There I sat, desperately trying to write a column — forcing myself to sit at the desk so I could work my way through some half-baked idea.
But tinkling through the air came a sound — music. A cacophony of bleeps and whistles, frenetic and super-charged.
A merry-go-round on speed.
It happens every year. EVERY doggone year. You think we would be wise to it by now. But we’re not, and don’t realize the error of our ways until the cool spring air starts to fizzle and the inferno that is Florida begins its scorching march across the land.
“Dad, am I going to get gonorrhea?” asked the attentive — too attentive! — girl at intermission. It’s not a question a father expects to hear from his 5-year-old daughter. I choked on a gulp of air as I considered “appropriate” answers. Because, “You’ll never be around boys! NEVER! NEVER! NEVER!!!” is not an appropriate answer. Thanks, Broadway!
Last week I was worrying about traveling with two college students to a Society of Professional Journalists conference in Birmingham, Ala. We went to pick up several awards for the college newspaper they work on and that I advise. Certainly it was a proud moment for all of us, and we had a good time. Most importantly, I survived it all. The roof of the Southwest jet we flew didn’t pop open like a convertible, and there was no ill-advised joking in the security line that resulted in a body-cavity search of yours truly. Hooray for that.
Things I fear — right now! — as you read this. Because I’m stepping on an airplane with two college students. We’re venturing off to Birmingham, Ala., for a Society of Professional Journalists Conference. They’re not professionals yet, but they’re the co-editors of the college newspaper I advise. They’re also up for a couple of awards — nice, important ones — and we’re going to collect them. But that means traveling together. Journeying afar. Getting on a plane, riding in a taxi, staying in a hotel, eating food, spending quality time together, etc., etc., etc.
Maybe it was coincidence. That fat raccoon out by the street, sifting through the recycling bin. He stopped when he caught me peering at him before scooting off into the night. Fat little fella’. I haven’t seen a raccoon in ages. Not since my wife almost ran one over on her bike. But that’s been a while, and here this one turned up on a special night — my wedding anniversary.
There really is only one reason to run: A poorly fed tiger is in pursuit of your hindquarters. That right there is a damn good reason. Also, maybe a flood. Or if you’re on fire (although it’s actually better to stop, drop and roll, unless, of course, the tiger is behind you. In which case, just keep running!) But truth be told, I can think of very few reasons — logical, good, rational reasons — to go out and pound the pavement. To wear those short running shorts. To get blisters. To hear endless people shout out their car windows, “Run, Forrest, Run!” To put one foot in front of the other for hundreds, if not thousands, of steps so you can get from point A to point B. And I say all of this as a runner myself. As someone who loves — yes, loves — to run. But someone who also can’t quite figure out why in the world he does it.
The “wiggle” has arrived at my house. You know … the wiggle. The toothquake. The shimmy-shimmy in the mouth. The flapping, shaking, waving dance of the first tooth about to sprout wings and fly. My daughter, 5 years old, has her first loose tooth. It’s flapping about like a little rocking chair, and I’m quaking a bit myself. It was quite a discovery. She mentioned it while climbing into bed one night. My wife, dubious, had to investigate. It seemed perfectly outrageous and entirely impossible. Not our child. Not this soon. Not a chance. No way. And then … “AHHHHHH!”
I just turned 38 years old. In my mind, it’s a big age — a whopper! It’s one of those “gettin’ up there” ages, and pretty darn close to 40. Not to mention, it’s a big kid age. A milestone of sorts — one that signals I’m truly an adult (there’s really no point in denying it anymore). As such, I feel like there are certain things I should have accomplished by now, so the other night I made a list. So here it is … Things I should have done by 38 (but haven’t): • Written a perfectly awful novel that has no hope of ever being published — I thought for sure I would have two stinkers collecting dust by now, but it seems I’ve failed at failing this one. Which is a shame because I have some really terrible story ideas just waiting to never bore anyone to pieces. One would be titled, “Bacon fat and onion gravy” … it’s the story of a young Canadian whose only dream in life is to come to the South and learn how to cook in a greasy spoon diner. That’s the whole story right there.
Oh, it sure took me back. All the hacking and wheezing. The cracking coughs that sounded like out-of-balance cement trucks tumbling blocks of granite. The heavy feeling in my chest like somebody was standing on my rib cage. No, like someone had taken up residence in my lungs. Maybe moths. Maybe squirrels. Clogging up my bronchial tubes, fluttering about, making me cough horrible, painful coughs. Good memories of childhood, it was. My daughter has bronchitis, and after two weeks of sounding like Barry White and beginning conversations with, “My darling I … HACK! HACK! WHEEZ! WHEEZ! (pound on chest),” I decided to go see the doctor myself. I hate admitting defeat, and that I can’t cure a cold with OJ and sheer willpower.