Getting More Like My Daddy Than Me

A few years ago, an experience awakened me to the fact I was no longer living in that black hole of time between leaving adolescence and not yet having enough life experience to be considered and adult.

One day my oldest son, who was a teen at the time, was listening to his favorite radio station. After hearing a few minutes of his so-called music, I blurted out something I had sworn that my kids would never hear me say: "You call that music?!

I couldn't believe my own ears. Surely that wasn't my voice saying the same words I heard my parents say to me some 20-odd years ago.

I turned around, hoping to find my father standing behind me. People say that he and I sound alike; perhaps he had popped in unannounced, and it was he who I heard give that un-cool critique of my boy's musical taste. No such luck. I was the guilty party, all right.

I quickly ran to the nearest mirror. What I saw confirmed my fears that I was indeed an adult: gray hair; a slightly lined face; a soft, somewhat pudgy stomach; and my hips had rolls on them that would make the folks at Wonder Bread jealous. Yes, all of the classic signs that I was an adult were present.

No way could this be happening to me, I thought. I always lived by the words of that song in Peter Pan, "I don't want to grow up." But here I was, staring adulthood right in the face. Yes, I had become an adult and there was nothing I could do about it.

Questions began exploding in my mind concerning how to handle this discovery. Should I change most of my wardrobe to polyester? Should I insist on bifocals from my optometrist? Should I stop exceeding the speed limit and start driving more slowly than most people run?

Perhaps I should begin taking those vitamins made just for adults and commence adding more fiber to my diet. I even considered going to the supermarket to size up adult diapers, but hey, I still had control of my bodily functions. Why push it?

Finally it dawned on me: Adulthood and growing old are not always synonymous. Adulthood means taking responsibility for the things that are yours, such as dependents, citizenship, debts, mistakes, and rearing your children to be good, upstanding people. Being an adult means acting maturely even when those around you are not. By these standards, some people reach adulthood in their teenage years, while others reach it later in life. Still, many never do become adults.

With this new outlook on adulthood, I began feeling a little better about the whole thing. Then, looking back at the mirror, I was reminded of what the passage of time was doing to a body of which I was once proud. Let me tell you, a whole new awakening occurred. But that's another story for another time.

A Halloween Story

One Halloween night, when I was around eleven-years-old, my childhood friend and partner in mischief, Skunky Wilson, and I had just finished trick-or-treating when Skunky got one of his brilliant ideas.

"Hey, let's go through the cemetery on our way home," he suggested. "It will cut our walking distance in half."

"Are you kidding me?!" I responded. "You know the legend of the hobo." That legend was almost as old as the town itself.

One October day, not many years after our little town of Booger Hollow (pronounced Holler) came into being, a hobo made camp in the woods near the community. Shortly thereafter, children in the area started turning up missing. It didn't take long for people to begin thinking the hobo's arrival in the woods and the disappearance of children was no coincidence.

As children kept disappearing, fear filled the hearts of the town's people, and the public outcry for something to be done became deafening. So, on Halloween eve the city fathers decided enough was enough. They were going to make the town safe for Halloween night and for all nights thereafter.

By torchlight, they searched the woods for the hobo. When they found him they dragged him to the oldest, tallest, and strongest oak tree in the town center. There, the city fathers hung the poor man, then gave him a pauper's burial.

As life began to fade from the hobo's body, he spewed forth a curse upon them all, vowing that on future Halloween nights his grave will open and his corps will stalk the town in search of a child to steal.

At any rate, Skunky scoffed at my remark concerning the hobo. "You still don't believe in that ole tale, do ya?"

"Of course not. I was just checking to see if you did." I wasn't about to let him know that the story still gave me the shivers. There would've been no end to the teasing I'd receive. So, off we went through the town cemetery.

Well, there was an early morning burial scheduled for the next day, and, as was the custom at that time, the grave had been dug the day before the funeral and was left uncovered. It was this practice of not covering freshly dug graves that would prove to be the cause of many a nightmare for Skunky and me.

You see, earlier that evening Lester, the town drunk, had staggered through the graveyard after finishing off a couple of bottles of cheap wine. As Lester staggered through the cemetery he managed to find the freshly dug grave by falling into it, and try as he might, he just couldn't climb out of the seven foot hole. Finally, he just slumped to the floor and fell into a drunken sleep.

Now, Skunky and I found it very difficult to see where we were going. The night sky was overcast and the clouds blocked the light of the moon; plus, the cemetery was abounding with big old weeping willow trees, casting even darker shadows everywhere.

So, we were nervously making our way through the graveyard when I snagged a foot on something, tripped, pitched forward, and began falling into a fairly deep hole. Skunky reached out and caught a hold of my arm and strained to hold me up. But it was to no avail. The forces of gravity won out, and the both of us ended up in the bottom of a freshly dug grave . . . a grave that, oddly enough, smelled of cheap wine.

"Sku, Sku, Skunky, do you suppose that this is the hobo's grave an, an, and even at this moment he's out a huntin' kids?"

"I don't know, but we'd best find a way out of here or we might find the answer to that question the hard way," was his response.

Just then both of us felt a finger tap our shoulders and heard a voice behind us mutter something that to this day I'm still not sure what. All I know is that all of sudden Skunky and I soared to the top of that grave with one giant leap and left a wake of dust behind us as we frantically ran for our homes.

A couple of days later my dad mentioned something about an article in the local paper. The details were sketchy, but evidently the town drunk had been found in an open grave one morning, yelling for help. When asked what he was doing there, he mumbled something about not being able to get a decent night's sleep, not even in the cemetery, without people dropping in on you.

Well at least he only missed one night's sleep. It wasn't until after the passage of time (and intense therapy) that Skunky or I were able to get a solid night's rest. And to this day, I wouldn't advise anybody to tap either one of us on the shoulder from behind--at least not indoors, unless the ceiling is more than seven feet high.

My Theory and Welcome to It

It was the year of 1993 when I began to understand why the number thirteen is considered unlucky. That was when my oldest child officially became a teenager.

Now, it's my theory that when a child hits adolescence certain cells in his brain, the ones which make the rest of the human population sane and reasonable, go dormant. This dormancy is evident by certain behavioral changes in the child.

One of the first changes to take place when a child becomes a teen is what I have termed teenage logic. The following is a prime example of what I'm talking about.

When my oldest son was in the 7th grade he decided he'd set his alarm clock for 5:30 am to give himself ample time to prepare for school. Sure enough, the first day of school at 5:30 in the morning, his alarm (which sounded like the warning alarm that alerts prison officials of an escape attempt) tore apart the quiet of our house. Of course, oldest son slept through the noise.

After peeling myself from my bedroom ceiling, I stumbled upstairs to his room to awaken him. I banged on the wall, flipped his light switch on and off, and yelled his name in an effort to stir signs of life in him.

Finally, he opened an eye half way and said, "I don't have to get up 'til 6:30."

"Then why did you set your alarm for 5:30?" I asked.

"To let me know that I have an hour before I have to get up and get ready." ARRRRRGH!

Another result of the cell dormancy phenomenon is the development of a language called Teenage-eese, the official language of teenagers. In this language words that an adolescent learned at the knees of his parents takes on new definitions.

For instance, once, while in the kitchen, the ceiling above me started rumbling as if a professional wrestling free-for-all was being held up stairs.

"What's going on up there?" I hollered.

"Nothing!" my teenager answered.

Nothing, in Teenage-eese, means, "We're holding a free-for-all wrestling tournament up here, but we don't want you to know about it because we'll get grounded" Got that right.

Another interesting fact is that all adolescent people suffer from a temporary loss of hearing. It seems that they can't talk unless they speak loud enough for the whole county to hear, and
the volume at which their music (boy, am I using that term loosely) is played takes noise pollution to a whole new level. All three of my teens would turn up the volume on the home stereo to decibels I never even knew existed.

If I turned the stereo down, to say the noise level of a jumbo jet as it screams down the runway for takeoff, I'd receive complaints that the music was barely audible. At least this explains why my sons' favorite word during this period of time was, "What?!"

I don't know, but I 'd be willing to bet that more anti-depressants are prescribed to parents suffering the pains of the teen years than to any other group of people. But there is good news.

You see, this cell dormancy phenomenon only lasts about seven to eight years . . . per child. Here's hoping that those of you living with teenagers can survive that long.

Bear Blunder Blues

Over the years, this great state that I live in has had a serious problem. Certain stretches of highway have been built, in what used to be virgin forests, across paths that black bears have been traversing for hundreds of years.

Now, these roads don't deter the bears in the least bit from continued use of these paths, which causes all kinds of havoc on motorists and their cars, not to mention the poor bears, when the two collide. Unfortunately, the citizens of our fair state have relied on the infinite wisdom of our government for a solution to this critical problem.

A few years back, the members of our state legislature put their collective minds together and came up with a brilliant answer. They spent hundreds of thousands if not millions of taxpayer dollars to burrow holes under the highways, thereby providing a bear crossing. Yes, you read it correctly. Our government here in Fantasy Land built bear crossings under our roads.

Oh, but this is not all. After the completion of a tunnel there's an unveiling ceremony held to commemorate the momentous occasion (I don't think any bears have been invited to one yet). We even have signs erected on both entrances of the tunnel stating that it is indeed a "bear crossing."

The biggest problem this great solution? BEARS CAN'T READ!

So, we now have expensive bear crossings under our highways, but because the bears are illiterate they still traverse the roads. This leaves the undying question, what will the government do now?

Well, I have a few ideas on the subject that I'm more than happy to share.

One option is a government funded "Learn To Read" program for bears. Of course, this would mean a world-wide search for someone willing to teach the bears to read. It would also mean the rounding up of all bears in the vicinity and force them to attend the program. This would cost dearly though--especially if the A.C.L.U. gets involved by filing law suits in favor of bears'
rights-- But hey, when it comes to spending tax payer dollars spare no expense, right?

We could even hold a graduation ceremony for the bears when they finish their schooling. The State could provide caps and gowns, hire a speaker, and just throw a grand ole celebration.

Ah, but it's said that bears have lousy eye sight. So maybe it would be better to teach them to read Braille instead.

But better yet, it's my understanding that bears rely more on their keen sense of smell than on their eyes to guide them through the woods. So, maybe every day the state highway department, using the guys you always see on the side of the road leaning on their shovels while one guy does all of the work, could collect road-killed animals and lay them in a line leading from the woods through the bear tunnel. This way, the bears could also snack as they smell their way under the highway.

Another option our great state could try is to hire the animal trainer from the Barnum and Bailey Circus. He could train the bears to cross under the road instead of traversing over it. Of course as soon as the trainer finishes his job and heads back to the circus, the bears, like most students when their teacher's back is turned, will probably become unruly and do what they darn well please anyway. So that's a questionable idea.

Well, there you have it. My solutions to our state's bear blunder blues. You know, it's this kind of government boo boo that tempts me to get more involved in politics.

But then, maybe not. I mean, it was just recently that I learned the Middle East Position has nothing to do with making a move on a board game.

Middle-Age-Crazy

When I returned to college as non-traditional student, I felt the urge to grab a bottle of Grecian Formula and start pricing Corvette Stingrays; I was going through a mid-life crises.

I began acting like those old men I used to laugh at when I was a kid. You know the type: They're in their mid-forties; they part their hair down by one ear to hide their bald spots that is until people begin whispering in their noses.

They're also the guys who won't admit they have a middle-age spread and always buy pants two inches too small in the waist and walk around with their stomachs sucked in so deep their chests hit their chins. But I digress.

Now, when I returned to school, I thought I was still in my prime. But one day a young classmate and I were talking, and I mentioned something about the first landing on the moon. "You can remember the first moon landing?!" he exclaimed. By the tone of his voice, you would have thought it had taken place a hundred years earlier.

As if that wasn't bad enough, later that day, while walking to another class, I overheard a couple of young ladies discussing some guy in their previous class who was "at least thirty years old." I was turning thirty-one the following week, and their comment was the one that got me.

For the first time, I noticed my mid-section rolled a little--OK, a lot--over my belt. It was a struggle just to keep from making a mad rush to the nearest pay phone and place an emergency call to Jenny Craig.

For some reason my hair seemed a bit grayer. Old injuries ached a little more; I moved a little stiffer.

And that is why exercising was tough. Oh, I did it, but the morning after, rigor mortis set in, and I'd decide it wasn't worth it. Even my eyelids would get sore from exercising. Once the soreness left, though, and I was amongst the younger crowd again, I'd go middle-age-crazy and the whole routine started over.

Well, that was a while back and I guess things have gotten better, a little anyway. I no longer sit straighter in chairs to stretch the rolls of my stomach so the buttons on my shirt won't pop and my "love handles" won't show.

No, I've discovered loose-fitting, over-sized, non-tuck-in shirts. Not only do they hide the fact that my stomach has gone from a six-pack to a soggy roll of Pillsbury dough boy biscuits, but they also allow me to, when needed, walk around with unsnapped pants and a loosened belt, usually the result of over-eating.

But let’s get back to that little mid-life crisis. I have to admit something good did come out of that. You see, I'd always thought getting old meant that when you go to bed at night you put our teeth in a cup, your ears in a drawer, your eyes in a case, your hair on a shelf, and the friends who visit you the most are the Ritis brothers...Arthur and Bruce.

Now I realize it's all just a matter of perspective.