Our Trials

            After spending a full day in a court room yesterday, it became eerily apparent to me that lady justice is blind, but she has good ears. With our adversarial type court room protocol and procedures, the attorneys for each side made their case and tried to make the other sound like a liar. Both sides claimed the moral high ground while denying their own fudging of the truth. Was the truth somewhere in the middle? Both sides told the same story, but somehow the teller always seemed to tell it in their favor.

            There was police car video…that we could see for ourselves. “Experts” came in with reams of documents and big charts—maybe they were just for the WOW factor. Direct examinations, cross examinations, re-direct and re-cross examinations: somehow we were to be impressed by the bombardment of redundancy. Rebuttals and rebuttals of rebuttals proved nothing. What we saw with our own eyes was contrary to what we were told. I guess it all depends on what the definition of “IS” is.

            There were 25 people in that court room yesterday, not including myself. Jurors, courtroom officials, defense team and defendant, prosecution, etc. Every one of them spent an entire day in that room listening to adults arguing over when this man had his last beer. Usually in Wisconsin the only beer arguments are either: Who gets the last one in the cooler? or Whose turn is it to buy the next round?  It was easy to see how 25 people could waste an entire day “seeking” justice because they were all getting paid somehow and they had plush chairs. As the lone observer, I had to keep going to feed the parking meter and sat on a hardwood pew for nine hours. My chiropractor appointment is now scheduled for Monday. If you don’t want company to get too comfy at your house, buy pews, not couches. They won’t stay long.

            The closing arguments started with the D.A. saying the defendant was guilty and the defense's arguments centered on just how innocent this man was. Is justice served when the truth is elusive, maybe? Was lunch served, no. This man’s guilt or innocence was irrelevant, as lady justice just hears which side can sell their lies more efficiently.

            Our trials in life are easier to define than our courtroom trials, which is a good thing, but either way it seems that I always need a chiropractor at the end of the day.

Buried Alive

It is easy these days to feel like you are being trampled under the weight and speed of daily life. It is a grind. It is repetitious. Many times the negatives are easier to focus on than the positives. The mailman must hate you because all he brings are bills and junk mail. Combining all of the things that bring you down can hinder any and all relationships that you have built.

            Sometimes it is necessary to take a step back, a moment unto ourselves, to remind us of the good around us that we cannot always focus on. I swear my son is the seed of the Devil, yet when he says that he loves me the stress level drops a tad. Turn on the news to hear of our troops dying. Turn off the news to remind yourself that those same troops are the reason we are free to blog. The economy is in the tank (I would like to extend a hearty bi-partisan Thank you to politicians), yet when I  know that my St. Louis Cardinals are still in the pennant race it all feels better for nine innings.

            Sometimes I think that the only truly free people in this country are in prison with life sentences. They have nothing left to lose and don’t face the risk of losing liberty if they act criminally again.

            Last weekend I took a step back, my moment to myself. The relief was needed. Yes, my bald dome is as red as a vine-ripened tomato, but the pain is a small price to pay for bliss. I went to an air show over Lake Michigan. I revived my identity as a veteran and an American. The grace and beauty of F-18’s and the Thunderbirds flying overhead sent chills down my spine. When the B1-B bomber flew over, I was immediately grateful for the fact that I was not a Taliban member. They never get to see them up close and then tell stories about it later on.

            Every mile I drove towards home put me one mile closer to the grind of life, the repetition, and the feeling of being buried alive. The opportunity to stare into the sky and dream allowed me to help regain my focus on the good things in life: relationships, my upcoming graduation, job prospects, and most importantly myself.

Don’t Wear Flip-Flops to the County Fair

Memories are made. Lessons are learned.

            Do we go to the county fair to people watch or to win things we would never consider buying at any other time or place? $5.00 for three darts and a small stuffed animal. You are always just $5.00 away from the next bigger animal. $20.00 gets you a toy that is bigger than your kid. People hawking junk and I can’t tell the kid no. $4.00 won my son two live goldfish. Wal-Mart then sold me $24.00 worth of gravel, fish food, a plastic plant, and a bowl. We do this for the memories, because we cannot come back to the joy of a three year boy’s face ever again.

            The smells of fried foods lure us in with their siren like aromas. You can put ANYTHING on a stick. You can deep fry ANYTHING. I will eat ANYTHING. Outdoor dining in its most primal fried form. For every dollar spent on carnival food I need one dollar worth of Zantac to kill the heartburn later that night. The prior year’s lesson is always conveniently forgotten.

            There was a tent full of starving barbers right next to a tent full of people with mullets. Some guy was selling cheap knock-offs of Slap Chop and Graty (I did not even think that was possible). Apparently fashion sense can go out the window for the fair. At times it felt as if we were surrounded by clowns. Please know your body, and then dress accordingly. This must be like a job fair to all the people in the sticks—the carnie lifestyle is actually a dream for some. We saw people that only brushed their side teeth. Maybe it was their yearly convention, or maybe this is the premiere toothless social event of the year. Excuse me sir, those are not VIP invitations to the fair, they are ride tickets and anyone can buy them . . . kind of like toothbrushes.

            I let my son ride on a Ferris Wheel that I was nervous just standing under. He ate food off of the ground. He wanted his picture taken next to a big “mud pie.” My quick “no” was followed by a fatherly definition of what road apples were and why the horse left them there. He ran around in the animal barns, almost like he was lost and was looking for a stall of his own. We saw family and the kids played like Mixed Martial Arts warriors for as long as they could hold their heads up.

            The place sounds like a bad dream, but deep down I think we all like the dust and grit in the air, the flashing lights, and the loud music. Will we return? You better believe it . . . every single year. Our memories were made and our bonds were strengthened, but from here on out we are going to wear real shoes. Our feet were black and crunchy after a few hours and left a ring in the tub when we got home (and put the fish in their new home).

            Lesson learned: Don’t wear flip-flops to the county fair.

Bald Guys Shouldn’t Drive Cars with Sunroofs

My three week break from school has been a blessing. It has given me time to do some things that just needed to be done: connect, disconnect, and reconnect. 

Passing three weeks with a three year old can be like a prison sentence, or an excellent opportunity to reminisce and pass on the fibers of what make you you.  We connected during trips of discovery to cultural, historic, and natural areas. We got to swim. We rode in boats. We went to an animal park (he was fascinated with the size of buffalo turds).  He showed me what he called “owwie flowers” –the rest of us know them as cacti. One night I even spent 40 minutes trying to answer his question of “Why does the moon keep following us?”

Getting away from school, the house and the regular “routines and rituals” of our everyday existence took us to many exciting places and put over one thousand miles on the truck in the process. Being able to water the plants, feed the birds, and just drive away is somewhat liberating. The bills will still be coming to the house, but we won’t be there to pick them up. It is nice to drop off of the grid and live without a schedule on occasion. It becomes easy to see why so many of us are on depression and anxiety medications . . . the lives we live are not really ours. We belong to bill collectors and a never ending pile of laundry.

On a daily basis we deal with dozens of people. Some are strangers, some are acquaintances, and a few we even consider friends. Then there are the people you can never see often enough, the people on the short list we keep of lifelong friends that help keep us grounded when we get too uppity and pick us up when we hurt. Aunts, Uncles, cousins, and friends I consider brothers were all seen during this break. Our conversations these days turn to kids and our heads may have more salt than pepper, but these are the people that we really know and trust. One young lady found that she can still make my heart dance and sizzle like bacon on a skillet just as it did for her twenty years ago. It was time to reconnect with “my people.”

These breaks also allow us to learn about things we may have missed the first time we experienced them. To remember that, when allowed to be, we are all just grown-up kids on the inside and that we all need to go out and play on occasion. There may be physical differences we need to keep in mind as we age and relive our youth. Tomorrow you will be sore. You may need to stop for a nap. Happy Hour is not when you get to watch cartoons.  And us bald guys should not drive cars with sunroofs

Karma Must Own Me.

My recent attempts at trying to reconcile with karma took a major step back this week. While gardening on Friday I killed an albino earwig. Apparently they are sacred. This beast was too special for the standard Sevin dust treatment. Hand-to-hand combat, man versus nature, his pinchers versus my hand shovel . . . only one of us was to walk away from this battle.

On Sunday, while putting the cover on my boat, one of the bungees came loose and hit me in both eyes. Forty minutes from town and with no cell service, I drove the truck and had a friend drive me to the E.R.

Lesson learned. Leave the albino earwigs alone. Kill all the brown ones you want. Kind of like buffalo.

The reason we all live in Wisconsin is upon us. Mosquitoes be damned. It is time to hang outside for the next ten weekends of glorious festivals, parades, and what we consider HOT weather. Boating, camping, beers, and brats. And Earwigs.

FIND THIS BOY A MOM

Jaded—no longer interested in something, often because of having been overexposed to it.

Narcissism—excessive self-admiration and self-centeredness.

One of the two, maybe a mixture of both. Either way it must be me, yet I always seem to keep trying. Doing the same things over and over again, but expecting different results. Is this not the very definition of insanity? There is only one heart in my chest, but it is covered in bruises. Fifty one days ago it happened again; I had my heart ripped out of my chest. Problem is my son loved her also. Is it possible that I only date sadists? I have lots of female friends; they just aren’t sadistic enough for me maybe.

In a few weeks a young lady I met over twenty years ago is coming up to visit Hunter and I. We have always been friends and I have had a crush on her since the day we met. Time, distance, and other relationships have kept us on good terms. Hopefully six days together will not ruin what we have; every time you lose a relationship of any sort you also lose a friend.

As we grow longer in the tooth and our hairs continue to gray (and fall out), my search continues. Wisdom seems to tell me to become jaded, as hurt always comes again. Ego tells me to become a narcissist; don’t let someone hurt you again. Raising a three year old by yourself makes you scream FIND THIS BOY A MOM!!

A House Full of Three Year Olds

While touring the La Crosse County Juvenile Justice Center a few weeks back, I got some disturbing news. The head administrator mentioned that on occasion, parents will bring in their unruly children and drop them off. Sounds like a daycare for naughty kids… perfect. They don’t take kids below the age of 10 is the problem. I have seven years to wait. He would love it there. Every meal is hot. Lots of friends, a Wii on a big screen TV, plus computers and snack time. Of course he doesn’t like breaking other people’s stuff—only mine.

It’s not that I don’t love him, but red headed three year olds are an extinct demographic in many parts of the world and for a good reason. There are many milestones in his life that we will celebrate, but the one I want to witness the most, ends with the words, “I now present to you the graduating class of 2026.”

Just this weekend I discovered the down side to successful potty training. You get to stop… a lot. We stopped at every single exit between Madison and La Crosse, including rest areas. After a while, I think it just became a game to him. Being a point A to point B guy who does not like to stop for anything, even bridge collapses, it occurred to me that the people that invented crack lived in a house full of three year olds.