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.  

Forty-Three Years of Menial Laboring

I am employed as a menial laborer. I have been employed as a menial laborer all my adult life; ever since I entered the American workforce. I define a menial laborer as an unskilled worker who does not built or construct anything, per se. Additionally, a menial laborer does not use his thoughts and ideas in his work, at least his thoughts and ideas are not what he is paid for. There are a lot of menial laborers around. They are dressed in florescent jackets, out on the highways filling potholes with asphalt. They are in trucks, delivering refrigerators. And they are in every big grocery store, placing bottles and cans onto shelves.

I was destined to be a menial laborer way back in my early school days. I was plainly lousy at school, and that pretty much closed me out from being a surgeon or aeronautical engineer. I was never introduced to anything like plumbing or carpentry. As close as I came was I worked in an upholstery shop where I learned to reupholster furniture, mostly antique furniture. At my peak, I made slightly over minimum wage.

On several occasions I have been asked to apply for positions as a supervisor. At times I have been told that the position was there for me if I wanted it. I was always polite and grateful when I declined these offers. There were several reasons why I chose not to be a supervisor and remain a menial laborer. Perhaps the biggest reason is that I had never looked upon my vocation as representing me as a person. My job did not define me as an individual, at least not to me. When some stranger would ask me “What do you do?” I would generally respond with something like, “I like pizza, still play basketball, and I tend to laugh a lot, or at least chuckle.” I never felt as if I were less of a person for being a menial laborer, therefore I did not feel obliged to climb the proverbial ladder to what are supposedly more prestigious positions.

Also, I never became a supervisor because the amount of pay was insufficient for the amount of stress caused by supervising menial laborers. I ought to know, being a supervised menial laborer who not only likes pizza, but who will also chuckle. I’ve never been that much into money either, not that I’m against it, of course. I was once offered a supervisor position and was informed of the pay. It was approximately half of what it would have taken for me to assume the position. Don't get me wrong, $50,000 is a lot of money, but it isn't enough to make me want to be a supervisor. I did not make a counter-offer. I just politely declined the promotion.

There have been a few bumps in the road along the way, but generally I have enjoyed my various occupations in menial labor. It was perhaps unfortunate that I was not blessed with academic prowess, but I have been fortunate that I have seemingly been endowed with some shred of wisdom and a few fibers of open-mindedness. Without these qualities things would have turned out differently, and probably not in a positive way.

I guess the bottom line is; being a menial laborer is not a horrible way to go through one’s life. I think the trick is to see your personal essence as being independent from your vocation, and to understand that you were not put upon this earth to be a corporate CEO, or for that matter, find the cure for cancer, but rather to enjoy your time on earth best you can in your own unique way, and perhaps do a few kindnesses for others along the way.   

A Slightly Atypical Twenty-Six Year Relationship

I am on the verge of 62 years old. I am not married and never have been. Nevertheless, I have had the same woman in my life for 26 years. This woman, Diana, is now 55. We were a lot younger when we started out. I’m not sure if we’re ever going to get married. We have nothing against marriage; it’s just that marriage requires some kind of action. A marriage license needs to be purchased, and only specific individuals can perform the ceremony. See what I mean? If a person doesn’t really care about marriage one way or the other, why bother? That’s kind of been our view on it for the last 26 years.

There are more curious details to this 26 year relationship than being unmarried. For example; Diana and I don’t live together. We sleep together most nights, but almost all of my clothes are at my condo, which is located a few miles from Diana’s modest house. I generally shower at my place too. When I come home from work, I come home to my place. I will watch TV and have a snack. About four days a week I drive over to her place in the evening where I will stay the night. I’ll drive to work from her place the next morning. This has been pretty much our scenario from the outset, lo these many years ago.

My place is distinctly mine, and Diana’s place is distinctly hers. When I am at her place I will go to her refrigerator without asking, and I can brew tea without getting permission, but I do not tell her what photos to display on her walls or what color furniture she should buy. It’s her home. I have mine. 

We do not have kids, of course. I don’t think it has ever been a consideration. I think we both like children, we simply have never wanted to have any of our own. Now at the age of 62, I can honestly say that I have never missed having kids. Of course a person generally misses only those things he has had and lost, not things he has never had.

I don’t look at our arrangement as strange or unusual, but I know that some people are puzzled by it. All I can say is that for 26 years Diana and I have been as happy as any couple in a long-term relationship, and happier than most. Still, I don’t know if I would recommend such an arrangement for most people. It takes either a pretty good dose of open-mindedness, or a big helping of stupidity. I’m not sure which. Maybe I’ll ask Diana when I see her this evening. 

Circa 1990

January 2013

     

New Normals

I am 61 years old and I have a Facebook account. I have occasionally gotten some good-natured flack for being on Facebook, flack coming from my peers and contemporaries. I generally tell them, good-naturedly, that I am now living in the 21^st Century, and I might as well do those things that have become part of this century. That usually ends the chiding.

On Facebook I sometimes respond to posts written by some Facebook friend. On rare occasion I will post something of my own. On those few occasions when I submit something, I have to stop and think about whether I really want to hit the POST button. See, I know that what I am posting will appear on the Facebook pages of others, and I don’t want to seem too forward. I mean, they might have important things to read.

When I look at the Facebook pages of younger individuals, such as people under the age of 30, I will often see the Facebook page of someone who submits several posts per day. One of these posts might state nothing more than “the newly-fallen snow is pretty”. Such a post could well be accompanied by a photo of a snow-covered driveway. Still another post might proclaim the purchase of a new toaster, along with a photograph of the appliance. These types of announcements are pretty common on Facebook.

And that’s just it; I don’t get it. I don’t see why anyone would bother to post such things. Granted, I am 61 years old, but even if Facebook had existed when I was 22 years-old, I still would not have been willing to publish ordinary occurrences and routine activates as if they had some significance. To me, it looks as though these younger individuals are egotistical and self-centered. That’s what it looks like. But frankly, I don’t believe that’s true.

See, I think it’s a generational thing. I think the “new normal” is to post such trivial things as the lunchtime consumption of a taco salad, or the purchase of new shoestrings. The “new normal” sees nothing wrong with sharing this type of trivial information, and consequently it has become socially appropriate to do so. That’s my theory.

It isn’t like it is the first “new normal” in the history of mankind. How about Women’s Suffrage in the early years of the 20^th Century? In my youth there were plenty of “new normals”. Heck, the 1960s were chock full of “new normals”, including sexual behavior, and civil rights. In fact, those “new normals” were far more profound and earth-shaking than people’s posting habits on Facebook.

I have wondered what my long departed father would say about the social changes that are a result of Facebook, Twitter, etc., and then I stop and realize that there is no need to wonder because, well, for all intents and purposes I have become my father. And more than any other “new normal”, that “new normal” has been tough getting used to.