Southern Outlook

Drummer Boy

2011-12-10T15:57:00.000-08:00

Drummer Boy

I acquired my first drum on Christmas day, 1966. It was a Ludwig jazz festival snare drum, adorned with brilliant gold sparkle finish and shiny chrome rims. It came in a kit shaped liked a suit case, in which was the snare drum, a three legged stand, a pair of hickory drum sticks, a drum key and a sheet of music listing the twenty six standard drum rudiments. I was in fifth grade at the time.

The kit was lined with a brilliant red fabric that gave off an odor sort of like a new car smell. The combination of the bright red of the fabric, the brilliant glow of the gold sparkle and the shiny chrome was the likes of something I had never seen before.

Being the youngest of four brothers, just about everything I had ever owned up to that point was a hand me down from one of my older brothers. But the snare drum was brand new, and it was mine.

It was a Ludwig snare too. The same one Ringo Star played. My drum teacher told me it was the finest snare drum you could buy in the whole world. My father told me it would take him years to pay it off. That’s when I realized that this gift was truly special, and I felt special to have it.

There was only one problem I had with the drum, and that was that in order to play it, I would basically have to perform for the whole neighborhood, because it made so much noise that everyone would surely hear me. And this was somewhat problematic, being that I was a bashful kid at the time and did not take kindly to being the focus of attention.

So, for the first few weeks that I owned the drum, I would simply look at it but categorically refused to play it. That was until my mother set the drum up in my room one day, shut the door behind her and told me I wasn’t coming out until she heard me play.

So I got out the sheet of drum rudiments and went at it as best as I could. It wasn’t long before I saw Richie Adams peering in through the open window to see what all the racket was. To his credit, he didn’t laugh or make fun of me, he actually thought it was kind of cool, so on that day my career as an amateur percussionist was launched, albeit in ignominious fashion.

It is well advised for a percussionist to start out on the snare drum and learn his rudiments well. And learn them well I did. I would practice just about every weekday. As I shared a room with my brothers, I would set the drum up in the bathroom, since that was the only room in the house where I could practice in private.

Every other birthday or Christmas my parents would gather together enough money to buy me an addition to my drum set. First a cymbal, then a floor tom, then a throne to sit on. They never quite seemed to get the whole thing together though, so one year around Christmas I visited Bill’s Music Store on Frederick Road in Catonsville, Maryland and I asked them if they had any used drums that I could purchase for a reasonable price. They did, so I brokered a deal: $150 for a bass drum and small tom tom, and they even threw in a ride cymbal for free.

I talked the deal over with my father, so he agreed to pay me back the $150 he borrowed back from my allowance and he drove me down to pick everything up. I remember vividly loading everything into his Dodge Coronet 440 station wagon as snow flurries fell, heralding in the start of Christmas season. I got it home and set everything up in my bedroom, and the next day I jammed for hours. And I have been jamming, terrorizing the neighbors ever since.

In High School I took music lessons from the head percussionist in the Baltimore Symphony. He taught me how to play the rudiments properly and how to read music at an advanced level. I was the tympani player in our school band and orchestra.

When I went off to College, I joined the Salisbury State College Mighty Seagulls Marching Band. I passed the audition with flying colors, as the band director had me play a piece called “Ode to Snare Drum”, something my teacher had given me years earlier, so I knew it by heart. So I won the coveted position of snare drum player, a significant step up from bass drum or cymbals.

We had sheet music to follow, but we never paid much attention to it. We usually just played by feel, as most drummers do. I remember one evening I had to work so I couldn’t make it to a pep rally we were to play at, so I asked someone to stand in for me. I met him in the quad with my drum before the rally, and he asked me where the sheet music was. I simply told him to just follow the rhythm and he would be fine.

In addition to playing at home football games, we also traveled occasionally, once even taking a trip to play arch rival Towson State in Baltimore. I remember our half time performance well as Towson didn’t have a marching band, so we were something of a novelty there. That made us proud of our school, as insignificant as it may seem now, so many years later.

When football season was over, I joined the concert band. My drum teacher had taught me how to play the xylophone, so in addition to the complex snare parts I was able to master, I also played bells and xylophone. That was when I realized how fortunate it was that I had had the fortune to study music and how glad I was that I had taken the time to learn it well.

I transferred out of Salisbury State after my second year, and never played before a live audience again. I still have the snare drum my father bought me, and the kit it came in. Although the rims on it are rusted and everything else has been replaced over the years, I still have it as part of my drum set, which I play several times a week.

I don’t honestly know where the obsession I have with percussion stems from, but I do know that drummers speak a familiar language with each other. We frequent "You Tube" often, posting videos and admiring each other’s performances. Virtually all drum solos are home grown, and it takes a discerning ear to appreciate the unique rhythms that our compositions create.

I know from time to time you hear a kid in your neighborhood that is partial to pounding violently on a set of drums. And I know to you it simply sounds like just a lot of noise. But please don’t knock on his door and complain. Instead, try to follow the rhythm. And if you should encounter him in the street, tell him it sounded kind of cool.

The Far End of the Tunnel

2011-10-17T18:25:00.000-07:00

Water Careens violently over Blodes Dam, crashing into the pond below
A train approaches alongside the stream
Its loud engines are muted by the roar of the waterfall

Perched by the dam, high above the pond
I stand alone and struggle to remember
This very scene repeated
So many years ago

I was young then, and could see clear over the trees
The trees that now crowd in, casting dark shadows
Back then, I could walk barefoot along the tracks
The same tracks that are now splintered and cracked

I used to watch the factory men
They would work beside the brook
Now all I see there is empty boxes, piles of trash and abandoned machines

The brook I remember well
I taught some kids to fish there once
They referred to me as “Captain”

I slide gently down toward the water
Skimming over top the rocks, I find a path to the large bolder
The bolder I used to fish from
I am careful not to fall, for my friends are no longer here to help me

I spy the mouth of a tunnel
The tunnel the train travels through, from the other side of the hill
It is getting late now
The tunnel draws me near

A sturdy branch helps me climb
Up the steep path to the tracks
Carefully, I step across the shaky bridge that crosses so high above the water

The tunnel is dark and cold
I can feel the splash of water as it drips and forms puddles along the tracks
The sound of my steps echo off the damp brick walls

Halfway through, it is totally black
Then, a small light appears at the end of the tunnel
I move carefully towards the light

An outline appears at the mouth of the tunnel
The silhouette is familiar to me
A woman and two small children
Their shadows are cast long by the evening sun that shines brilliantly behind them

I hesitate for a moment
I turn to view the other entrance of the tunnel
And from that entrance I feel a cold wind blowing

I can see in the faint light a scene repeated
When the trees were young
When the sun shown bright in the mid day
When the factory men worked by the brook
When the kids called me “Captain”

But now only a cold wind blows from there
And I know in an instant that I can never return
I bid my youth farewell
And run to the far end of the tunnel

Riches

2011-10-11T18:18:00.000-07:00

If Riches brought me pleasure
I'd work all day, you see
The more I worked, the more I'd make
How happy I would be!

I'd buy new clothes
I'd buy new cars
I'd buy a new house too

I'd pay for this
I'd pay for that
I'd sign up for more credit
I'd work and work and work some more
And never would regret it

But its not for me
This work, you see
Happy I would not be

For if I worked and worked some more
I'd have no time for you
For all the money in the world
This simply would not do

So keep your cars
And your new clothes
And keep your new house too

The thing I find most precious
Is the time I spend with you

When you were Ten, a Birthday Wish

2011-10-05T18:34:00.000-07:00

If you think hard, you can remember when
On your birthday cake was "10"
You gathered around all of your friends
For you would never be ten again

Your presents were wrapped with ribbons and paper
You were innocent then, and life was much safer
Your cares now must seem to be much larger
and life, perhaps, a little bit harder

Please trust in me with this thought
For your birthday, a gift I've brought
Before you blow out your candles, remember to do this:
If you think of me and smile, I'll grant a special wish

To wash away all your troubles and fears
You need only realize how much for you I care
If you do this, you'll be as happy as when
On your birthday cake was "10"

Beach Morning

2011-08-24T05:14:00.000-07:00

Sophie likes to go to the beach

I can tell she is happy by the way she wags her tail

She is better in some ways than a child, since she will never grow up and move away

I feel lonely standing on the shore, just feet seperating me from the emptiness of the ocean

I swim out far and then farther out, sometimes wondering if I have the strength to return

The lifegaurd blows his wistle at me, but I pretend not to hear him

We take drinks with us, Rum and soda, beer; its not allowed, you know, but I don't care

Nothing like a good beer buzz to put you in the mood

Just have to be discreet, of course

Margo says the surf talks to her

Endless chatter like baby talk that means whatever you want it to

I think maybe she is right, I just never listened before

She's kinda of appealing being out of her element

Don't often see her quite so relaxed

Times like this make me realize how special she is

She thinks I take her for granted, but I think she is wrong

Jose lights up a hibatchi in the gazebo by the parking lot

The smell of lighter fluid and charcoal conjurs up so many memories

It was so much fun as a kid to go on a picnic

There's always kids at the beach, and they are always happy

Sand and water, what better combination could there be for a child?

They build sand castles with their toy shovels and plastic pails

Its almost enough to bring a nastalgic tear to the eye of an old man

Margo and Sophie are asleep now

They surrendered to the gentle cool breeze and the slap of the surf

I am too busy people watching to give in to my urge to slumber

I wonder what a middle-aged woman was thinking by getting a tattoo

And I wonder what it says about me when I find it mildly appealing?

A couple of kids glide gracefully down the beach on a bicycle

I wonder if it is possible to ride along the shore all the way to Miami

I can think of no good reason why not

Perhaps another nominee for entry into my bucket list

The combination of beer and rum is starting to take full effect now

What better venue could there be for transforming into an altered state of mind

Nothing extreme, of course, just enough mellow to trim the edge

I start to fixate on the horizontal line that seperates the water from the sky

How can anything in nature be so perfectly geometric?

I see a freighter slowly sink into oblivion on the horizon

How can anything be so far away?

How can waves crash to shore endlessly, never stopping for more than an instant, ever?

I hear a woman speaking spanish on a cell phone, one umbrella down from us

A dirty faced boy scuries around under her feet

She has bushy hair, blown out like a lyon's mane, and a tramp stamp on her butt

I hope she can't discern my stare, hidden behind dark sun glasses

She has all kinds of things hanging out from her bathing suit

She walks in circles, gesturing with her hands, occasionally glancing over at me

She lights up a cigarette and strikes a pose

She is hispanic trailer trash to some, but not to me

The sandman commeth

I force the folding chair all the way back and peer up at the umbrella fabric

Eyes closed, I listen to the muffled sounds of children playing

The sound of the surf gently caressing the shore is intoxicating

I pull the hat all the way down over my eyes, and finally Crash........

Summerville Beach

2010-12-08T17:21:00.000-08:00

On a cool morning in late September a seagull stands at attention, welcoming the sunrise as it gradually illuminates the clouds which float like pink marshmallows beyond the surf breaking gently on the shore of Summerville Beach. The bird is snow white, like a dove, and like a sentry he stands guard over these waters. Spying a shrimp boat just off shore, he takes to flight.

Ryan struggles to acclimate himself to the cold water creeping slowly up from his feet, as he ventures straight out into the surf for a training swim. He and some buddies from his triathlon team meet at the beach every Sunday morning to do some open water swimming.

The waves were calm and gently rolling as he reached a depth about shoulder high, and then turned and squinted to peer through the mist to just be able to make out the outline of the shore. He pushed off from the sandy bottom, immersed his head beneath the water and took a stroke, then another, then tilted his body for an instant to take a breath, then back into the water. He quickly settled in to the strange rhythmic sensation of sound and then quiet and then sound again as he turned his head first under water, and then briefly out, and then back in again.

Buoyancy created by the salt water allowed him to effortlessly float up over the crest of the waves, and then down, and then back up again. The intricate motion of going forward, up and down, and then sideways at times was somewhat intoxicating. He went slowly at first, enjoying the sensation of weightlessness before getting in gear and hammering for a good half mile up toward the Red Cross station next to Summerville Pier.

Tired from the swim, he floated almost motionless toward the shore. Like a drunken sailor, dizzy from being horizontal for such a long time, he stumbled on a sea shell as he emerged from the surf and crashed clumsily onto the beach. He heard footsteps and then a women’s voice “You OK?”

He peered up from his position on his back to see a woman peering down at him. “Yea, I’m fine, just lost my balance for a minute”. He sat up and then felt the cold nose of a dog on the back of his neck. “Jack won’t hurt you, he just likes to play”. Ryan gathered himself, then stood up to take in a normal view of the scene.

He recognized her instantly, though she had changed so much over these many years. Like a wooden fence that had endured harsh winters, her skin was weathered by the years, yet her eyes were a dead giveaway. Those eyes were etched upon his subconscious like the outline of a tattoo that had been removed, but was not completely gone.

In a flash Jack’s mind returned to a scene from his youth. He saw himself in a noisy high school cafeteria, and then there was a sudden silence as Lea Mendenhall gracefully strutted by, accompanied as always by a full entourage of everybody who was anybody at Summerville High School. He was her secret admirer alright, even to the point of being obsessed.

I have some water if you like, here take this”, as she handed him a plastic bottle of water. “No, really I’m fine, I was just a little dizzy from my swim. ” “I took your picture swimming, it’s a hobby of mine, would you like a copy? If you give me your e-mail I’ll send it to you, I have a pen in my car - just up this way.”

They strolled casually along the beach and exchanged small talk. He asked about her photography hobby and she about his swimming. He mentioned that he was preparing for a triathlon next weekend here at the beach, so he was getting in some swimming practice. She mentioned that it might be interesting to photograph the event and asked about the start time.

He felt comfortable strolling along the beach with her. Maybe it was the setting, what with the slap of the waves and the singing of gulls it is virtually impossible to be uptight at the beach, no matter whose presence you happen to be in.

In Ryan’s mind, this chance meeting could less likely be dismissed as providence but more likely to represent the culmination of the cosmic power of his desperate desire to find true love in his life. This was one of those rare moments when you turn a corner and recognize instantly that you are entering a path you have travelled down before.

“My name is Lea, by the way”, she mentioned as she wrote down his e-mail address. “Hi, I’m Ryan, you have been so kind, I hope you can make it to the triathlon next weekend, and thanks for the photo”. The Mercedes she drove did not go unnoticed by Ryan. By appearances, she had not strayed much from the social class he associated her with back in high school.

Later that night he spied her e-mail in his mailbox. “Hope you like the Pic, maybe I’ll see you next weekend” said the note below her attachment. The photo was somewhat flattering, highlighting the athletic physique of a fit man in his middle forties. He responded by thanking her and mentioning the start time of the event next Sunday morning.

Curiosity got the better of him, so he googled her name on the Internet. She had an entry on “ Linked” so he checked it out. Lea Mendendall, IT manager for ASI Systems, Inc. it said. Interesting that she still has the same last name, wonder if she is married? He found a hit on Facebook doing a simple search for her name in Summerville.

The Facebook site was not protected, so he casually browsed it to get a flavor of what her life must be like. He was surprised to see she was single, and he saw no mentioned of children. There were a few albums of pictures that were mostly of nature and cityscapes, and of course, plenty of pictures of Jack, the dog. He did a search on Twitter and to his surprise he found a copy of the picture she took of him that day, with the caption “Never know what will wash in with the surf on Summerville Beach”. Ryan wasn’t quite sure what that meant, but at least he was encouraged that he had made some kind of impression on her.

Ryan’s obsession with Lea slept quietly away in his subconscious, represented by a carnival that was once complete with colorful lights, screaming patrons on a roller coaster ride, and a musical carousel. The carnival in his mind was long-ago abandoned, the rides left to rust in the rain and the walkways now cracked and over run with weeds.

A cold wind blows as he enters the abandoned amusement park on a dark winter night. He runs desperately past the broken down rides, first in one direction and then another. He searches for a lever and stops dead in his tracks when he finds it. He takes a deep breath to steady his hand and slowly pulls on the lever, shaking in fear of what it may reveal. Suddenly, the carnival springs to life, complete with colorful lights, twirling rides and the screams of patrons. Ryan screams allowed as he awakens from this dream, his trembling body soaking wet. His carnival of passion was not dead, but merely lost in a deep slumber, which has now been awakened!

Ryan thought of her seemingly every moment of each day during the week. Like a bee’s nest that had been disturbed, thoughts of her scattered every which way across his consciousness. Mostly he was haunted by the memory of missed opportunities he had in his youth to connect with her. There were so many times he just couldn’t bring himself to pull the trigger and convey to her his feelings.

He still felt a twinge of pain when he remembered the day he saw her hand in hand with Richard Colley. That was the official end of the game for sure, as Ryan was no match for the varsity letterman who became her steady and remained so until graduation, after which time Ryan moved away and buried his memories of her away forever, or so he thought.

Ryan’s dedication to endurance sports resulted in his spending countless hours alone while training. He filled that time during the week thinking of her. It didn’t matter to him that she was only a facsimile of the beautiful girl he remembered from his youth. She still represented the prize that was always just a little beyond his reach, the one that was meant for others more fortunate than he.

Ryan wasn’t a kid anymore. He was at that age when he realized that his potential was no longer limitless. He had been at best a survivor in a life long struggle to achieve a peaceful harmony between his limited abilities and limitless desires. And now it somehow seemed to have all started with a youthful obsession with a girl he barely even knew.

A capable young man fresh out of college, Ryan had no trouble attracting the wrong kind of woman. As he entered the working world, gone were the boyish looks and awkward mannerism of his youth. His new-found celebrity with the women created in him a false sense of invincibility that resulted in him always seeking a woman with better attributes than the one he happened to be with at the moment.

As he saw his friends marry and settle down to a civilized existence, he took little notice and spent most of his time chasing after skirts. He was living so much in the moment that he didn’t notice that life was moving on without him. Like a debtor he had mortgaged his future in favor of good times in the present, and his whole world came crashing down recently when he finally realized that living the high life left him with nothing meaningful as he approached middle age.

On a long training run, he imagined how different his life might have been if he had simply managed things better and had found a way to hook up with her at a young age. He envisioned a white wedding and a honeymoon trip to an exotic tropical island. He saw a millionaire’s family with two perfect children and a four bedroom house. He would spend his time gardening, rather than out here running alone at night in the cold rain.

His obsession grew at a compound rate as the week progressed. The many struggles in the war of love he had lost over the years created a cancer of despair in him that had metastasized, destroying his entire sense of self worth. Now fate has afforded him an opportunity to revisit the origin of his pattern of failure and this time he must surely get it right.

Ryan arrived early on Sunday, well before sun up. His body cast a long shadow against the light from the gas lantern he used to help with setting up his gear. The parking lot filled up quickly amidst the sounds of bicycle pumps popping, wrenches clanging and old friends getting re-acquainted.

He carefully surveyed each and every face he saw on his way to check-in, looking for her familiar eyes. As the sun rose he could see better, but in spite of his efforts there was no sign of her anywhere.

He strolled down by the beach and noticed the silhouette of a woman holding a large camera a hundred yards or so down the beach. Like a lion preparing to chase down its prey, he suddenly sprung into action. His heart began to pound viciously and his body started to sweat as he joggled purposely towards her.

As he approached her with her back to him, his pulse went into overdrive as she suddenly turned completely around to look at him just a few feet away. In a flash his heart skipped a beat and suddenly everything deflated as he realized is wasn’t her. He smiled awkwardly and casually continued on toward the start line, feeling relief as the tension left his body.

His eyes darted in all directions as a young boy played the national anthem on his trumpet, but there was still no sign of her. As a siren sounded and a handful of onlookers cheered, Ryan darted into the frigid water and dove head first into the first breaking wave.

He headed straight out, ever mindful to stay on track to arrive at a large buoy a good hundred yards from shore. He arrived at the buoy in short order, then turned north and enjoyed a good push from the current that took him a couple hundred more yards to the last buoy, and he then turned back towards the beach.

He could hear the cheers from onlookers getting louder as he approached the shore. He saw a couple of swimmers ahead of him stand up as they reached shallow water, so he reached down and felt the bottom which was now close enough that he could stand up and make his way upright to the shore. As he exited the water, his eyes darted in all directions, but again no sign of her.

Ryan wasted little time in transition and was soon hammering across cobble stones on his tri-bike, leaving several slower riders in his wake as he made his way out of the transition area and onto the bike course. As he tucked down into his aero position for the speed work ahead, his mind was more on Lea Mendenhall than the race.

She should have been here by now, he thought. He hadn’t counted on the possibility that she wouldn’t show, that wasn’t in his plans at all. He had pondered the possibility of defeat, but surely he must at least be given a chance to play the game. He was in no mood for pacing himself now, no mood for patience at all. He flicked his shift lever and found the smallest gear he had and hammered mercilessly ahead.

He began to reel in clusters of other riders ahead of him. Distracted by his unsettled mind, he was numb to the pain inflicted on his thighs which rotated like giant pistons, thrusting his bike ever faster down route A1A. He heard the muffled voice of the event MC through the sound system and realized he was just a very short distance from the transition area.

Ryan saw no one ahead of him as he approached the dismount area a good hundred yards ahead of him, and peered around to see no one was in site behind him. Perfect! He thought, she would be waiting at the line as he alone dismounted his bike, like a knight returning on his horse after a long day at battle. He would flick off his helmet and stand erect, allowing her to see him in his moment of triumph!

He slowed as the line approached, and as if in slow motion his eyes locked firmly onto ever person, big and small, that lined the entrance to the transition area, but still no sight of her. He paused briefly to take a drink from his water bottle as he prepared to leave transition for the run course, he did a complete one eighty, and she was still absolutely no where in site.

Ryan’s bike rack was practically empty, meaning that most of the other competitors were still out on the bike course. He spied just a few runners coming back from the half way turn, an indication that he was far ahead of schedule, as he was more used to finishing middle of the pack. He hardly noticed that his cardio system was in extreme overdrive, as his mind was distracted by the desperation he began to feel slowly creeping into his consciousness.

As he sprinted toward the finish line, he realized that his time was a full five minutes faster than he had ever finished before. Instead of being elated, his heart sunk as he realized he had won in his age group, but more importantly, he had lost the object of his desire, for she was not there to witness his victory.

What would under any other circumstance have been a joyous celebration, was on this day a shallow victory for Ryan, as he accepted his award and politely thanked his friends for their congratulations. As the volunteers were busy dismantling the racks and related event paraphernalia, and all but a few competitors remained, Ryan began to walk silently toward the parking area.

An SUV carrying a group of rowdy middle-aged men buzzed by Ryan and then skidded to a stop. The driver stuck his head out of the window and shouted “Ryan’s the man!" then said to him “Hey man, meet us at us at Corky’s tonight – got to celebrate, we’ll pick up some Cuban girls!”. Ryan managed a polite smile, then agreed to meet them later.

He racked his bike in the back of his truck, pulled a cold bottle of gator aid from the ice cooler and sat down on the tailgate. The event victory meant absolutely nothing to him at this moment. He had invested so much energy during the week preparing for his opportunity with Lea that the disappointment was almost unbearable. He struggled to rationalize it all, but it was of no use to even try, as the depression that now consumed him would no longer allow for a rational thought process.

He grabbed a clean towel from the back seat, changed into some surfing shorts and decided to take a walk down to the beach. He walked behind a couple that held the hand of their young child as he made his way down the wooden walkway to the water. At that moment, he wished he could trade places with them. He wished he was on his way to breakfast with his family, instead of searching for a solitary spot on this lonely beach.

He chose a spot and laid his towel down in the sand. He sat quietly and watched the seagulls glide gently over the calm seas. He just wanted to swim out, far out, out toward the continent of Africa. He wanted to surrender to his depression, he just wanted to swim far away.

Exhausted, he lay down and closed his eyes. In his mind he returned to the amusement park and slowly strolled past the carnival rides that were empty of patrons, but were still moving, illuminated by colorful lights . He walked straight to the lever he had pulled up earlier that week and grasped it firmly. Slowly, he pulled the lever down and watched as the lights flickered off and the rides slowly rotated to a complete stop. A cold north wind blew as he shuffled away quietly and so utterly alone into the dark night.

His guy friends, the trophy won that day, even the prospect of party girls later that night meant nothing to him now, as he sat up and gazed pensively out across the vast expanse of the ocean. He had mortgaged his future for sure, and at this point in time he felt totally bankrupt.

Again, his thoughts returned to Lea. She was all he wanted. In a twisted sort of way, he was convinced at this moment that he had spent his entire life searching for a woman like her. That is surely why he was never satisfied; she was the one for him and the others were just never quite good enough.

He stood and peered out over the waves, shinning brilliant blue against the sky. Just as he was about to run toward the surf he felt something wet on his leg and turned abruptly around. “Jack!, sorry, didn’t mean to scare you” said Lea as she corralled the dog.

“Hey” said Ryan “you missed the event, it’s all over.” Lea looked at Ryan, then looked down at the sand, then stood speechless for what seemed like an eternity.She motioned for him to stay silent, as if she was gathering her thoughts.

“I didn’t miss it, I’ve been here all along, hiding from you, I just couldn’t find enough courage to pull the trigger. I need to talk to you, Ryan. I know you won’t believe this, but we used to know each other, a long time ago.”

Seagulls glide gently on the crest of warm currents, soaring majestically over the breaking waves formed off the shores of Africa, that find an end here to their arduous journey across the lonely sea. Here, somewhere between heaven and earth, where the water, earth and sky unite to form a setting too beautiful to even describe, two lost soles rediscover one another on the sandy shores of Summerville Beach.

Unemployment Blues

2010-09-27T18:20:00.000-07:00

Although I have had no less than twenty five legitimate jobs in my life, I can boast that I have never actually been unemployed for more than a week or so since I started working more than thirty years ago. However, being that I have spent most of that time working in the seasonal tax return preparation business, I have been underemployed for much of my life, so I have a feel for what many of you that are unemployed are going through during these hard economic times. I'd like to contribute my two cents worth of knowledge on the subject, if I may.

First of all, anyone who tells you they know what you are going through is misinformed, unless they have actually been unemployed for an extended period of time themselves. You never know how hard it is to walk in someone else's shoes until you put them on and walk in them. So don't expect a lot of sympathy from your family, friends and associates. If you need support, seek help from others who are or have been unemployed, since they can better sympathize with your situation.

Losing your job is like the lights going out in your house during a storm. The first thing you do is run for the bedroom and flick on the light switch so you can find your flashlight, only to realize that you have no light because the electricity is out. Little by little you start to realize that without electricity, you can't cook, watch television, check your e-mail, run the air conditioning, or even move about comfortably at night. Civilized life as we know it is put on hold until the power is turned back on, and so it is for the unemployed until they find a job.

Everything becomes a chore when you are unemployed. Just getting out of bed in the morning is difficult, being that you have nowhere to go once you are up. Days filled with nothing to do drag on endlessly. Each day you tell yourself that this cannot continue, but everyday it does. You are riding on a down bound train, en rout to a virtual meltdown the day your unemployment checks finally run out. You have the unemployment blues!

Without a job, you have limited financial resources to live at a standard you enjoyed when you were gainfully employed. Thus, little by little you find yourself doing without. It suddenly occurs to you that virtually every time you leave your house it costs you money, a commodity that is in short supply. Eventually, you find yourself just staying home all of the time, because you can no longer afford to go anywhere.

The slower things get, the lazier you get. The laziness feeds on itself and makes even simple tasks unbearably hard to manage. When you are unemployed, you have all day to work on your job search, but it is so incredibly hard to get yourself motivated to do it. Thus, the difficult task of finding a job is made all the more challenging since you cannot find the motivation to manage your job search effectively.

Your inability to effectively hunt down a job prolongs your period of unemployment, which adds to your depression, making it harder still to get motivated to work on your job search. As your job search progresses, you tend to exhaust avenues you explored to find work. You have been to employment agencies, answered ads in the paper, and asked associates if they are hiring, all to no avail. At some point in time, you realize that these activities are not very productive so you have a tendency to give up and scale back your search efforts.

So what should you do now? You have to step out of the box a little and try something different. Look, things could not get any worse, so what do you have to lose? Ninety percent of Americans who want to work have a job, so surely there is a job with your name on it out there somewhere, you just need to find it.

Submitting resumes on the internet for your dream job has basically gotten you nowhere, so it is time to change things up a little. First, put some resumes together and go door to door to establishments where you think you might be hireable. Visit them all, not just a few. Prospective employers will admire you for your effort. Also, getting out of the house will do you some good, and a change of scenery will cheer you up. I know that this may be demeaning to you, but as I said, things can't get any worse, so what do you have to lose?

Second, go online to Craigslist.com and search all job categories in your town for a job you may be qualified for. Don't overlook part-time employment, as you can use this to supplement your unemployment benefits. Also be receptive to volunteer activities and low paying jobs, as these opportunities may lead to a better position down the road. Remember, I said search all jobs you may be qualified for, not just the jobs you are interested in. Again, we are outside of the box now, so consider applying your job skills in a new profession if you feel you may be qualified, or can learn the necessary skills to be productive.

Above all, stay active in your job search. Just as your initial frustration in finding a job led you down a path of apathy and laziness, a renewed effort to find work will energize you, which will make your job search more productive, and at the same time lift your spirits.

If these measures do not help you find a job, then you may have to go a little radical and consider moving to a new town where employment prospects are better. Also, you may have to consider taking a job that pays less than you were making before, and adjusting your cost of living accordingly. In any case, you will feel somewhat empowered if you take charge of your situation and come up with a plan to manage your future, instead of just sitting around the house waiting for something good to happen.

Above all, realize that you live in a community and there is help for you if you seek it out. Look around and you will find government agencies and non-profit organizations that have programs to help people like yourself that are down on your luck. Also, a lot of people are out of work so you are not alone. Turn to your community of neighbors, friends, associates and family members if you need help from them.

Being thrown out of work is very stressful and traumatic, but it is not the worst thing that could of happened to you. You will recover from it and find gainful employment again if you just stay persistent and work hard at finding a new job. So don't despair, but do get off of the couch and start working today on building a better tomorrow!

The Horrible Hundred (Day Two)

2010-08-04T09:00:00.000-07:00

My watch sounded its alarm at 4:30 AM. That was just about the time I had settled into a very deep slumber. I rested peacefully for another five minutes, soaking in the night sounds of crickets, frogs and the occasional distant hum of cars traveling on the interstate.

I slowly unzipped the netting on my tent, pretending not to hear the annoying sound it made as it would surely disturb the other campers. The bright lights from town shown on the horizon, but the stars appeared brilliant against a slate sky directly overhead. I felt a cold dew laying heavy on me as I made my way to the showers to freshen up for a long day ahead.

As I slowly drove down the dirt path toward the ranger station, a couple of small deer appeared alongside the road, seemingly impervious to my presence. An armadillo scuttled away into the thicket in front of me. It was interesting to see the night creatures that you so seldom see in town.

I got to the century ride center a full hour and a half before the start time at 7:00. Volunteers with red flashlights directed me to the far end of a grass field where I found a place to park beside a large pond. Still tired from a long night, I pushed my seat all the way back, shut my eyes and quickly dosed off.

A slamming car door awoke me just as the sun began to peek out from the edge of Lake Minneola. By now, the grass field was full of camper trucks, SUV's, Jeeps and whatever else you could cram a bike or two into. People hurried to and fro, prepping their bikes and huddling in packs where an occasional loud laugh drifted across the parking field.

Next to me was a large RV, the kind that gets around 10 miles to the gallon. An attractive woman who appeared to be in her thirties emerged clad in black spandex bike shorts and a colorful jersey. She was drinking a cup of java, holding the cup tight in her hands, allowing the steam to bathe her face as she attempted to ward off the morning cold.

Next, an older gentlemen about my age jumped down from the back of the vehicle, also clad in tight shorts and a warm up jacket. I'm pretty good with catching a resemblance between father and daughter, and I saw no such resemblance here. So I assumed she must be a trophy honey, and my assumption was validated when I heard her call him "Hun."

We exchanged pleasantries, and they explained to me that they were from New York and had occasion to do century rides like this quite often. They rode a couple of high-end bikes, fully loaded with space age carbon and the such. They came prepared with nine gears on the back and triple chain rings on the front, giving them twenty seven speeds to work with.

I too had twenty seven speeds on my Fuji Roubaix, fully decked with aero bars, a nashbar tool bag and adorned in brilliant crimson red paint. It was a recent gift from my son-in-law, and not a day too soon, as I would need every advantage to champion the arduous course that awaited us.

I sat on the tailgate of my Isuzu camper truck and nibbled on a stale bagel, a bottle of gator aid in my other hand. I pondered the virtue of partnering with a younger woman like my neighbor here. Surely she must be there more for comfort and convenience, rather than for true love.

Then again, life is full of compromises. And who am I to judge the virtues of others? Life is by its nature a struggle, and who can blame someone for welcoming comfort when and where they find it? In any case it was surely no business of mine, so I assembled my gear and headed over to the start line.

As is typical at these events, you have the club teams with matching unies, you have the small cliques of weekend riders who know each other only by first names, you have the triathletes with their time trial bikes and bibs, and then you have the singles like myself. I like to walk around and see if I can spy anything unusual, like a custom or antique bike.

I spied a Richard Sachs custom made steel bike. I had never seen one in person before. The lug work on it was meticulous. I wanted to talk to the owner, but he was busy jawing with another rider, so I ventured on after giving his bike a good once-over.

I stood at attention as the national anthem was song by a young girl. Then the race organizer barked out some inaudible instructions on a megaphone, and the ride had officially begun.

I waited patiently as more than a thousand riders passed underneath the start banner. Experience had taught me that this is the most dangerous part of the ride, and sure enough just then a middle aged man locked wheels with someone and crashed violently to the pavement.

I suspect he was more embarrassed then hurt as he slowly got up and took stock of what condition he and his bike were in. I figured there were plenty of volunteers there to help him out, so I climbed aboard my bike and glided slowly underneath the start line, punched the start button on my computer, and I was officially off on the first mile of the Horrible Hundred.

I rode tentatively at first, trying to just blend in to the flow of thousands of bicycles as they circled the lake. The colors of the jerseys ran the full gamut of a rainbow, and they were complimented by the reflection of a brilliant blue sky as it shown on the still surface of the water.

I felt a cold chill as we passed beneath the shade of oak trees that adorned the sides of narrow city streets. You could hear the clatter of chains and the clicking of gears as we travelled across an occasional patch of cobble stones. Locals sat on brick steps and shouted words of encouragement. I heard an occasional references to my Irish heritage, as I was wearing the Irish national team jersey.

We arrived at Hospital Hill about three miles into the ride. I looked up from the bottom of the hill and saw a sea of riders off their bikes, climbing wearily up the steep incline. I flipped my chain down to the second chain ring and pushed the rear derailleur all the way to the highest gear, and casually made my way past most of the riders to the summit. It felt good to get my heart pumping and actually break a little sweat. I crested the hill, pushed my chain back up to the top front chain ring, stood up and charged down the other side.

I went aero and watched my speed climb; 22,24, 27, then a full sprint to 30, then 31. I swung wide to pass other riders, my eyes glued to the pavement to watch for debris or cracks in the road. My hands were loose on the bars to absorb shocks from the road. I remained in the highest gear well past the bottom of the hill, in order to gain momentum to climb the next one.

A dark skinned woman pulled out from a draft line half way up the hill and went on an attack. I caught her wheel and jumped on behind her. She wore only a sports bra on top, and her shorts read "Ford Ironman" on the sides. Her calves bulged and rippled with each stroke.

She began to weaken a bit just before the top, so I pulled around and muscled my way past her, standing on my peddles to gain extra leverage. She met my glance for just an instant, enough time for me to politely nod and utter a barely audible "Hey". I heard no response from her beyond her panicked breathing. I crested the top with her on my wheel, and was pleased to see a level stretch of rode ahead.

I looked behind and noticed the group she was with was nowhere in site. I said "what happened to your friends?" She said in a quizzical voice "I Know, I guess they're saving their energy." I mentioned that I learned to be good on the hills from a young age, growing up in Maryland. She said she trains here in Clermont at the national training facility. She said she was an aspiring long distant triathlete.

I told here that I was impressed and mentioned that my son is also a triathlete, specializing in off-road triathlons. I told her how lucky she was to be able to follow her dreams. By now the other members of her group had caught up and overtook us. I fell in behind her at the end of the draft line and hunkered down for some speed work.

I knew I couldn't hold on for too long, but a little speed work early in the ride wouldn't do any harm. So we hammered along on the flat stretch at around 25 MPH. My eyes were glued to the wheel in front of me, not more than a couple of inches away. I felt the draft seemingly pull me forward, so much so that it felt like I was on a pair of rollers. The line of bikes tilted, dropped and rolled in unison as we turned corners and roller coasterd up and down hills, almost as though we were on the same machine.

We dipped suddenly down a steep decline. I let a small gap form in front of me as I shifted to my highest gear. I went aero and rested, allowing gravity to pull me forward, ever faster. As we approached the bottom, I jumped on the pedals with maximum effort. The steepest part of the hill is toward the bottom, and there is where I gained my advantage.

I stood on the pedals as we climbed up the other side. Still in highest gear, I started to pick off members of the group, one by one. I shifted up as the hill grew steeper, one gear at a time. I glanced in my mirror and saw mass carnage behind me, the group scattered all over the hill. Accept for one rider, who was approaching fast behind me.

I judged the distance to the top and by quick analysis, it seemed I could motor up to the summit if I simply stood on the pedals and grinded it out. So I did, only to see the iron woman blow by me as if I was standing still. She took a quick glance back, ala Lance Armstrong passing Jan Ullrich in the French Alps, and she was gone. Farewell Iron Woman, I thought, as I will surely never see you again this day. Then again, there is still plenty of ride left, so we'll just have to see about that.

Things were still kind of bunched up when we came to the first rest stop, about twenty miles in. There was Hawaiian music blasting from a couple of speakers at the entrance and the volunteers were dressed up in grass skirts. I skipped the luau in favor of making up some time on the road.

I let some fast groups pass on by and settled down for some solitary riding. I calculated that it must be close to fifty years since I borrowed my brother's bike when I was five years old and learned to ride. I still remember the rush I felt when I looked up for the first time instead of down at the pedals, and realized that I could move forward without falling down. Here I was countless miles later, freewheeling through the switchbacks of Lake County, Florida.

I thought of the first ten speed bike I purchased in '73 for one hundred fifty dollars from Patapsco Cycle Shop in Ellicott City, Maryland. It was a french bike, a "Fontane" as I recall. I knocked the wheels out of true on my maiden voyage trying to hop a curb. I remember well trudging home, the brakes scraping on the front rims for miles.

I recalled loosing my balance rounding a curve on a rain-slicked road and totalling wiping out, sliding a good ten feet across the smooth asphalt. I must have crashed a good ten times that senior year of high school when I first started to do some serious riding. Of course there was no such a thing as helmets back then, or riding gloves, or cycling shoes, or bike computers, or just about anything remotely professional. It was just you, a T shirt, some tennis shoes and pair of shorts.

I bought a thermos water bottle at Monkey Wards that came with a holder and strap so you could affix it to the down tube of your bike. The bottle was actually lined with glass on the inside, just like a regular thermos bottle. It weighed about two pounds without the water, but weight wasn't much of a concern back then, as my average speed was only around ten miles per hour.

My father clued me in to a bike parts company called Bikecology, located in California. They had a catalog that was about half the size of a Sears catalog. It was jam packed with just about every bike part you could imagine from all over the world. I purchased a zefal pump from them that fit perfectly between the top tube and down tube of the Fontane, and also a set of red panniers and a sleeping bag. I was ready to do some serious touring.

Come summer time, I would take a couple of days off from my job washing dishes at the Beltway Motel on Washington Boulevard and bike down to DC. I'd camp out at a park in Greenbelt and bike down to the Mall in Washington the next day. It was exciting to ride through the city traffic, my bike fully loaded with the panniers on each side and a sleeping bag tied on top. I felt like a pioneer of sorts, almost like a country boy lost in the big City.

There was something organic about leaning my bike up against the steps of the Lincoln Monument, and pulling out some trail mix to enjoying a snack while gazing out across the National Mall to the US Capital building. The hippy movement had ended a few years before 1974, but I still looked pretty hip with my long hair and raggedy clothes. I feel fortunate now to have such fond memories of my youth.

I rounded a corner and came across a large expanse of orange groves high up on my right, and a gentle valley with a pond at the bottom of a steep hill on my left. You could see a farm silo ahead a good mile or so along with a large farm house beside it. The hills were perfectly spaced so that you could gather enough speed on the descent to make it up the following hill with minimal effort, only to then Kareem down the next hill. It was the kind of scene you might see on a painter's canvas.

I crept up on a lone cyclist near the crest of a switchback about forty miles into the ride. "Must be a rest stop around here somewhere?" I inquired as I drew alongside of an elderly gentlemen who wore a jersey that said "Belfast Bicycle Club". "Don't know, I'm a long way from home" he responded. I mentioned his jersey and asked if he had come all the way from Ireland.

"Belfast Maine, not Ireland, where I guess you must be from?", referring to my Ireland jersey."No, I'm of Irish heritage but a couple of generations removed." "You anywhere near Bar Harbor?" I asked him. He said he was not too far from there as our pace slowed down a bit. I mentioned that I had traveled there while on my way to Nova Scotia to fish for Atlantic Salmon with my father when I was in College.

That got us talking about fishing and camping and how wonderful is was to get away from the city and enjoy the outdoors. His wife had died a few years before so he spends much of his time now travelling around the country doing various events like this century ride.

We rolled into a small town and followed a group of cyclist into the fifty mile rest stop. I poured a cup of cold water on my head as it was getting hot at mid-day, grabbed some fig newtons, filled my water bottle with some ice cold gator aid, and sat down at a picnic table to rest a bit. My friend sat down across from me, extended his hand and introduced himself as Roger.

Roger was tall and fit, probably around sixty years old, but was the type that looked way better than men half his age. I asked him how long he had been married, and he explained that he had been married thirty five years before his wife was taken by cancer. He said that biking and traveling help him to take his mind off of his loss, sort of like therapy.

Roger and I had a lot in common. We were both avid cyclists, having taken up the sport at a young age. We both played golf and enjoyed fishing and the outdoors. We both raised children who become professionals and were totally devoted to our wives and families. Even though I had just met him, I felt a sense of guilt about his misfortune, and at the same time felt so totally relieved that I had not suffered such a loss in my own life.

There seems to me to be quite a bit of irony in meeting someone who is so much like yourself. It seems to happen to me a lot. Almost like there is a mythical parallel universe, in which you live out your life as if you had been dealt a different hand of cards. So much of our lives are determined by fate, as apposed to conscious effort on our part. It made me feel fortunate that I had been dealt a better hand than my friend.

I spied some of the "A" team members from back home getting ready to leave the rest stop. They wore matching jerseys with a picture of Mr. "T" on the front. They used to sponsor a ride every now and again, complete with after ride music and refreshments. I hastened to finish so I could join them, and invited Roger to come along. He refused, explaining that his weary legs needed more rest, so I bid him farewell and wished him luck on his journey.

Art Gonzales was a beast at times on the cycle, the kind of guy who would stick to your wheel like a fly trap. I pulled up alongside of him and said hello. He seemed surprised to see me, like when you go downtown and run into your neighbor at a traffic light. He and a couple other guys from the club rode down together, as they often did for events like this.

It got me to thinking about guys like him that like to spend time with the guys. That was never for me, I never had any interest whatsoever in spending time with the guys. I might play golf with a friend or maybe see a football game or the such, but I wouldn't know how to act on an entire weekend with a bunch of guy friends.

I think its because when guys get together, they generally like to get rowdy and loud and tell jokes that are more stupid than funny.I guess it started in grade school when we would line up for lunch, one line for the boys and the other for the girls. In the boys line, I would have to put up with some stupid kid behind me poking me with a pencil, all the time I was trying to look mature for La Fawn Comiford, who was constantly staring at me from the girls line.

La Fawn Comiford, or Crickett as she was known on my block. The mysterious girl that lived across the street, next to Mike Forsythe. She didn't have many friends as I remember, just a dorky little brother who always following her around. It seemed to me at the time that she was always staring at me, even though we weren't friends, as it was my policy at the age of nine to not associate with girls. She was kind of easy on the eyes though, as I recall.

We were both in Mr. Deaner's fifth grade class. Her mother accompanied us on a field trip to the childrens museum once. I remember well standing next to her mother at Hemming Plaza in downtown Jacksonville, waiting for the school bus to arrive. She straightend my collar and then gently stroked my back for what seemed like an eternity. I was paralysed by the pleasure of being touched in such a gentle manner. It felt kind of wierd in a way, and a little embarrasing in front of the other kids. But I just stood there motionless, unable to break free, hypnotized in the mid-day sun.

Around about the eightyeth mile we rounded a corner and I gasped as I wrenched my neck all the way up to see the crest of Sugar Loaf Mountiain a good mile in the distance. It was without a doubt the steepest straight track of road I had ever witnessed in my entire life. I mean it was straight - STRAIGHT! - it was straight up!

Carnage was scattered everywhere. Scores of riders were off their mount, slowly trudging, bikes beside them, walking their way up the steep incline. After just a couple of minutes I shifted into gear number 27, the lowest gear I had. I tried to settle down, mindful that this was no time for heroics.

Locals sat in lounge chairs and around picnic tables to witness the parade of riders passing before them. They shouted words of encouragement and rattled cow bells as I proceeded up toward the mid-point. I passed a rider who was gasping for air and encouraged him to keep trying. My legs, weary from the eighty miles I had already endured, felt like two bags of cement.

Sweat poured from my forehead and splashed on the top tube of my Fuji Roubaix. I struggled with my concentration, ever mindful that if I could convince my subconsious that it was easier to ride than to walk, I would find enough inspiration to continue. I looked up to see if I could spy the summit, and what else should I see but the firm behind of the triathlon iron woman from earlier in the ride.

I grabbed her wheel and worked on timing her cadence. From my vantage point I could explore every inch of her chisled body, gracefully girating in slow motion. She was a living work of art for sure. Sweat covered here entire body, like a coat of high gloss enamel. Her well defined triceps protruded from her colorful top and her calves bulged outword with each stroke of the pedals. The bright colors of her outfit shown brillant in sharp contrast to her jet black hair and auburn skin.

I managed to match her pedal cadence and for a brief while almost felt like we were a team, as we began to knock off other riders one by one. She noticed me when she glanced behind to see the destruction we were causing behind us. I found the strength to pull alongside her as she uttered words of encouragement from under her breath. Seeing the crest only twenty five meters or so ahead, I danced on the pedals and pulled the two of us up over the top, all the while basking in the glory of a chorus of cheers from a small crowd of onlookers at the top.

Being in no mood to slow down, I forged ahead across the the flat summit, dropping gears as I picked up speed, and in so doing, dropping the Iron Maiden. You could see the tops of the buidings from Orlando across a valley to the left. A number of motor cycle riders with their leather jackets and chromed machines stood at attention, taking in the view.

The descent was gradual but long. I found my smallest gear and went aero. Tall pine trees blocked the sun that was getting low in the afternoon sky. The air was slightly cooler in the shade, but felt like air conditioning as it dried the sweat accumulated from the climb up Sugar Loaf Mountain.

At the eighty fifth mile, I stoped at the last rest stop to fuel up for the run into town. There were only a few bikers left now, as most had cut the ride short and were already done. By now my neck, back, shoulders and just about everything else aiked a bit. But it was a good pain, the type you feel when you lift weights and get a good pump going.

I finished my gator aid and fig newtons and headed on out accompanied by a young rider who was on one of those carbon machines that weighs about forteen pounds. All I wanted to do was to shlep back into town at a comfortable pace, but he egged me on to try and reel in a small group that had left a few minutes before us. Grudgingly I agreed, but only if he would do most of the pulling.

He had us up to twenty two miles per hour within the first two minutes. I was holding on for dear life as I saw the small group ahead of us get bigger and bigger as we grew closer. About three miles in we hit a hill and he threw up the white flag, explaning that he was a terrible climber. I laughed and charged up the hill, dropping him like a bad habit. I caught the group we were chasing on the descent and settled in at a comfortable nineteen miles an hour for the run into town.

We picked up several riders as we rolled into Clermont. It was fun returning in a pelaton of sorts after a hard day of riding. The town was wide awake now, in sharp contrast to the slumber we had left it in that morning. Heads turned as the procession of bikes snaked its way through narrow passages. The local motorists were quite a bit more hospitable than those I was used to back home, as I didn't hear even one obscenity hurled our way.

My odometer read 101 miles as we turned a corner and to everyone's amazement stared up at probably the steepest, albeit short, climb of the day. I estimated it was only about two city blocks long, but it sure did dampen everyone's spirits. Most just got off immediately and began to walk, but I shifted to the easiest gear I could find and grinded it out for the short but challeging climb so late in the ride. Surely this bonus hill was added by an overzealous ride director who probably never actually rode a century in his entire life.

I cruised into the parking lot at the end of the ride amid sporadic applause from a few misplaced volunteers. I was pleased to see that the parking lot was relatively full, a sign that there were still some of riders on the road. I checked my bike computer and was pleased at the 16.8 average miles per hour, and the maximum speed of 32.

A band was perched under a big Oak Tree by the lake and was playing something from Lynard Skinard. The organizers had set up a big tent under which were cafeteria tables and chairs, and where a buffet of sorts was being served. I grabbed some home cooked food and a cold drink and found a vacant seat at the end of a long table.

It was somewhat surealistic sitting there so far from home, listening to the banter of strangers sharing stories about the day's ride. Most of them had traveled there with friends, allowing them to share their experience with people whom they were close to. I was more like a drifter, passing through a small town as if a passenger on a train.

A freight train moving across the desert approaches a town in the dark of night. On it, a traveler in a boxcar sees the lights grow more brilliant as he draws nearer. Suddenly, the stillness and dark of night is interupted by the bustle of the town as the train passes through it. He sees the motion of cars and pedestrians as he passes one street after another. He squints to see past the flood lights of a ball field. He hears a siren and sees flashing lights from a police car. He sees children playing under a street lamp, and old people sitting on the stoops of row houses.

Then all is quiet and dark again as he leaves almost as quickly as he arrived. We are all travelers through time. We journey to somewhere remote and stop for awhile to explore and satisfy our curiosity. We makes friends and observe the proclivities of others. We lose ourselves in the moment, not wanting to acknowledge that our stay is only temporary.

And thus is was on my sojourn to the Horrible Hundred. I went, I saw, and I left.

The Horrible Hundred (Day One)

2009-11-23T17:17:00.000-08:00

Clermont is a small town (population 24,200) and rests about twenty miles west of Orlando, just about smack in the middle of Florida. It is notorious among bicyclists around the country as the home of an event held each fall, affectionately known as the horrible hundred.

And what could be so horrible about a one hundred mile bicycle ride held anywhere in the flat state of Florida? Well, that is what I thought as I packed my gear and readied my bike for my first pilgrimage to this cycling Mecca.

A man needs to get away by himself every now and then. A sojourn would do me good. Good to get away from the tribe, see some new faces. I’m sure there are some guys from the club heading down there, but I see them every week so I don’t need to hook up with them for sure.

I rolled into Clermont around noon on Saturday. The festival was just getting started. A live band played some George Thorogood alongside the shores of picturesque Lake Minneola. Vendors had tents set up where they sold colorful jerseys and displayed the latest in featherweight bikes. I picked up my tee shirt and commemorative jersey and then strolled around the festival a bit. Later, I rested on the tailgate of my Isuzu camper truck and popped a few cold bottles of beer I had on ice in the cooler.

There was not a single cloud in the sky. Cyclists and their families wandered about, enjoying the picnic atmosphere. Children played, their occasional screams waking my slumber as I nodded off, sleepy from the beer. Couples strolled along the lake, holding hands. The smell of barbeque and stale beer permeated the autumn air. The Norman Rockwell aspect of the whole thing was uncanny.

I arrived at Lake Louisa state park around four O’clock and had no trouble finding my campsite. A quick bike ride before sundown to scout out the park seemed in order. I had no trouble finding the shore of Lake Louisa. There, you will find a monument to 1st. Lieutenant Dean R. Gilmore, of Pennsylvania, who lost his life when the P-51 mustang he was flying crashed into the lake on November 11, 1944.

It seemed ironic that the sixty-fifth anniversary of that event had taken place just four days before the very day I was standing there. It was surely a perfect day back then in late November, just like the one I was enjoying now. For a moment, I do declare I even felt the specter of Lt. Gilmore when a cold wind blew across the lake in the late afternoon as the sun began to set. I hastened back to my campsite.

As I set up camp a young woman came by and informed me that the park ranger was giving a presentation later at the outdoor theatre, which was nestled in the woods, down by the lake. I assured her I would attend, not wanting to disappoint her. Dinner could wait, after all it was only six o’clock.

To say the theater was a little spooky would be an understatement. Benches were carved out of tree trunks and were arranged in a semicircle around a camp fire, behind which stood a wooden lectern. Torches cast long shadows in the dark night as I approached. It looked like a scene out of a tribal meeting of the TV show Survivor.

There were not many in attendance, just the young woman who had invited me and a young man dressed in military fatigues. They both seemed strangely out of place for some reason. I sheepishly crept in and grabbed a seat near the back.

The woman announced that the park ranger was taken ill unexpectedly but all was OK, as a substitute was found, in the person of the gentlemen dressed in fatigues. I did not catch his name as he introduced himself, but I did understand him when he began to talk about the air force flyer who had lost his life at the park back in 1944.

The story goes that the weather was perfect on that autumn day when the flyer’s plane suddenly nose dived into the middle of the lake. Although it was twilight when his plane went down, a rescue mission was launched at once. His body was recovered the next day, but the plane was never found. To compound the tragedy, a young woman drowned swimming in the lake the very same day as the plane crash.

The brave lieutenant had flown several missions over Africa in World War Two, and was a flight instructor at a local airbase. He was only twenty-three years old when his life was so tragically taken. The speaker informed us that legend has it that the serviceman’s spirit was still alive in the park. I asked him what he meant by that, and he said that sometimes people hear things in the night, but he did not elaborate further.

When the talk was over, I briefly met with the gentlemen and woman. I told them I was sorry that more people did not attend. They laughed it off and said how thrilled they were that I attended, especially since I had travelled all the way from South Georgia. On the way back to my campsite, I wondered out loud how they knew I was from South Georgia.

Most of the campers were there for the bike ride, and as such they were early risers, so quiet time came early that night. I prepared for bed by wearing my usual cold weather garb: bike pants, then sweat pants, then my bike jersey, covered by a long sleeve shirt, covered by my FSU pullover, then a sleeping bag covered by a blanket. If you have ever slept under the stars, you can appreciate how cold it gets when the sun goes down.

I awoke in the middle of the night to the muffled sound of what I can best describe as cannon fire in the distance. I peered through the screen window of my tent and saw flashes of light on the horizon coming from the direction of the lake. Surely this couldn’t be a storm, I thought, as the weather forecast was for clear skies.

A light was not needed to guide me as I stumbled through the woods, down the path to the lake. Even though there was no moon, the stars shown brilliant like white Christmas lights, accentuated by a sky that was blacker than coal. I strolled out on the pier towards the end where a figure in a gown stood facing away from me, holding a dim lantern.

The person did not move until I was immediately behind her, her features hidden beneath a white hood. "We've been waiting for you", she said in a whisper. At that moment, bright lights appeared from a plane approaching us from directly across the lake. It was so close overhead and approaching so fast and the light was so very bright and it was so low surely it would hit us!
I grabbed for the woman to save her from the collision as the plane roared just inches over the top of us. But just as I grabbed her, in that very instant, she was gone, my hands gathering nothing but air! The plane disappeared into the dark night and then all was silent.

On the far shore, there were several flashes of light that came in a flurry, then darkness. Then I heard the muffled rumble of artillery. The lake glowed as if covered by phosphorous. You could see the outline of giant gars swimming gracefully around the lake, as if in a procession. A shooting star dropped silently down from the middle of the sky and disappeared in front of me, seemingly so close I could reach out and touch it.

I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned suddenly to recognize the young man and woman from the talk earlier at the wooded theatre standing in front of me. "Sorry to frighten you, but we need you to be at your optimal level of alertness" he said. "God bless you, you are the strong one!" the woman declared, as she grabbed me tight and gently kissed my cheek.

"You must help us, no time to explain" the gentlemen said as they each grabbed a hand and squeezed so very tight. I instantly felt my body begin to weaken. I felt a rythmic effort by them as if climbing a hill on a bicycle. And with each effort, I grew weaker and breathed harder.

I began to see stars around me, as if I was gliding through the universe, higher and higher and further away. And then past planets and galaxies and in an instant even beyond the stars we climbed higher and higher still.

'We cannot try more, you must help us!" the gentlemen exclaimed. As if approaching fifty yards from the summit of a massive hill, I dug deep into my reserves and found a second wind of energy. I looked forward through the darkness and saw brilliant hues of color emanating from a small circle in front of us. Surely this is our destination and with it in sight, I will not falter now!

With my final effort we glided in through the brightly lit portal. Suddenly, everything was effortless and I felt powerful bolts of energy flow through me. I cannot describe this place, for it is not of the world we know. It is a familiar place, though, I am sure I have been here before.

"Good luck on your journey, God-speed!" she said as the woman gently pushed me forward. All was suddenly dark as I floated down, so ever softly and with the most pleasureful feeling. Softly down, then further down, and then down further, and further.

My whole body tingled as I regained consciousness, safe in the comfort of my tent. I checked the time on my watch, three AM. I ventured outside my tent and gazed up at the Big Dipper. All was quiet and still. Two shooting stars streaked silently across the entire expanse of sky simultaneously.

Things can be become confusing in the dark of night when a man finds himself alone in the wilderness. The line between things certain and familiar and those beyond normal comprehension become skewed a bit when you awaken in the middle of the night, and find yourself immersed in nature, away from the comfort and normalcy of your home and family. And such it was for me that night in the autumn of 2009.

The spirits of the Lieutenant and the woman who drowned were alive in the park. When they died their souls levitated from the earthly shackles than bound them during their lives, and found a temporary resting place in this beautiful park. To this very day, their presence was felt gliding on the surface of the gentle breezes that rustle the leaves on the branches of stately oak trees, along the majestic shores of Lake Louisa.

One cannot blame them for lingering here awhile before continuing on their journey. They enjoyed seeing the excitement on a boy’s face when his dad took him fishing at the lake for the first time. They accompanied families on nature hikes through the woods. They glided gracefully across the lake on catamarans, their bleached sails shining brilliant against the blue sky. They felt the passion of lovers who hide their lust inside a tent on a starry night. And on this particular evening, they touched the very soul of a solitary man who was on a simple sojourn.

There remain many unanswered questions regarding my encounter that evening with things beyond normal comprehension, but I suspect like many things in life, all will be made clear in time. But for now, suffice it to say my journey was made memorable by my encounter and my life has been forever enriched because of it.

Memories of Fall

2009-10-26T16:50:00.000-07:00

Southerners don't get too excited about autumn, as a rule. I guess its because the leaves don't really change that much down here, and it is not uncommon for it to be down right hot on any given day. But it does get a bit cool in the mornings and with all the talk about Gators, Bulldogs and Seminoles, you can't help but notice it is that time of the year.

Most of my memories of the fall are from when I was a kid. Its about the only time of the year when you feel comfortable walking around barefoot outside. I remember when we were kids we would wear a jacket on a brisk autumn day and then role around in the grass until we got good and dizzy, and then we'd try to walk, only to stumble and fall down.

I also remember watching football on television, and then at half time going outside to throw the ball around with my brothers. Some neighborhood kids would come around, and we'd end up playing and forget all about the second half of the game. The quarterback would bark out signals using food groups instead of numbers: "Hot Dogs, French Fries, Mash Potatoes, Hike!!"

It was kind of fun to get tackled and be squished under a pile of kids. And, of course, there would always have to be a Statue of Liberty play where the quarterback would drop back to pass and the running back would run behind him, snatching the ball from his hand and then running for the end zone in the neighbor's yard.

Halloween was always a big deal as well. A sheet was good enough for a costume and a paper bag was all we had back then. You didn't need your parents to walk you around, an older brother or neighbor was sufficient. And you wouldn't even consider heading back home until your bag was good and heavy.

I was kind of partial to my fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Fudge, as were most of the other boys. She was very blond and quite statuesque, if memory serves me correctly. As luck would have it, she lived in a house on the street behind ours. I still remember pleading with Ritchie Adams to not blow my cover as we walked up to her doorstep on Halloween night. Of course, he paid no mind and blurted out my name to her, as I bashfully thanked her and slipped that milky way bar in my side pocket for safe keeping.

We didn't get much candy back then, so a bag full of milk duds, baby ruths and candy corn was rather special. I don't recall there being any rules about how much you could eat at any given time. So I would just pretty much binge on candy for a week or so until everything good was gone. Then, you'd combine what was left in every one's bag into the loser bag, which contained all the cheap stuff that no one really liked, and it would just kind of languish there until it got thrown out.

It was kind of neat to be able to see your breath as we walked down the shell path to school in the morning. Your hands would get so cold you'd hold them directly over the heater before class to thaw them out. During recess you could collect big pine cones and later use them to make colorful turkeys, all decorated with glitter and colored paper.

Thanksgiving was a time to take a break from school, as you'd get a few days off. It was nice to play in the woods, now that the bugs where gone. I was a better Indian than a settler, so I would carry a knife and bow as we pretended to fight the pioneers, rummaging through the wooded lots across the street from our house.

There were paths that snaked all through the woods, like a maze. We knew them like the palm of our hand. Teams would be formed so we could wage a make-believe war. Usually it was cowboys against Indians, but sometimes we would change things up a bit and re-enact World War II. It didn't seem to matter what war we were fighting, as long as we were blowing things up or killing someone.

Being a kid seemed to be an endless proposition back then. I remember just wanting to stay there, to never grow up. And it seemed possible, as each day you would wake up and when you looked around, you would breathe a sigh of relief, secure in the knowledge that you were still just a kid. The hands of time try to be kind to us as they turn so very slowly, but surely they do turn.

So if you are lucky enough to have kids, take some time off this time of year and spend some time with them. If you don't have kids, then borrow some and spend a day with them. Take them to the zoo or a football game, or just stay home and decorate pine cones. And when you do, try to remember a time not so long ago, when you were a kid too.

Is racism still alive in America?

2009-10-06T18:28:00.000-07:00

Former President Jimmy Carter claims that much of the criticism of our current President, Barack Obama, is based on racism, which has its roots in the south. Racism is often cited as the cause of poor schools, inadequate health care and a lack of economic opportunity for minorities in America.

Barack Obama is on record as saying it is time to have a discussion about race in America, so lets talk about it.

I grew up in a racist environment during the sixties in the South. I remember seeing riots on TV and hearing my friend’s mother say "they should send them all back to Africa."The first African American (black) person I saw up-close was probably when I was ten years old, when my family moved to Baltimore for a brief time. The neighborhood I lived in previous to that had no black families, and there were no blacks in my school, or at the store, or anywhere else I can remember. They all lived together on the other side of town.

When I was in high school, I recall there was quite a bit of turmoil over a community pool that was voting on whether to de-segregate and allow black members. I also recall at school lunch time how all the black students would sit apart from the whites.

I was in the band in high school and once a year we would have an exchange concert where band members from a school in another city would come and stay in our homes for a couple of days. I recall the band instructor informing us to let him know if we did not want to have a black student assigned to stay in our home.

After I graduated from College I worked for a company that was headquartered in St. Louis. The company employed about one hundred people in their Baltimore facility, where I worked, and more than that in St. Louis. The professional staff in St. Louis used the "N" word when referring to African Americans, and the company employed no black people that I was aware of.

I believe my experiences demonstrate that racism was prevalent in the communities and institutions I was associated with during my youth and early adulthood. I do not, however, feel that it is prevalent in modern day America.

There are plenty of minorities in the neighborhood I live in now. My children attended public schools and always had minorities in their classrooms. I never hear the “N” word mentioned at the workplace anymore, or just about anywhere else. Just about the only time I ever hear a racist comment or attitude anymore is from a retired person who is still living in the past.

While impoverished neighborhoods, poor schools and bad health care were a consequence of racism, they are no longer directly associated with it, in my opinion.

This being said, I am not arguing that minorities will not continue to struggle. What I am saying is that the struggle is now being brought about because of economic realties and politics.

Minorities do not have the same economic resources and political advantages that non-minorities have, so it is harder for them to advance economically and socially. While these forces were once racially motivated, this in no longer the case.

Racism is not dead in America, but it has been diminished to an extent that it should no longer be used as a tool to criticize legitimate opinions and pit one group against another. What was done in the past was wrong, and it had terrible consequences that we as a county will live with for decades.

It is time to stop living in the past if we want to begin repairing the damage that has been done and start looking forward to a brighter tomorrow.

Welcome to my blog

2009-09-23T12:06:00.000-07:00

Welcome one and all to my inaugural blog. Thank you for taking the time to visit with me. I know you are busy, so I will very briefly introduce myself with the hope that one or more of you will see something in me that you see in yourself, and this will inspire you to return and visit with me again.

First and foremost, although I am a professional and hold an advanced degree in business , I am far from wealthy in the traditional sense of the word. I shunned a lucrative career in corporate governance in favor of the comfort of working from an office in my home. I drive an old truck that has close to 300,000 miles on it, and during slow times I sometimes struggle to pay my bills each month, as many of us do.

I have many hobbies and interests. Currently, I spend most of my free time cycling and participating in endurance sports, such as running events and triathlons. I enjoy photography, golf, fishing and just about anything outdoors. I hold a black belt in karate (Taekwondo), but haven't practiced the sport in years. I watch CNN religiously and listen to talk radio on a daily basis.

I confess to having redneck tendencies. I drink beer from a keg that rests inside a refrigerator I ganked from the curb on trash day. Many of the things in my life are held together by rubber bands and silver duct tape. I watch Nascar on weekends and drink Shlitz beer whenever I can find it.

I have been married to the same woman for thirty years and have a son who is studying to be a chiropractor, and a daughter who recently graduated from dental school. My wife's parents moved in with us thirty years ago and never moved out. Even though they are in their nineties, I am confident they will still be living here long after my demise.

Although I have benefited from much formal education in my life, it is the lessons I learned away from the classroom that have been most informative. Some of my friends and associates are literally millionaires, and others barely have a roof over their head. Some of them are winners, but a lot of them struggle each day to just make it to tomorrow.

Because of the nature of my business, my clients share intimate details of their lives with me. And it is from these interactions with diverse people from different stations in life that I have matured. I have many stories to tell and many lessons to share with you.

This is a blog, not a television talk show. I can't lure you in by giving you presents like Oprah, or satisfy your thirst for psychobabble like Dr Phil. There will be no interviews with celebrities here. I am somewhat of an acquired taste, so you might have to give me a chance to grow on you.

But this blog isn't about me, it is about you. Hopefully, you saw something in my brief resume that you can identify with. I am anxious to hear the stories you have to tell.

So let me go out back and chop some hickory for the fire. I'll smoke some ribs on the pit. We'll cook them slow, southern style. In the meantime, pour yourself a cold beer and pull up a chair under the shady oak tree. Lets talk a bit about life, politics or whatever is on your mind.