stumped. My stepdad had always been “Hondo,” because he was a huge John Wayne fan. My mom was “Boots,” because she was a country girl at heart, and my stepdad had met her at a country bar. I hadn’t yet developed my computer gaming persona of “Cyclops,” so I wasn’t sure what to pick. But we were at the bowling shop, and everyone was waiting on me, so I went with the first thing I could think of.

I always used to wear this black White Sox hat. It was back years ago when they had revamped their logo to the much cooler version you see today, and everyone was sporting their gear. I loved that hat. I wore it everywhere. That was back when I actually wore hats. And so, I looked down at the hat, and I read what was written across it, and that’s what became my bowling nickname. Sox.

Kissing a Fish

The last time I went fishing was when I was about 18 years old. My father and stepmother had taken my girlfriend and I to Corpus Christi for a mini beach vacation. That was the official position, but really, it was because my father wanted to go fishing. I had never enjoyed fishing, mostly because I lacked the patience and ability to sit still long enough to wait for a fish to commit suicide on my hook. I got restless, and I wanted to move. I got bored sitting alone, not talking or doing anything for hours on end…which is why I convinced them to let me take my girlfriend.

The morning we were suppose to go fishing, we got up at 4:00 a.m., so we could be at the pier by 5:00 a.m. and grab a “primo” spot. I forgot to mention that I’m also not a morning person or getting up before the sun. It was pitch black when we trudged out on the pier to claim our spots, my dad and stepmother on one side, and my girlfriend and I on the other. We had to use flashlights to see what we were doing. When we were all set, I cast off into the murky darkness and waited…and waited…and waited. The first rays of sunlight started to creep up over the horizon, and still we waited. I watched the sunrise, and my girlfriend slept in her chair.

Finally, I felt a tug on my line. I set the hook and reeled in my prize. Which ended up being a very angry crab. After fighting him off the hook and dropping him back in the water, I cast off again. I didn’t have to wait as long before I snagged something else, but it was only a giant glob of seaweed. Then I cast a third time, and this time, I hit gold…well, sort of a gold and blue with black cross stripes.

I had caught a small pinfish. Too small to keep, but large enough to fill my hand. And as I looked into the scared eyes of that fish, I was overcome by a strange emotion. To this day, I can’t explain it or what possessed me to do what I did next.

I kissed that fish right on his puckered lips…and he kissed me back.

Bucket List

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about my own mortality and the shortness of our existence. I realize how fleeting time is and how we shouldn’t wait to experience life. So, I decided to make a bucket list of things I want to do before I die. Sadly, I only had four things on it. But it was a start.

Today, we went to some friends house for a play date. It was the first time we’d been to their house, and we were surprised to find out that they had a pond behind their house with ducks. Apparently, when they moved in, there weren’t any ducks in the area, and the woman’s mother had decided that they needed some. So, she went to a duck farm (I didn’t even know that they had such a thing) and adopted some large black and white ducks. They had thrived on their little pond, mostly because the woman’s mother had taken to feeding them every day, and now there were twice as many as they’d started with.

So, we got a scoop of food and knelt down to wait for the flock to arrive. And arrive they did. Within moments, ducks were flying and waddling toward us. They were so calm that they’d eat right out of your hand. And while they ate, they’d let you pet them.

Now, I have never had an urge to pet a duck before, but once I realized it was an option, it was all I wanted to do. So, I fed them and pet them. I…touched…a…duck! I immediately pulled out my bucket list, added “touch a duck” to it, and checked it off! Next up, take a picture with a quokka.

Talks Only With Permission

When I was in elementary school, we would get a report card every six weeks that tracked our progress in each subject. In addition, there were other categories off to the side that would track behavioral development. Things like “Follows Instructions” or “Excessively Tardy.”

I did okay with the grades, passing at least. But the reason my parents would always get pulled into a conference was due to behavioral issues. In the category of “Talks Only with Permission,” I always got a “Needs Improvement.” It wasn’t so much that I talked all the time, which I did. It was why I was talking. I would leave my chair and walk around the room, helping all of the other kids with their tests and assignments.

I guess even then I had a teacher inside me. And I also suspect the teacher was a little jealous because I was better at her job than she was!

The Legacy of Doc Savage

I was in Denton having lunch with a friend today, and I decided to stop by the Recycled Books bookstore, which is located in the former Wright’s Opera House. I like to pop in whenever I’m on the town square to see if they’ve gotten any “new” books. For the last 25 years, I’ve been searching for Doc Savage books to complete my collection.

My stepfather introduced me to the series from the 1930s about a team of do-gooder adventurers when I was in high school. Apparently, he grew up reading them, and he was excited to find them again. Over the years, it sort of became our thing together. Whenever I’d go to a used bookstore, I’d try to find books to add to his collection. I’d surprise him on Christmases and birthdays with random finds, and he was always excited. With close to 130 books, it seemed a daunting task to ever find them all, but I never gave up hope.

When my stepfather passed away 10 years ago, my mother asked me if there was anything of his that I wanted. The only thing I asked for was his collection of Doc Savage books. They were precious to him, and I felt invested in them as well. It was the best thing I could think of to carry on his memory. Over the years, I have continued to build on the collection whenever I could find additional books. I always dreamed that one day I’d pass along the legacy to my son, and he’d continue the treasure hunt.

Well today, I found a treasure trove! I found 35 additional books that I didn’t have. Apparently, someone had brought in a large collection of the books just last week, and I was fortunate enough to find them before anyone else. Now, I’m only 23 books shy of finishing the journey I started so long ago. So close to fulfilling my stepfather’s legacy. I wish he was here to see it now, to see what it’s turned into. I don’t think either of us ever imagined we’d get this far. There’s still more to find, but the end is definitely in sight. I still intend to pass this legacy to my son. I just hope he appreciates its value as much I do.

The Bone Bruise

So, I got the results from the MRI on my knee today. Apparently, I have a contusion, which is a bruise…on a bone. Leave it to me to do something strange like that. That I only had a contusion and not a broken bone or torn ligament was the good news. The bad news was where I managed to bruise the bone. I hit it right on the ball joint of the femur, exactly where it meets the tibia. So, every time I extend my leg, the two bones come together and hit the bruise. This is why it’s so painful. It also means it’s going to take a very long time to heal. The doctor said a minimum of three months, and only if I refrain from any sort of high impact activities, like running and jumping. I’m currently at six weeks, but honestly I’ve been running around with my son on occasion, so I’ve probably made it worse. Slowing down is going to be very hard for me.

The MRI

After a month of unsuccessfully trying to rehab my knee on my own, I finally went to see an orthopedist yesterday. The good news was that I don’t have any broken bones or a dislocated knee cap. After jerking my knee in several different directions, the doctor was very confident that I also didn’t have any torn ligaments, but he wanted an MRI to confirm.

So today, I went to have an MRI. This was my first experience with an MRI that didn’t involve TV, and I had no idea what to expect. Since it was my knee, they didn’t make me change clothes or anything. I just had to remove everything from my pockets and take off my belt. In hindsight, I probably should have worn sweat pants or something, but I thought shorts might give easier access to my knee. The technician didn’t seem to think there was any issue with the giant magnet ripping my zipper off my pants, so I was okay with it too.

Generally speaking, I’m a relatively calm person. I don’t tend to fidget or need a constant physical outlet like some people. But when someone tells you that you can’t move, then all you want to do is move. So, I was stressing about trying to keep my knee perfectly still. And the more I tried not to move, the more my knee would spasm uncontrollably. So, I started to panic that I was going to screw up the imaging.

I was trying to determine the acceptable movement delta that surely had been calibrated into the machine, because nobody could be perfectly still for 20 minutes. Then, I was trying to determine if I’d exceeded that threshold. This was becoming so mentally exhausting that I eventually dozed off. But when I realized that I had dozed off, I jolted awake with a start. Then, I started to panic that my jolt had exceeded the threshold and started all over again.

While I was dozing, I was consciously aware of the giant magnetic field surrounding my body. I could feel it reverberating across my skin and moving the hairs on my legs. I started to imagine that I was being affected by the field and that it was changing me, imbuing me with superpowers. I dreamed that I was Spider-Man, which is when I woke up.

Then, I started to wonder if I really would get superpowers from this like a bionic leg or something. On one hand it would be cool to be able to run faster and jump higher. On the other hand, it would be inconvenient to only have it on one leg. I imagined myself running in circles because the “normal” leg couldn’t keep up with my new bionic leg. Or trying to jump, only to end up going sideways.

With that, the time just flew by. Twenty minutes seemed more like five. I entertained myself with my overactive imagination. And this is precisely why I shouldn’t be left alone with my thoughts for too long. And in case anyone was wondering, no I didn’t get a bionic leg.

Erasing the Music Teacher

I have one memory from the second grade. That’s it; a single memory. And that was of getting into trouble for hitting a teacher with a chalk eraser. Now, before you go siding with the teacher against a mischievous youth, you have to hear the whole story.

Mr. Barckholtz was our music teacher. He was also a bully and physically abusive. But this was in the ‘80s, and back then teachers had supreme power to do whatever they wanted. He would never have gotten away with his antics nowadays. Anyway, he used to torture his students for his own amusement. He picked up my friend and threw him in a trash can for getting an answer wrong, or made up cruel nicknames for kids based on their name…things like that.

One day, when I walked up to the front of the room to turn in my quiz, he grabbed my arm and twisted it painfully behind my back. He asked me something, which I got wrong, so he held me like that, while he asked the wide-eyed, stunned class the same question. When nobody volunteered an answer, he refused to let me go. As I stood there humiliated and in pain, I searched for a solution.

There resting on a tray in front of me was a chalk eraser, full of chalk. Without thinking, I grabbed the eraser, twisted out of his grip, and whacked him in the head with it. He had a rectangular mark in his hair, and a cloud of white particles floated around him. At first he was just stunned, but all too quickly he became furious. He sent me to sit in the ledge outside the classroom and wait for my punishment.

While I sat there half in terror for the unfair punishment to come and half in mirth at the absurdity of the situation, my home room teacher Mrs. Commodo came walking up and asked me why I was sitting there. I relayed the entire story to her, and she told me that I shouldn’t have disrespected a teacher no matter what he did to me.

So, I ultimately got sent to the principal’s office, and nothing happened to him. When my mom found out, she was furious and demanded a meeting with the principal. She tore him a new one for letting that teacher do that to children. It must have had some effect, because Mr. Barckholtz never touched another student. But he also never missed an opportunity to take out his anger on me. And unfortunately, a few years later, he became my eighth grade homeroom teacher. So, he had a lot more opportunities to harass me after that.

The most ironic thing is that I only had a run-in with one other teacher at that school. The woman who made me pee in my pants in kindergarten, who later became my third grade teacher. And that woman was Mrs. Barckholtz, his wife. Nastiness must have run in the family.

Layers of Anticipation

When I was in high school, I used to wear a pair of shorts under my jeans or jean shorts. This pair of shorts was like athletic wear, and at any time, I could Magic Mike my outer pants off and be able to engage in an impromptu game of basketball or a romp in the park. I had to buy bigger outer pants to accommodate the extra clothing, and it wasn’t always the coolest option, temperature-wise. But I was faithful to this style well into college as well.

I’m not exactly sure why I started doing this, I think this originated from when I was on the soccer team, and I didn’t want to have to worry about changing in front of people. But it proved useful in a multitude of situations where one might need a change of clothing at a moment’s notice. It was like my own version of a secret superhero costume under my “normal” clothes. When I needed my superpowers, I’d run into a phone booth…or whatever was on hand…and assume a new identity. Instead of skinny, nerdy kid in street clothes, I was skinny, nerdy kid in athletic wear!

Stress-Induced Anxiety

Today, I had an appointment at urgent care. Over the weekend, my wrist started to hurt, and the pain started to get worse as time went on. At first, I thought it was just a sprain, but when it kept getting worse, I started to get worried that maybe I’d somehow managed to fracture it. Perhaps it was just paranoia due to the fact that my son had recently broken his wrist, but I felt it was better to know and put me out of my suffering. What I didn’t expect to happen was to leave the urgent care in an ambulance…well, almost.

I have a psychological disorder called stress-induced anxiety. It’s actually pretty common, inflicting about 40% of the population. Most people have minor symptoms, like an upset stomach before going on stage in front of lots of people (butterflies in your stomach). While others have symptoms so severe that they will avoid situations altogether, like white coat syndrome, where people will actively avoid getting medical care due to a fear of doctors. I’m not that extreme. I won’t avoid getting medical care, but something about the experience definitely sets me off.

What happens is that I get so worked up that eventually my blood pressure drops suddenly and extensively, causing me to black out for a minute. It’s like my body senses an issue and shuts down to analyze the problem and reboot the system. To me it feels like a black mist enveloping me, and when it completely covers my face, I’m gone. I usually wake to someone shaking or slapping me, and it feels like I’m being pulled out of a deep, refreshing sleep. I know that I’m dreaming, but due to the violent nature that I’m awoken, I can never remember about what. Most times, it’s just embarrassing, but occasionally, like on this day, I sustain injuries as well.

And I can’t tell you a pattern as to when it might happen, because it doesn’t happen every time I go to the doctor. It also doesn’t happen at the sight of blood, as many people erroneously seem to think. It doesn’t even solely happen at a normal doctor. I had an episode at the optometrist once when he dilated my pupils. In fact, it also has an empathetic nature, where I can be triggered by someone else’s pain. The other unusual incidents are when nothing physically is happening at all. Someone can just be describing a medical procedure or something they had done to them, and I’ll feel the “change” starting to happen.

Which is sort of what happened today. After examining my hand, the PA was telling me what he thought it could likely be, and I blacked out. The bad part was that I was sitting on an examine table at the time, leaning forward. I apparently fell right into the surprised PA’s arms. Thank God that it was a man who was sort of strong enough to catch my weight and lower me to the floor. I say “sort of” because I sustained injuries before or as he caught me.

You see, they had pulled out the footrest on the examine table for my feet. So, as I fell, my legs slammed into the footrest, catching the corners on my knees and then raking down my shins as I slid off. It wasn’t until I was leaving that I realized the extreme pain that this incident caused. And that was because I was a little distracted by the after effects of blacking out.

I woke up laying on the floor, surrounded by four extra people that hadn’t been there before. At first I was confused, but then I had a sinking feeling that I’d gone through “the change.” It’s funny, because to me it reminds me of one of those werewolf movies, where the guy wakes up in the woods, covered in blood and no idea how he got there. Then, he realizes that he must have transformed again. So, there I am laying on the floor, calmly realizing that I must have blacked out, confirmed by a different PA telling me that I just blacked out, trying to regain focus on reality. And this is when the series of stupid things starts to happen.

The first stupid thing was when the second PA, we shall call him “the moron” from here on out, suggested that they lift me up into the chair instead of leaving me on the floor. I was already dizzy and my stomach was churning, so the sudden motion of putting me into a chair exacerbated the situation. The second stupid thing was the fact that the moron kept telling me over and over again that I had passed out and drilling me with questions about my past history with this, and what I’d eaten that morning, etc. instead giving me a few minutes to recover first. The third stupid thing was when I told them that I needed to lie down, and the moron said that he didn’t want to move me yet. So, I had another anxiety attack and blacked out again.

This time they were able to catch me and keep me in the chair. I guess the moron felt like I’d be better laying on the examine table than sitting in a chair (ya think?!), so he and the first PA, we shall call him “chicken little” from here on out, helped me to the table. And that is when the fourth stupid thing happened. Chicken little told me that I looked like I was having a seizure when I had blacked out the first time. I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that I can almost guarantee that nobody looks graceful unconsciously falling off a table. I’m sure that my uncontrolled everything where probably doing whatever they felt like doing in the dance with gravity. But when I told him that I didn’t have seizures, and that I’d never had a seizure in my life, the moron, who wasn’t even present at the time, started insisting that I had. He didn’t want me to drive home because I could have another seizure on the road. So, he wanted to call an ambulance to take me to the hospital. While trying to convince him that I wasn’t having seizures, I blacked out again.

So, you see, they kept inducing my blackouts by continuing to rile me up and stress me out instead of calming down the situation and resetting things. After the third blackout, they called 911. The fire department EMTs showed up a few minutes later, and now there were eight people in the room. So, for someone that doesn’t like performing in front of an audience, I was suddenly on stage for one! But to their credit, these guys actually seemed more capable than the moron and chicken little.

One of them checked my blood pressure while another checked my glucose levels. A third guy calmly talked me through things, placing a reassuring hand on my shoulder and asking how I was feeling (something that nobody else had thought to do). Only after he’d successfully calmed me down and gotten me a bottle of water did he start asking me questions. And that’s when chicken little started in with the seizure comments again (I swear this guy must have been doing medical research on seizures or something). The EMT asked if I had a history of seizures, to which I replied “No,” and he was satisfied that it wasn’t a seizure. Chicken little got so disgusted with this that he promptly left the room.

And that’s when the first intelligent thing happened. The EMT asked me if I had white coat syndrome. When I affirmed this, which I had told the moron and chicken little THREE times but they ignored it in lieu of seizures, he knowingly started asking me if I had a history of this. I told him that I did, but hadn’t had an incident in five years, and he concluded that I was having a severe anxiety attack. My other vitals were fine, so he told me that it was up to me to choose to go to the hospital or not. So, I chose to go home. The moron got so disgusted with this that he promptly left the room.

I profusely thanked each and every one of the EMTs for coming all this way to check on me, and they left. Alone at last, I lay on the bed drinking my water before calling my wife to recount this bizarre incident. It was at this point that I realized that my knee was throbbing. I looked down to see blood coagulating on my shin. But after the stupidity I had seen on display today, I didn’t want them providing me with any other “care.” So, I limped to my car to go home to ice my knee. It was the first time I’d ever gone to a doctor and came out more injured than when I went in. And I had a $75 copay on top of that, so it was the gift that kept on giving!

Red Means Go

I was sitting at a stoplight this morning with my son, and I suddenly had a flashback to a similar memory with my brother. We had just left my mom’s house, heading back to my dad’s, probably around some holiday. It was just the two of us in the car. As I pulled up to the stoplight, it turned red. I slowed the car to a stop, looked around, and then inexplicably pushed the gas and drove right through the intersection.

The weird thing is that the reality of the situation didn’t sink in until my brother calmly looked over at me and said, “You just ran that red light.” He wasn’t surprised or freaked out. It was like this sort of thing happened to him all the time. Thank God nobody was coming through the intersection at the time. But when I think back on this memory, I still laugh that I did something so stupid and remembering my brother’s reaction.

The Tongue of Concentration

For as long as I can remember, I’ve always stuck my tongue out during moments of intense concentration. I don’t even notice, it’s subconscious. When doing artwork, putting a puzzle together, writing code, repairing a robotic snake…no matter the task, if my brain is fully engaged, then my tongue will be sticking out. I call it the “tongue of concentration.”

Unfortunately, I caught myself doing it today as I weed-eated…weed-ate…whatever, the backyard. What brought it to my attention was when a piece of freshly-cut grass landed on my outstretched tongue. So, not only was I thinking too hard about a mostly trivial task, but I realized that the tongue of concentration is not appropriate for every situation.

Masquerade Murder

My spousal unit and I decided to go out on a date night tonight. It was our first date since…well…I guess since about three years ago. Our community was doing a murder mystery / dinner masquerade for couples, and we signed up. I’d been very much looking forward to it. I’d spent weeks planning my outfit and trying to find the perfect mask, and my spousal unit had even bought a new dress (mostly because I insisted that she couldn’t go in her usual black pants). My mom came up to watch Troy for us, and off we went.

We chose a table with only one other couple, two lovely lesbian women named Sasha and Sarah, who ended up being a lot of fun. The event itself was not managed very well, as they tried to do the dinner simultaneously with the murder mystery. So, we found ourselves trying to scarf down food, while also running around and gathering clues. I also realized that you have to have a certain sort of outgoing personality to walk up to complete strangers and question them like suspects. It also doesn’t help if the people are dry and not forthcoming with information. Sasha was selected to play one of the suspects, the vengeful maid…, and I was selected as one of the bachelors.

Essentially, three bachelors were chosen to either get rich, marry a celebrity, or die. It was a game of Russian Roulette, except the decision wasn’t by chance…it was entirely in the hands of our fellow banquet goers. Each man was given a chance to explain what they’d do with the money if they were chosen to get rich. The first said he’d buy a house for his family, noble but not aligned to the hearts of the greedy, selfish crowd with his fate in their hands. The second said he’d buy a boat, better but still not big enough. I said I’d buy my own private island, which was met with cheers and applause. This was more like it! Ultimately, I was voted almost unanimously to get rich, but my glory was short-lived as the host of the party was murdered instead of one of the bachelors. And this is how the murder mystery started.

In the end, we didn’t successfully solve the mystery, but neither did anyone else. We did win the award for Best Detectives of the Night for asking the most and best questions. Although that was entirely because of Sasha and my spousal unit. I was tripped up by not knowing that I could ask more than one question at a time, so I never really learned anything useful. It was also extremely chaotic with the number of people and the frequent interruptions by the “detective.” But we had a good time, and it was good to get away and do something for just the two of us.

Flying Tacos

When I lived in Missouri, I used to drive back to Texas occasionally to visit my family. It was about a 16-hour drive, and there were several routes I could take. My favorite was down through Arkansas, because it had the prettiest scenery. The shortest was through Oklahoma, but it was also the most boring, because there was nothing to see. Someone recommended that I try heading over to Kansas before heading down, so on one visit, I tried that route. Big mistake! It was just as boring as the Oklahoma route, but also longer. But that’s not the point of this story.

During my trip, I got hungry and pulled over at a Taco Bell to get some portable lunch. (This, of course, was back when I could actually digest and process Taco Bell without turning into Mt. Vesuvius for the next three days.) So, as I drove on down the road, being lulled to sleep by grasslands and cows for as far as the eye could see, I grabbed one of my soft tacos and started unwrapping it. I liked to wrap the paper around the bottom like a diaper to catch any particulates that might fall out of the taco. I got my taco ready and looked up to see no road in front of me.

I was on a slightly raised portion of the highway, and the green fields were spread out below me. My car was pointed at one of these fields about to launch off the highway and go flying over the barbed wire fence. A disinterested black cow was standing on the other side of the fence, munching on some grass, watching my car barreling straight at her. As she realized that I was not swerving to follow the highway as it curves off to the left, she became much more interested. Her mouth stopped mid chew, and the wet, half-chewed grass dropped from her gaping mouth.

Realizing that I was about to die in Kansas of all places, and take this poor cow with me, I threw my soft taco across the car, grabbed the wheel, and jerked it to the left. My car responded, and I skidded along the gravel shoulder, my tires just kissing the grass along the edge. By the grace of God, I managed to get back onto the highway. I pulled over a mile up the road and collected the remnants of my taco from the floorboard and tried unsuccessfully to put it back together again.

I never went that route again. Mostly because I couldn’t bear to face that cow again. Her dark, judgmental eyes still haunt my dreams. I wonder now if I might have cleared that fence (and the cow) and landed safely on the other side. I’m not sure what I would have done at that point if I had. I guess I could have driven across the field to the farmhouse and tried somehow to explain what happened. Logically, it would make sense for someone not to believe such a far fetched story. But the fact that I was miraculously in their field would have been irrefutable proof. Well that, and the taco. We can’t forget the taco.

Puzzle Trash-Talking

My mom came up for the long weekend, and we pulled out a puzzle to fill the gaps in between playing with my son. We’ve been puzzling together for years now, pushing ourselves to finish a ridiculously difficult puzzle in a very short timeframe. Each time, we’ll both say that we won’t make it, but we always do…even though sometimes it comes down to the wire.

We have a system that works well for us. She starts on the edges, while I pick the hardest part of the puzzle…the sky, the ocean, the grass…and try to knock it out. I learned long ago that most people will save the hard part for last, because they’re intimidated by it. They’re hoping that they’ll have eliminated enough pieces beforehand to have a running start at the hard part. I prefer to face it head on.

Truth be told, I’m weird when it comes to puzzles. If I’m working alone, I won’t put the edges on until the very end. I like the challenge of the free-form chaos, forcing you to beat the puzzle on equal terms.

After she finishes the edge, my mom will pick some other, easily-identifiable part…a castle, or colorful canopy, or people…to work on. She’ll patiently pick away at it, making slow progress, while I am wiping out the hardest and, often times, largest section of the puzzle. When I’m done, I’ll move on to the second hardest part…the trees, or bushes, or something else equally uniform in color.

In my pretend cockiness, I’ll trash-talk my mom at how much more progress I’m making than her. And she’ll dish it right back, saying something like, “You wouldn’t have been able to do that, if I hadn’t grouped all the pieces together for you.” It’s all good-natured fun, and it helps pass the time and make our time more interesting.

Besides, the real race happens when I finish my two large sections, and we layer in my mom’s contribution. My mom excels at filling in the one-off gaps, and she’s constantly finding the exact piece I’ve been looking for for the last ten minutes. She makes up a lot of ground quickly, and this is a major reason why we’re able to squeak by at the eleventh hour.

I love these puzzle sessions with my mom. I’ve been fortunate enough to have done dozens and dozens of puzzle with her through the years, and I always miss it when we don’t get to do one.

The Jeanie Rub

When I was growing up, my father had an electric back massager called the “Jeanie Rub.” He’d gotten it soon after he’d been in a car accident and hurt his back. The engine on this thing was so powerful and rough that it was like getting a massage from a jackhammer! You even had to hold it with two hands or you'd lose control of the thing. Your entire body would shake like the thing was trying to tear you to bits. I’d be flexing my muscles so hard to withstand the torture that I’d end up more tense than when I started.

Needless to say, it was not a relaxing experience. In fact, my father was the only one that could stand it. But it was the only massager in the house. So, if your back hurt, it was damned if you do, damned if you don’t. Pick your poison and hope you survive.

Never Got Over It

While talking to CC today, I was reminded of two things that my mom always used to say to me. Both were equal parts frustrating, and to be honest, they’re still maddening to this day.

One day, I got in trouble for something. For what, I don’t remember, but that’s not relevant to the story. It’s safe to assume, though, that I was innocent of whatever I was being accused of. When my mom started getting onto me about it, I asked, “What did I do?!”

To which she replied, “You know what you did!”

“Actually I don’t, which is why I’m asking.”

Losing what shred of patience she had left, she exclaimed, “Well, you can go to your room and think about what you did!”

As I trudged into my room, I had no idea what I did. An hour later when she came to release me, I still had no clue. Thirty-five years later, I still have no clue. I am not sure she knows or knew.

On another occasion, I was trying to write a paper for school, and I was struggling with the spelling of a word. I went and asked my mom how to spell it, and she replied, “Look it up in the dictionary.”

I believe my smart aleck reply was, “How can I look it up in the dictionary, if I don’t know how to spell it? Perhaps you don’t know how to spell it either, and you’re trying to cover it up with that stupid response.”

On second thought, I now remember why I got in trouble and was sent to my room.

Braces

I got braces for my teeth on Halloween day when I was in the seventh grade. To commemorate the occasion, I had the dentist put orange and black bands around the metal fasteners attached to my teeth. It would be the first of many color changes over the next two years. Red and green for Christmas. Red, white, and blue for the 4th of July. Brown and orange for Thanksgiving.

But my go to color combination for all other occasions was blue and white. I don’t know why, but that was always my favorite. Fascinating that years later I would marry a woman from Greece, whose flag is blue and white.

Greatness

I dated the same girl through half of high school and most of college. The thing I liked the most about her was how she liked to play and have fun with me. She would try anything I liked to do, including wrestling with me. It wasn’t so much a true fight for me, as I used the act to mostly flirt with her. I would pin her down and kiss her or say lascivious things in her ear.

When she really got stuck, the only way I’d release her was if she said the magic and slightly demeaning pass phrase, “I accede to your greatness.” She hated saying this so much that she’d fight with all her strength and wiles to avoid finally admitting that she was at my mercy. I would smile and torture her until she said it, while she struggled against my hold. It wasn’t only that I was bigger and stronger, which I was, but that I was really good at maneuvering her into the hold that I wanted.

In all the years that we played this dance of strength and strategy, she only beat me once. Mostly because I was so caught off guard by how attractive and seductive everything about her was that I couldn’t focus. But you have to believe that she didn’t waste the opportunity to sit on top of me (which I didn’t mind so much) and force me under duress to say the phrase (which I greatly minded). After that, no matter how many times I beat her, she never let me forget that one time that I lost.