My 2nd Cousin Mike

The other day one of my sisters ran into my 2^nd cousin Mike. She told me that he is still living in town and is healthy. I’ve got to say that the mere thought of Mike brings back all kinds of thoughts and memories. Too many, really.

Mike’s family used to live near my family back when I was a kid, many decades ago. He is the son of an actual cousin, and we share the same last name, which proved to be a mixed blessing, at best. Mike is about four years older than me. His family lived on one side of the school zone, my family lived on the other. Though he lived fairly close-by, I have met Mike only about a half a dozen times in my life.

I got to know him, or rather his legend, when I was going through school. Along my scholastic travels, a handful of teachers remembered Mike when I showed up to class several years after Mike’s departure. He was a great boy, it was declared unanimously. I was informed by one or two of the men teachers that Mike was one rugged lad. In high school, where Mike played baseball, I was edified as to Mike’s incredible athletic ability, his grit and gumption. My 2^nd cousin was a real gamer, apparently. I was told by the women teachers that Mike was polite and courteous, not to mention good-looking. I clearly recall Mrs. Henle describing Mike as “a very handsome young man”.

I first met Mike in person at a family get-together when I was barely more than a toddler. I remember little more than he was this friendly boy who occupied the time of my sisters and me while the grown-ups played with the charcoal grill and drank beer. One of the last times I met Mike was right about his time of graduation from high school. He was 18 and to me he seemed pretty much like a fully-matured man, which was understandable since I was a goofy kid of 12 or 13 at the time.

Though a teenager, somehow Mike came to own a fairly new red, convertible, Dodge Dart. I think it may have been a graduation present. Our family came by to visit and Mike gave my sisters and me a ride around the neighborhood in his shiny automobile. I recall that it was a warm day and the Dart’s top was down. Yeah, there I was, riding around in the car driven by my bigshot 2^nd cousin Mike. I was hoping some pretty female classmate of mine might happen to see me in the company of this Herculean figure. No such luck, of course.

The next time I saw Mike three decades had passed. On that occasion my uncle -Mike’s grandfather- had recently died. I could not get to the funeral but I was able to make it to the cemetery for the graveside service. I arrived a little early and the only people there were one of my sisters and a few strangers. My sister informed me that Mike was due to show up at any time. A flood of nervous anticipation swept over me. My eyes focused on the distant entranceway of the cemetery. What would Mike be driving, a Mercedes, a $200,000 Lamborghini? And what of Mike himself? I pictured this handsome, debonair, 6’2” man in a $3,000 pinstripe suit tailor-cut to his muscular body. Since it was a solemn occasion, I figured Mike would likely not have a luscious woman on his arm.

A few minutes before the service was set to begin a car pulled to a halt along the gravel drive that passed near the gravesite. I knew it wasn’t Mike since it was the automobile was a 10 year-old Mercury. Out stepped this short, balding man with a paunch under his belt buckle. My sister, who was standing alongside me, leaned over and whispered that Mike had arrived. I glanced around in confusion. The only person I saw was the rotund gentleman who had just pulled up in the old car.

“Where?” I muttered to my sister in a low, discreet voice.

“That fat guy,” she mumbled, tossing her head in the direction of the man.

My eyes focused on the person in question. Oh my god, it's really him! I was horrorstruck, simply horrorstruck.

By the end of the service I had somehow managed to regain my composure. I wandered over to Mike and introduced myself. With a smile, I told him that I remembered being driven around in his Dodge Dart, and up to that point it was one of the coolest moments in my life.

Without a hint of a smile, Mike just stared at me as though I were crazy. He murmured something about how that was a long time ago, and we were all a lot older now. He then turned and trekked back to his car.

I watched Mike drive down the slender driveway that led to the cemetery gate. I did not know quite what to think. I suppose my overriding sentiment was sadness. First to fall was the Easter Bunny, then Santa Claus, lastly my 2^nd cousin Mike. At least Mrs. Henle was spared of any disappointment. But then, to her he was not a superhuman boyhood legend, as he was to me. 

I guess it is partially my fault. A few too many accolades from others, and a little too much imagination from myself. Sorry about that Mike.   

A Drifter In Spirit

I’m 62 and I’m going to guess that there are more guys in my generation who would be okay, and maybe even proud of being labeled a “drifter” when compared to a younger generation. In my generation I am going to guess that about .02% of the male population would be fine with that tag. Obviously I am not talking about an overwhelming percentage. But I would guess that of the 20-something males, the percentage that would want to be referred to as a “drifter” would be about .005%.

This all comes from the fact that the men of my generation grew up on westerns while the males of the 20-something generation grew up on basic action flicks, or, simply put, car chases. I cut my teeth on westerns and I have occasionally dubbed myself a drifter: that enigmatic stranger of the silver screen who would quietly ride into town and for a short time alter the local temperament, and not always for the good. Other possible tags would be “saddle tramp” and “vagabond”. I do not like such titles as “hobo” or “vagrant”. Those words bring to mind someone with bad teeth, sprawling on a downtown sidewalk in smelly clothes, a person completely devoid of mystery and adventure, unlike a saddle tramp or drifter.

As I see it, a modern-day saddle tramp would probably ride a motorcycle, although he might drive a small, well-worn car. He would travel into a small town and find work as a laborer, perhaps in the housing sector. He would hole-up in a cheap motel on the outskirts of town, a motel with monthly rates. Somehow, someway he would come across some pretty woman who would find him fascinating, though she would be puzzled with his many deep, philosophical thoughts. He would treat her with kindness and even chivalry which would utterly delight her, but infuriate her ex-boyfriend who looked on from afar.

Sadly, after six or eight weeks the drifter would feel the urge to move on. He is, after all, a drifter and his very nature compels him to wander down the trail, or in his case, the highway. He would say goodbye to a few new, admiring friends, and bid a melancholy farewell to the enticing lady who would shed a tear as she watched this captivating man disappear out of her life, vanishing forever over the horizon.

In reality the life of a drifter is of course nothing like what I have described. It is anything but romantic, and it is without a hint of intrigue. Not that I would know, of course, for in truth I am a drifter in spirit only. But I’ll tell you, if the life of a drifter really were adventurous and romantic I would… naw, I’d still just be me; a guy daydreaming at his computer.

My Mom Can Still Annoy Me

My mother can annoy. A lot of people’s moms can annoy them. What’s weird about that in my case is that I’m 62 years old and my mother has been dead for about five years. The most recent occurrence of annoyance has to do with Epsom salts. My mother was a big fan of Epsom salts. Whenever I would get a mild sprain or twist a joint, my mother would haul out the Epsom salts and I would end up soaking the injured area in warm, Epsom salts-laced water for a half hour or so. This would be perfectly okay except for the fact that Epsom salts had no medicinal properties, at least none that I could detect. When I was done soaking some sprained foot or hyperextended elbow in Epsom salts, my injury always seemed worse than before. It was as though the Epsom salts brought the sub dermal pain to the surface.

My mother was equally supportive of calamine lotion. Epsom salts did not do much, medically speaking, but calamine lotion did absolutely nothing. Every now and then back in my youth I would come to my mother with a nasty poison ivy rash or a bunch of mosquito bites. My mother would go to the medicine cabinet and out would come the calamine lotion. All calamine lotion did was dry to a pink, flaky crust. My mother swore it would reduce the itching. All I remember is scraping off the crumbling pink coating so I could scratch the rash.

The one good thing about a poison ivy rash was that if it were sufficiently severe, my mother would hold me out of school. She did not keep me at home for my sake. She kept me at home so the rash would not spread the poison ivy scourge to other kids. Little did my mom know that a poison ivy rash is not contagious.

This brings me up to contemporary times. A few weeks ago I slipped on some steps and mildly sprained my wrist. It wasn’t too serious but I decided that I might as well initiate some limited therapeutic care. Naturally I remembered my mother and her Epsom salts. How could I not? I swear I could actually hear her voice telling me to get the Epsom salts out of the cupboard.

It was as though I was possessed. Despite the fact that every fiber of my being was telling me to forgo the “salts” and instead simply rest the maligned joint, I couldn’t do it, I just couldn’t do it. I stopped at the CVS down on the corner and bought the economy-size box of Epsom salts. I came home and poured a cup of the salts into a bowl of warm water, and while watching a 30Rock rerun, soaked my aching wrist.

I awoke the next morning to a sore, stiff, slightly swollen wrist. It was as though the Epsom salts had seeped into the joint and expanded all the veins and capillaries to the rupturing point, and perhaps even broke a small bone or two just for good measure. I thought about going to an Urgent Care and getting my wrist X-rayed, but I knew deep down that the only thing wrong with it was that I had followed my mother’s advice. And sure enough, a few days later the swelling subsided and the wrist regained its full function.

Today the outside temperature reached almost 80 degrees. In fact, I think I saw a mosquito fly by my head as I was venturing to the mailbox. This summer I will undoubtedly suffer a mosquito bite or two, but no matter how much they itch, they will not encounter a single drop of calamine lotion. Sorry Mom, I’d rather just scratch.