Fun Without Accomplishment

There is an infinite number of types of people. But there are people who are always looking to accomplish things, and then there are people who don't worry about such things. In that strict sense, there are only two types of people. I am the latter of the two. I am retired now but when I wake up in the morning, I put no demands on myself to accomplish anything. I don't think about mowing the lawn, or painting a room, or writing a blog entry. I suppose if I have a goal day in and day out, it is to find amusement. But then, that has always been the case. 

I blame this attitude on my being a poor student. I could not have been a good one. I had below average scholastic aptitude. I knew by the time I was 14 that there was never going to be a college education. I was not going to be a neurosurgeon, or a archaeologist, or a university professor. I was going to drive a bus, or sell furniture, or be a plumber. Something like that would be my source of income, none of them could be my life's interest. Those occupations simply are not interesting. They are chosen based on income and availability, not because of some life's interest. 

I did my best driving a delivery truck, and I was not ashamed of doing it, but it was not what I proclaimed I wanted to be when I was asked at age 8 "what do you want to be when you grow up?" 

I have gone through my life with the single goal of entertaining myself and hopefully, being at least a somewhat enjoyable person to those who I encountered. Usually I entertained myself with humorous and even silly observations concerning my world. Once in a while the self-entertainment has come in the form of something more philosophical than outright funny. With the absence of a meaningful career, self-entertainment has been the driving force in my life. 

I am not alone in this life situation, of course. Not many barbers or dentist receptionists had those occupations in mind for their dream job. In some ways it is too bad, though most people find meaning and purpose in their daily lives regardless of occupation. As for myself, I may not accomplish much, strictly speaking, but I have fun doing it, and that has been enough.

Mr. St. Clair And The Neighborhood Boy

One summer afternoon in 1959 when I was about 8 years old I was in a the backyard of a neighborhood kid, Charlie St. Clair. We got into a game of tag. There were bedsheets hanging from the backyard clothes line and we started chasing each other through the sheets. Charlie's mother came out and angrily shouted at us to get away from the sheets. A few minutes later, a bit perturbed, I calmly referred to Mrs. St. Clair as a "slob" to another kid. Mrs. St. Clair either overheard what I had said through an open window, or Charlie told her. I did not know exactly what a slob was. I had jokingly been called a slob earlier that day by a neighbor kid for wearing untied sneakers. 

Later that day, or perhaps a day later, I was once again in or near the St. Clair property. Mr. St. Clair came out and called me over. Not suspecting any trouble, I did as requested. Well, Mr. St. Clair hotly snagged me by the arm and pulled me into the house. He forced me down several steps leading to the basement and there ironing some clothes was Mrs. St. Clair. Mr. St. Clair then said to me, "Well, don't you have something to say to my wife?" I didn't know what he was talking about, but at that moment I was sacred to death. I remember that by the time I was there on those steps, I had wet my pants out of abject fright. When I didn't respond, Mr. St. Clair hotly asked me, "Did you or did you not call my wife a slob?" I must have said that I did. He then informed me that I was to apologize. I must have muttered out an apology. Mr. St. Clair then smiled and said, "Now, don't you feel better for saying you're sorry?" He then led me out the door and to safety. 

That was 1959. Obviously I've never forgotten it. I was a little boy who like a lot of kids, can say silly things. To this day the incident makes me angry. I'm not sure, but if the internet existed in 1975, I am not certain that I wouldn't have used the Net to look up the whereabouts of Mr. St. Clair. It probably wouldn't have been a good idea, but back in 1975 I was 24 and just might have done it. I wouldn't have physically injured the man. I probably would have done something to him similar to what he had done to me. I might have taken a photo of myself at age 8 and forced Mr. St. Clair to apologize to it.

Point of all this is, I consider myself a rational, relatively calm person. I was fairly rational in 1975. Yet I might have considered retaliation for a single incident that occured many years earlier in my childhood. Sometimes I find myself, albeit my past self, a little scary. But I also make it a point to treat little kids decently and keep in mind that they are, after all, kids. 

Today there is the internet, and for the record, Mr. St. Clair died a couple years ago, best I can determine through a half hour internet search. Mrs. St. Clair is alive and in her 80s.

Summer of Long Ago

I am 66 years old. I graduated from high school in 1969. I remember that summer of 1969 better than I remember any three month period in my life. I was out of high school and I had found full time employment as a laborer at a construction site. A friend and classmate was working at a local grocery store. A week later I had learned that he had befriended one male coworker, and three female coworkers. All were new high school grads. The guy had graduated from a more distant suburban high school, the three girls had all graduated together from yet another suburban high school, one more nearby. We became six friends who wandered through the warm summer days together, the warm summer days of 1969.

The six of us trekked to an amusement park, attended a local wrestling match featuring Bull Curry and Thunderbolt Patterson, and dined on carry-out pizza at a local park, to name just three of about a dozen activities we enjoyed that summer. I remember everything so well because it was all so new to me: pretty girls, complete with breasts and slim, smooth legs, sitting next to me, sometimes even listening to what I had to say.

Truth be told, in short order I had desires to be more than friends with one of the girls, but alas she wanted nothing to do with me aside from giggling at my jokes. I was going to have to settle for her friendship. Though a bit disappointed, I was willing to do that.

The summer came to an end as all seasons do, and most of us went off to college somewhere. I didn't but most of us did. We had not known each other very long, really, just that summer, and so at summer's end we simply went our separate ways. But I for one never forgot. I have always remembered the names, the places we went, and even some of the conversations, as inane as many of those conversations were.

A few weeks ago I decided to do an internet search for four of the other five. One of them I know to this day and he remains a friend of mine but the other four would require investigation.

What I found was a bit disturbing. Two of the girls are now deceased. One died about ten years ago, the other five years back. The other guy has passed away too. I do not know when. The one girl for whom I had deeper desires, she is still alive and living not far away. She is a grandmother.

I can still remember all six of us crammed into one car, windows down, the warm, humid air whirling around in the car. We were usually laughing but occasionally we would speak seriously of some long-range plan, or perhaps a concern for the Vietnam War, and whether any of us guys would end up over there with a rifle in his hands.

That was a long time ago. I'm glad I had that summer and all these years later, I am glad I can look back upon it. It saddens me to discover that not all of us can.

The Urinary Tract of Old Dudes

I am at the point where I can call myself an "old guy", and as an old guy I am about to speak from experience... almost all old guys have some sort of urinary tract problem. Some old guys have chronic urinary tract problems while other old guys have only nominal problems. I am about halfway in between.

The target problem is that bastard known as the prostate gland. The prostate enlarges as guys get older. It crowds out other things as it expands. For almost all guys who live long enough, it makes urination something of a problem. If the guy lives to be elderly, it could very easily mean prostate cancer. Prostate cancer can be resolved with radical surgery but that usually means the permanent end of sex. At the very least it makes it problematic. 

For most people these problems may not mean much since most people aren't old dudes. But most people know and even like old dudes, or at least some old dude. So this blog entry might hold some interest for any would-be reader who is either a young dude, or a woman. 

The biggest problem this old dude has with this basic situation is a problem with my dignity. I can have troubles with my urinary tract and I won't go to a doctor to have it addressed. The reason is that I simply do not want a doctor looking at my male junk. I have given this dilemma some thought and have asked myself if it might not be better to have a young, female urologist look at my junk as opposed to some old, male urologist. Since I am male and not yet dead, an examination by the young, female urologist has its appeal, but ultimately I would probably opt for a male doctor.

If only the prostate were located in the feet, huh?

Bad Timing

A few weeks ago the 2016 Summer Olympics ended. I watched a good many hours of the TV coverage. Oddly, today I had an Olympic moment. 

I watched the 1964 Olympics with some interest those 52 years ago. I was 13 at the time and I hoped, a future Olympic talent. The events that most intrigued me were the middle distance running events. For some reason I focused on the 800 meter. 

To begin my quest for Olympic Gold, my 13 year-old self first needed to get into superior physical condition. I decided that to measure my weekly improvement, I would perform an initial timed run over a set distance. I decided that it should be a run beginning in front of the family house and circling the suburban block, a distance of perhaps a half mile or a bit more. 

Since I wanted to be timed, I was going to need a watch. I asked my father if I could borrow his Bulova wristwatch and after giving me about a five second analytical stare, he told me that he would go out to the sidewalk and time me himself. That was fine with me. I told him that I was going to need to be timed to the exact second since I knew within a few minutes how long it was going to take me. In other words; a vague approximation was not going to do.

Well, we strolled out to the sidewalk that ran in front of our house and down our street. I took the required anticipatory stance as my father eyed the second hand of his watch. Finally he raised his hand, then abruptly lowered it as he yelled "Go!". Off I went.

Somehow, someway I huffed and puffed my way around the block without stopping. As I came wheezing down the street, the finish line came into sight, but not my father, or his watch. 

I crossed the finish line, gulped a few breaths of air and hurried through our house's front door. There was my father, sitting in his chair watching TV. I rushed up to him and gasp out, "Where were you? I thought you were going to time me?" My dad quickly glanced down to his watch. "Okay, yes, well you finished in about six or seven minutes. Less than eight, I'm sure."

I rolled my eyes, "Dad, I wanted an exact time. I know that I did it in about six or eight minutes. I knew that before I started."

Undeterred, the next evening I was going to get that exact time for my around-the-block run. Once more I asked my father if I could borrow his watch. He sighed and said no, but he would be sure to time me.

Well, once again we meandered out to the sidewalk. Once again my dad eyed his watch as I took my position on the starting line. For the second night in a row, as the second hand hit the watch's 12, my dad barked out "Go!" 

Off I went, down the sidewalk on my quest to circle the block as fast as I could. I had a bit of experience this time and I figured that I would go just a bit slower for most of the distance and then finish with a closing sprint. That's how Olympians did it, I knew.

As I circumvented the block and bolted down the sidewalk with our house about to come into view, I felt sure I was ahead of the pace of the previous day. Then, a hundred yards from the finish, my legs slowed in frustration. My father was not to be seen.

Dad's Boliva

With surprising calm if not short of breath, I walked up onto our front porch and gazed into the front window. There was my father, sitting in his chair, smoking a Pall Mall and watching television.

I plopped onto a lawnchair that was stationed on the porch and accepted the notion that maybe I was not destined to win Olympic Gold. I never said a word, ever, and oddly, neither did my father. It was like the whole ordeal never happened. A few years later, in high school gym class, I ran a decent time in an 800 meters, decent, but not anywhere near world class. My father died 20 years ago and the reason I am writing this blog entry is because as I was searching for a pair of fingernail clippers, I happened to open a desk drawer and there was my dad's watch. Believe it or not, it still keeps perfect time... not that I ever benefited. 

Lunch At Roscoe's

Earlier today I had lunch at rundown, dingy Roscoe's Diner. Roscoe's has four small, wobbly tables and a counter with six swiveling stools, each repaired with plenty of duct tape. As I perched myself on a stool, my peripheral vision noticed the guy sitting next to me giving me a quick glance.

"Hey, I recognize you," he chirped, a trace of enthusiasm in his tone, "you're that guy who has that 'seldom seen' blog."

I was hoping for a nice, quiet lunch. I could see that it wasn't going to happen so I sighed and nodded as I pulled a menu out from behind the counter's napkin dispenser. "Yeah, that's me," I acknowledged with a note of reluctance.

"That blog stinks," he declared. "I don't know why I bother reading it."

"Well, it isn't like reading it is costing you a fortune," I returned, my tone emotionless.

"Yeah, I guess that's true."

About that time, Eunice, Roscoe's waitress, appeared on the other side of the lunch counter, her green order pad on the ready. I requested a couple of eggs, sunnyside up, wheatbread toast, and a cup of joe.

"What are you going to write about next?" my new friend asked as Eunice departed. "Maybe some dumb memory of a bicycle crash you had as a boy, or some blind date from your younger days who had b.o.?"

"Nope, I got nothing like that on my mind."

"Okay. Are there any oddities you've noticed in the world that might appear in that dumb blog you've got? Maybe you've made some observations that'll appear in that lame 'seldom seen' internet thing of yours?"

"Why do you care?" I huffed.

"I don't care. I'm just curious."

I turned just a bit in the direction of my inquisitor. "All right," I began, "I don't like all the slap-fives and quick hugs that I've been seeing in sports lately. I'm watching TV and a basketball player misses a foul shot and his teammates give him what looks like a congratulatory five. In a women's doubles tennis match, one player blows an easy shot and she gets a hug from her playing partner."

"You don't like that?"

"No. It's not right. Listen chief, what if Eunice were to bring me out my plate of eggs and toast and she stumbles with my food falling across the floor. Do I give her a 'slap five'?"

I could see by the look in his eyes that I'd got my lunch companion to contemplating. "Yeah, okay, I see what you mean."

"If I'm a competitor out there and a teammate volleyball player delivers a winning serve, he gets a 'slap five'," I continued. "If he puts it in the net, I'll let him see me roll my eyes in annoyance."

"Okay, all right, anything else that perturbs you?"

"Well, the other day I was watching the movie Saving Private Ryan," I declared. "At the end of the movie, an elderly Private Ryan talks to the Normandy Cemetery tombstone of his commanding officer who was killed 45 years earlier in the war. The old man even stands at attention and salutes the grave marker."

"Yeah, I remember that scene. What in the world could you find wrong with that? I thought it was very moving."

"Well my mother and father are both dead and you know why I never visit their gravesites?"

"No. Why?"

"Because my mother and father are dead," I pronounced, emphatically. "They are no more in those graves than are Phyllis Diller and Hugh Downs."

"Not everyone feels like you do," my fellow Roscoe's patron stated calmly. "Besides, isn't Hugh Downs still alive?"

"It's Hugh Downs so who cares? Point is: if you want to remember the dearly departed, look at their photos where they are laughing and enjoying life. Buried at that grave is a skeleton."

"Okay, well, I've got to go," said my co-conversationalist. "You don't mind if I do not give you a 'slap five'?"

"Naw," I muttered, a quick shake of my head. "In fact, I'd be disappointed if you did."

The Cost of Being Penniless

I have a friend, I'll call him Ben, who has a nice house in a well-to-do suburban neighborhood, but yet he barely has two dimes to rub together. It was Ben's parents' home and his parents have both passed away, leaving Ben with the property. He moved into the house when his father was very ill, on the verge of death. That was about 15 years ago and Ben has lived there alone ever since.

Ben is in his mid-60s, unmarried, unattached, and unemployed. That pretty much sums up the basics of his life, such as it is. He has not held a steady job in almost 20 years. He does not like to work for other people, so he doesn't. He receives a little bit of money per month through a successful lawsuit decades ago. That is all of his income. Ben does not drive. That would cost far too much money. He purchases everything on sale. He buys store brand when at all possible. Ben's clothes come from a thrift store.

Ben saves a little bit of money and invests it in long-shot penny stocks over an internet brokerage account. He's been doing this for years. He wants to have a lot of money... a lot of money. A modest amount of money will not do. It's all or nothing for Ben. So far it has been nothing. The overwhelming odds are that it will be nothing until the day he dies. To Ben's credit, he makes it a point to never burden anyone else with his poverty. He never asks for a loan, or even to be driven to the doctor.

The specific reason for this blog entry is that there is one thing about Ben that becomes apparent way too often: his constant thoughts concerning money. Ben himself has stated that those who have no money tend to think about, or at least worry about money far more often than those who actually have money. To me, this fixation on money may be one of the unnoticed tragedies about poverty: the time spent contemplating money and where it can be best acquired, or saved, or, heaven forbid, spent. Many's the time I will make some social observation or utter something intellectual only to have Ben stare at me blankly, then quickly ask me if I thought Hormel chili was on sale at the nearby grocery store. I once mused about what I would like to change if I could go back in time 20 or 30 years knowing what I know now. I said something about my younger self being more sophisticated while in the company of women. Ben stated that he would have the knowledge to invest in Microsoft. So much for that philosophical discussion. Ben does not concern himself with global warming, Islamic terrorism, or whether mankind should visit Mars. Sadly, he might contemplate all of these things if he were not worried about his economic state.

Don't get me wrong, Ben is a good guy. He laughs at jokes and will on rare occasion give me a beer out of his refrigerator. It's just that each of us has only so much time on earth and it seems unfortunate that anyone should spend hours plotting how to get a buck when that time could be spent dwelling on better things.