Mom's Lies

One of Mom's favorite phrases was, "You can't be too rich or too thin."

As I grew into adulthood (or at least the age where I was supposed to be an adult), I learned that this was a lie. Through the years I have seen the horrible effects, particularly in young women, who didn't understand that you certainly can be too thin. Bulimia and Anorexia have claimed the dignity and lives of far too many people who viewed their skeletal frames as fat.

I've also learned that you can be too rich. Perhaps this could not be more obvious than in the irrational behavior exhibited by many of today's professional athletes. 

Athletes who make it to the professional level in any major sport are a unique breed. They are enormously talented and often have egos that match, or even surpass, their talent levels. They have largely been coddled by coaches, supporters and fans for years. There is often a wealthy booster willing to step in and help sweep legal troubles under the rugs or hush the detractors. 

The result is often a narcissistic spoiled brat with an attitude that they are somehow above the law and other people. This has been made painfully obvious lately by the seemingly constant parade of National Football League players who have made more news for their off field crimes than their on field accomplishments.

Maybe we shouldn't be surprised that giving large sums of cash to previously a coddled athlete; often from a poor background, results in a young man who doesn't understand how to live in a normal society. Furthermore, how often do we hear of athletes who have made many millions of dollars ending up bankrupt and destitute after blowing or being cheated out of their money?

Perhaps the rest of the sporting world should take a lesson from the greatest sport on Earth - Hockey. 

While the NHL has certainly had its fair share of problem children; they have a system to help young players adapt to the sudden status and money that comes with being a professional athlete. Young players often live with an established veteran's family for the first couple of years of their professional career. They are expected to help around the house, deal with the veteran's kids and overall live like a member of the family. 

The veteran often helps the young player manage their money and learn to live with a budget. Perhaps even more importantly, the veteran helps the young player adapt to being a professional hockey player.

Imagine the rush a young man feels when he he sees fans wearing their sweaters with HIS NAME on the back...

Or the excitement from being pursued by "adoring" young ladies who want to be seen with the newest star...

Or the swarm of new "friends" who see the young man as a funding source for their plans and exploits...

Or the temptation to spend massive amounts of money on an exotic sports car - merely because he can.

In these cases, it is the veteran's (and his family's) job to bring them back to Earth; to remind them that they aren't the mighty force that they begin to believe they are, to remind them that giving their time and resources to causes within the community goes along with the notoriety of being a highly paid athlete. 

Is it an inconvenience for the veteran's family? 

Of course it is! It's hard enough for a professional athlete's family to deal with the stresses of day to day life as a public personality and the travel and the hassles of trying to be a "normal" family without having to deal with the additional monitoring and occasional discipline of a young man learning to find his way in the world of professional hockey.

But it appears to work at least most of the time.

Maybe these kids in other sports need the same sort of mentoring so they don't continue on the path that leads to the headlines no fan ever wants to see. 

Maybe they need to understand that having sudden wealth thrust upon them doesn't make them superior. 

Maybe these guys just need to understand that, without proper discipline, you absolutely can be too rich.

Not Possible To Care Less

I have been bombarded with news of the World Cup for months. It seems impossible to watch any sports news without the reporters talking about the upcoming tournament. Even the crawl across the bottom of the screen during hockey and baseball games lists World Cup news.

I just don't get it.

While I understand that soccer has become much more popular in the United States than it was when I was a kid; it's still not like we have, as Mom used to say, "an ice cube's chance in hell," of actually winning anything. Let's face it; USA men's soccer pales in comparison to USA women's soccer. We will certainly play (and likely get walloped) in the first round and then go home.

Only one of my co-workers cares about the tournament; but, then again, he lives, eats and breathes anything sports. I'm pretty sure that's his only interest in life. He talks about the World Cup. A lot. Unfortunately, he sits right beside me at work so I have to hear it.

I'm sure Matthew will want to watch soccer. I would rather watch a 50th rerun of the paint drying special on DIY Network. (I actually love DIY Network, but you get the point.)

I don't believe it is possible for me to care less about the tournament. At this point, I just want it to be over with so I can stop hearing about it. I would almost (key word, almost) rather watch the NBA.

Torture either way.

Bring on channel 230 and its constant stream of DIY shows!

Free Falling

I've always wondered what it would feel like to free fall.

A long way.

Like from an airplane.

I don't fly all that much any more, but I often catch myself looking out the window and imagining just how exciting it would be to put on a parachute and jump; the air rushing past my body as it plunged toward the Earth far below, free falling as long as possible until I eventually glided to the ground under a colorful canopy.

There's just something fascinating about the thought of totally submitting to gravity as I watch the ground below seemingly transform from a vast unidentifiable patchwork of land into defined areas of trees, buildings, roads and fields.

Diane has always been fearful of the what ifs... What if your parachute doesn't open? What if you hit something? What if something hits you?

What if...

I've heard the horror stories; some of them personally from people who have had near misses, but that hasn't taken away the desire. Something deep inside of me still longs to know what it feels like.

I don't think my knees could actually handle the landing any more, but I still dream that I could someday free fall; a long way.

Not A Topless Place!

I went to Florida every January for a number of years to build an on-site network for a client's National Sales Meeting. The hours were long and the pace was hectic, but the crew always had a great time. The meetings were always held in very exclusive resorts and we were generally treated like royalty by the staff; who seemed to be completely unaware that we, too, were there as hired-help rather than the guests of honor.

We typically arrived on site a couple of days before the meetings actually started to build a stage, set up sound, lighting and video projection systems and build a temporary computer network on site to allow the presenters to work on their presentations up to the moment they went on stage, yet still have them ready to go without a hitch once they started for what the client expected to be a flawless show.

The show days were typically pretty tense. The setup and teardown days were a different story entirely. We still worked long hours at a hectic pace, but the pressure was pretty low. We took advantage of every opportunity to kick back and relax whenever possible. One way involved scheduling our day to allow us to head out for a nice dinner.

One night in particular still brings a smile to my face every time I think of it. The resort's concierge highly recommended a tapas restaurant in town for dinner. Our group of eight guys took a break from our setup routines to head over for a delicious, laid back dinner on the night before the event was starting. We got back to the room around 8:00 to find it full of people setting up chairs and draping off areas of the room.

The client's show director was in a near frenzy as she tried to make sure everything was in place for a perfect kickoff in the morning. She came over for a status report and asked where we had gone for dinner that night. None of us remembered the name of the place so I told her, "We went to a Tapas place that the concierge recommended."

Her eyes opened very wide and she nearly shouted, "You guys went to a topless place?!?!?!?!"

The whole room got very quiet as everyone stopped to see what had caused the director to freak out so close to the start of the event. Eight guys broke into laughter almost in unison; which only served to confuse her all the more.

"No," I was finally able to explain, "We went to a tapas place; not a topless place. Tapas - as in T. A. P. A. S."

Virtually everyone in the room joined in the laughter and her face immediately turned bright red and she, too, quickly joined in the laughter.

The conversation proved to be like a giant relief valve on the poor woman's heart - the tension of the coming event suddenly forgotten as we all enjoyed the discussion of how we had NOT gone to a topless place.

The Blackish- Brownish-Widowed-Recluse

One of the coolest places at the house where I grew up was under the porch. There was a small hatch you could crawl through on the east end to get into the crawlspace below the porch. It had, like most crawlspaces, a dirt floor and was always full of spider webs and bugs.

Mom was never too keen on me going under the porch. She was somehow convinced that every spider in the entire State of Missouri was a Black Widow, Brown Recluse or, perhaps, the most feared spider of all, the vicious hybrid Blackish-Brownish-Widowed-Recluse.

Now I wouldn't say that I actually like spiders, but I'm certainly not afraid of them, either. Mom, on the other hand, was certain that every spider under the porch was going to aggressively attack me and bring about my certain, painful death.

That didn't stop me from going under the porch, of course.

Mom determined that I should not go under the porch. I determined that I just wouldn't tell her when I went under the porch. That would work fine as long as one of the tattle-tales known as Debbie, Kim or Beth didn't go running to Mom to tell on me in an attempt to win brownie points for being such a wonderful child.

I already knew that I would never win any wonderful child brownie points, so I never even bothered to try.

I somehow survived those under the porch excursions without ever being attacked by the vicious hybrid Blackish-Brownish-Widowed-Recluse.

It's funny how time and situations change one's perspective, though. I recall another episode a couple of decades later when Mom needed some phone or video cable, I don't recall which, routed through the crawlspace under their old farmhouse while we were visiting. She had no qualms then about having me face the vicious hybrid Blackish-Brownish-Widowed-Recluse while crawling around there.

I don't think it mattered so much anymore whether I was facing a certain, painful death by spider bite then since I had already completed my duty of providing her with grandchildren.

Something Strangely Unfamiliar

An eerie silence settled on our home this weekend.

Both boys are gone; Matthew for the week and Joseph to his new apartment. For this week at least, Diane and I will return to the pseudo-empty nest we enjoyed while both of the boys were in school. Pseudo, of course, because Lola is still there. She tends to stay in her living room watching television (much of which she has found a way to do with her eyes closed and a snoring sound emanating from her mouth and nose) so the house is pretty much an empty nest in the evening.

The quiet house is somehow new and unfamiliar. Quite a change from the hustle and bustle that has marked the last two and one half years. 

This week, Diane and I will be re-adjusting to that unfamiliar atmosphere in our home.

It's Time

This weekend brings another major change to our home. Joseph is moving into his own place.

It's time.

We encouraged both of the boys to live with us for a while after college to allow them to build up some financial stability. The plan has worked very well for Joseph to this point, but no more. We simply live too far from his church. It wasn't such a big deal when his full time job was at a nearby bank and he only drove back and forth to the church a couple of times each week. The driving became much more problematic when he went full time at the church this year. With the drive running about an hour each way depending on traffic, it was time for Joseph to begin looking for something closer.

Joseph signed the lease on his first place last week. It's a small one bedroom apartment; but it is perfectly adequate for a 25 year old, single guy.

It's time.

Joseph is both excited and nervous.

Diane is both nervous and excited.

I'll be picking up a small U-Haul trailer early tomorrow morning to begin the process of moving Joseph into his new place - starting a new phase of his life. Matthew is out of town on business so Diane, Joseph, some of his friends and I will load up his furniture and belongings, head to his new place and help Joseph establish his new home. A home that signifies so much more than just his first apartment. It's a home that will be uniquely his.

Joseph will only be about 40 some odd minutes away, so it's not like he's moving too far, but it's still something different.

We said goodbye to Joseph when we sent him off to college. We didn't know then whether he would ever return to live with us or if God would lead him off to who knows where. He ended up right back with us - right back in the house that he has called home for virtually his entire life. We welcomed him back knowing full well that the time would come when he moved on - when we all would know for sure that he had truly moved away from home.

It's time.

Our home will be much different beginning tomorrow night. Joseph brings a vibrance and dynamic to our home that is unique to him. He is never still and never, ever quiet. His over the top exuberance both entertains Diane and overwhelms me at the same time.

But tomorrow we will all look to the future as he moves on.

It's time.