Sobbing S.O.B.

I cried today. Not a full-blown broken dam of tears accompanied by a wailing and sobbing-type episode, but the blurry eyes, runny nose, lump-in-the-throat kind.

A Facebook link led me to a YouTube video of a cancer-battling toddler who was given an opportunity to take the field with his favorite college football team. The boy, in a personalized jersey, and way too big pads, ran a touchdown play into the end zone as the defenders stumbled along the way. After scoring, the team put him on their shoulders and carried him off the field to the roar of the hometown stadium. The parents clutched each other and cheered - likely knowing this will be the only time they’ll do so. Total onion chopping stuff.

As I age I find myself tearing up more frequently.  I’m a grown man – an outdoorsman, a former athlete, and a hardass of the highest sort. I was an amateur boxer, a truck driver, a Harley rider, but those manly endeavors have done little to mask my sensitive side. I wept when my children were born. For years I choked up when saying goodbye to my high school senior baseball players at our season's-end banquet. A few weeks ago I nearly bawled while watching an elderly veteran, in failing health, stand resolutely and salute the flag during a school ceremony.

I’ve always been a crier. In fact, I specifically remember the moment I recognized my emotional frailty. At six, I was unprepared for Toto’s leap from Dorothy’s arms, causing her to miss the balloon ride from Oz back to Kansas. I can only imagine how the Predni family must’ve rolled their eyes and jabbed each other in the ribs once I left their family movie night.

Crying isn’t a shame. Everyone does it. So I happen to do it more than most men. And little girls.

One summer, when I was 11, I saved my paper route tips so I could buy a large Mepps bucktail spinner. (Subscriptions were $1.80 per two weeks. Customers paid with two dollars and told me to keep the 20 cents in change.) A month later, with $7.00 in my pocket and fishing pole tied to my bike, I pedaled to the bait shop, bought the lure and rode directly to the river. With my SECOND cast I snagged a log, broke the line, and lost my prized possession. After a chorus howls and knee-slapping from my friends I tied on another lure and walked down river. Not to find a better fishing hole, but so my buddies wouldn’t see the streams flowing from my eyes.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a wimp. Physical pain seldom bothers me. In fifth grade I pried my thumbnail off with a pencil during Mr. Nowak’s math class. Pried. It. Off. I worked for days at peeling back the cuticle until it exposed the growth plate. Eventually it dried-up enough to form a hollow spot large enough to insert a pencil tip. A few jiggles later and my homework was soaked in a pool of coagulating bio-hazard. No crying.

In eighth grade I broke my hand playing baseball. Four days later I had it examined. The bones had begun to heal crooked. Two doctors pinned me into a chair (without an anesthetic) and wrenched on my hand until the bones re-broke and could be set properly. I nearly passed out when they finished. With my hand in a cast, they sent me home on my bike. Not so much as a moist eyelash.

In a seventh grade football game I dislocated my Adam’s apple. Needing to breathe quickly and heavily from the physical exertion of the play there was a moment when I felt the sensations of suffocation and panic. As I lay flailing around on the ground, with a searing pain in my throat, the coach calmly pushed on the misplaced protuberance until it snapped back to its original position. Not even a sniffle.

These days I can’t recite the Pledge of Allegiance without a quiver in my voice. Seeing someone else cry makes me emotionally wobbly. A couple of years ago I watched one of our high school wrestlers, a boy with a double-digit winless record, pin his opponent in front of the packed parents night audience. As the referee raised the kid’s hand in victory, he smiled at his mom who was overcome with emotion. I made a quick exit to the restroom.

A psychologist would probably tell me that I cry because there’s something missing in my life. I’m certain my buddies would agree with such a diagnosis and they would surmise that what’s missing is my man card. And a set of testicles.

I’d like to believe I’ve always been aware that my days of being upright and mobile on this planet are numbered, and that’s why I am an emotional wreck. I make time to notice moments which are mostly ignored. Winning trophies and getting my name in the paper have never been my thing. I root for people who overcome their struggles, and for those who fail in their attempt. Days ago I saw a Facebook notice of the death of a former teacher of mine. He was a fixture in the halls of my high school for decades. I thought of him occasionally over the years and was surprised to see he’d lived for so long. Endless, touching words written about him in the comments section left me dizzy for the afternoon.

As much as I’d like to have stoic control over my emotions, I expect I’ll always need to concoct some semi-believable story to avoid embarrassing situations. Coming up with spur of the moment excuses for my watery eyes: a pepper allergy, a zipper mishap, or the Packers losing to the Vikings might cover it for now.

If you happen to be near me during the playing of Where the Red Fern Grows, or Taps, or Field of Dreams - please have a hanky ready. And buy stock in Kleenex.

Aging Grossfully

I turned 48 last week. Not a big deal as far as milestone birthdays go - unless I live to 96 - then I’ll regret not asking for some balloons.

Until recently, I didn’t give much thought about getting old. It just kind of crept up on me - like shrunken underwear. I certainly don’t feel old. Sure, my first few steps out of bed in the morning sound like I’m stepping on bubble wrap, but I can still carry my weight in firewood. I certainly don’t act old.  This week I farted in the car and locked the windows so the boys couldn’t put them down. I don’t look old. I may have a few strands of fishing line showing up in my in my haircut, but I still get carded when I buy beer at Walmart. At what age are people supposed to face the prospect of aging?

I didn’t consider it 40 years ago, when on my golden birthday, I created a haunted house in the musty underground garage of the lakeside bungalow my family rented. Scary monster artwork drawn with Crayons onto cardboard boxes and a hairy werewolf crudely-fashioned from paper grocery bags, clung precariously to the dank stone walls. Occasionally, I’m reminded of those creepy images when I look in the mirror, shirtless, and realize it’s time to shave my back.

Nobody came through my haunted house. I should’ve advertised it more, but my seven-year-old marketing budget only afforded only a sheet of notebook paper skewered with a stick pounded into the grass at the end of the driveway. An elderly couple, out for a stroll stopped, stooped and squinted at my sign. They stood up, looked at me animatedly motioning toward the open garage door like a pre-pubescent carny barker, and walked nervously away.

Thirty years ago my thoughts were focused on lifting weights. As freshmen footballers, my buddy and I pumped iron as often as we could. We’d do dips and squats in front of the mirror and immediately admire our physiques, searching for any signs of growth. A year earlier, after embarrassingly setting the middle school record for the speed and frequency in which I got pinned, my eighth grade wrestling coach pulled me aside and suggested I “build-up those toothpicks you have hanging from your shoulders.” I should’ve reminded him that though delicate and small, toothpicks can be dangerous weapons. They’re sharp enough to break the skin – or at least leave a pretty bad sliver.

My workout regimen in the school weight room actually caused me to bulk up a little. Too bad putting on weight and muscle didn’t increase my football ability. Because of my lack of football skill I was mostly forced to play guard and tackle. I guarded the water jug and tackled anyone who tried to take my spot on the bench. Working out kept me in peak physical condition for high school sports. I haven’t played football since my senior year, but I remain in reasonable shape. (If an inverted lollipop with size 11 shoes qualifies as a shape?)

Twenty years ago I was into competitive running. It began when I took a college fitness class and all we did for our “workouts” was run laps around the gym. I was in such poor aerobic condition that the campus nerd continually beat me. To be truthful, I shouldn’t refer to my physical activity as “running.” The term implies moving at a rapid pace. The only thing moving rapidly was my desire to quit.  I was never competitive as a runner. I only entered local races for the commemorative t-shirts that made me look like I knew what I was doing.  Beside the t-shirts, my closet was full of Spandex running shorts and tights. Hoping to be like other college students trying to display their individuality in college, I wore tights as part of my daily wardrobe – even with flannel shirts. It seemed cool then, but now I’m thankful there’s no blackmailable photos of a pimple-faced lumberjack in yoga pants.

A decade ago I went headlong into the chopper motorcycle craze. I watched all the biker build-off shows on television - and I even built my own custom bike. The stars of the TV shows were muscular, tattooed, and had hipster hairstyles. Since I had no muscles or tattoos I grew my hair out to shoulder length and slicked it back with enough Brylcreem to leave grease stains on my pillow. When I got my bike on the road it was a real head-turner. When I got my greasy-haired, Abe Lincoln-looking noggin on the road I was a real stomach-turner.

These days, as I approach 50, I’m content to sip cheap beer, and expensive whiskey, and shake my head at how other people look, and act, and dress. Occasionally, when a student tries to be tough in class, I share with him my belief that I can beat up all but two (and neither of those are students) of the 500+ students and staff in the building. I probably can’t, but my youthful ego tells me otherwise. If, in 2062, you see a nursing home resident with a mullet, earrings, sideburns, parachute pants, and an Ozzy concert shirt trying to beat people up – tell him to act his age.

Wipe Your Mouth

Twin brothers, age 10, huddle intimately over their long-awaited video game player which has arrived via special delivery. Working feverishly, forehead to forehead, they jockey for control to plug in all required cords.

Their father, in an adjacent room, overhears this conversation.

BROTHER 1, with animated disgust: "Mom’s right, your breath reeks!"

BROTHER 2, defiantly: "No it doesn’t!"

BROTHER 1, louder, feigning gagging:  "Uuuughkkk!"

BROTHER 2, making an excuse:  "It’s probably from the snack I just had."

BROTHER 1, not buying the story:  "Beef jerky doesn’t smell like poop!"

Father, unprepared for youthful bluntness, proudly sprays beer from his nose. ~L

Keep It Between the Lines

Over the past year hundreds of people a couple of people have asked me what a typical day is like in my life as an over-the-road trucker.  I usually answer with my standard reply, “You don’t want to know” “Each day is an adventure!” Instead of giving such a non-detailed response I decided to be brutally honest more thoughtful with my description.

For example: Last Monday I woke up dreading getting out of my bunk eager to meet the challenges of the road. I called my dispatcher and he offered me a load into Hell Detroit. I replied with, “Screw that,”  “Are there alternate destinations?” I begrudgingly settled for enthusiastically agreed to a Chicago run. Famous for its paralyzing traffic popularity among commuters and decaying infrastructure world famous skyline, I felt an overwhelming sense of regret excitement for my visit into the bowels heart of America.

My pre-trip preparation included planning a route that would get me in and out of the city without being murdered as efficiently as possible. As I inspected my truck I hoped to find a mechanical failure that would cancel the load I noted that all operating systems were in proper working order. After checking my maps, I tossed my food and clothes in a heap carefully stowed my supplies and set off with tears a gleam in my eyes. I had nothing ahead of me but 500 miles of construction open road.

As I inched cruised my way into the city I took notice of all the car drivers flipping me off politely waving as my big truck joined them for the morning rush. There must’ve been a popular song on the radio, as I saw my fellow motorists pounding their fists on the steering wheels tapping their hands to the beat and cursing uncontrollably singing along. After hours of wanting to abandon my truck carefully navigating the streets of the inner city, I reached my boiling point drop point. The foreman scolds me for arriving early thanks me for being prompt and banishes me to the end of the line promises he’ll unload me as quickly as possible. With a day’s wait ahead of me a little time on my hands I had a chance to take in a freak show visit the driver’s lounge. If you want to feel better about yourself meet a diverse collection of personalities, just spend a little time where truckers hang out. Step into any truck stop and you can practically smell the restrooms vital contributions we make to our nation. With limited access to running water, I’ve witnessed some drivers rinsing soiled laundry and washing their feet in a crowded bathroom sink multi-tasking while tidying up. I always think to myself, “Damned heathens!” “Golly, they’re concerned with maintaining a respectable appearance!”

After being ignored most of the afternoon getting unloaded it’s time to burn rubber out of this place say my goodbyes and get to my next load. With my electronic babysitter logbook ticking away I need to cheat my clock make the most of my remaining drive time. I’ll skip meals and restroom breaks so I can roll into a truck stop with my violation alarm going off an honest day’s work under my belt. All that’s left is to wedge my truck into a parking space other drivers have avoided set up camp and sob into my pillow relax for the evening.

I often wonder how I found myself in this nightmare dream world. It seems like only yesterday I was desperate for a job, seeking a career change. It’s often said that trucking isn’t a job - it’s a life sentence lifestyle. I, for one, can’t wait until I get paroled to do it all over again tomorrow.