Sign Language

One of the weirdest aspects of our trip to this part of the world so far is people’s apparent fascination with a particular body part.

We’ve seen caravans of cars with flags that, from what I could tell in passing, looked to be RUMP. We’ve seen signs in people’s yards advertising RUMP. Here on the island, we’ve seen RUMP written in giant letters in the sand on more than one occasion. And twice we’ve seen a boat motoring along parallel to the beach with a RUMP flag.

At first I thought perhaps this was some sort of off-the-wall advertising campaign for a cheap cut of beef by one of the grocery store chains. But that didn’t make any sense without any store names. Then I thought perhaps I was misreading the word – I have been wearing glasses since fifth grade, after all – and that everyone was excited about rum, which got me all stirred up because that is a beverage with which I have more than a passing familiarity, but, no, there was definitely a P involved.

Incredulously, I came to the conclusion that people are just bizarrely announcing their preference for a body part, but why we haven’t seen any BUTT signs or BUM flags, much less any other advertising for BOOBS or ELBOWS or even KNEES, is a mystery to me. But it does seem awfully rude to me that you’re allowed to display such affection for body parts in the first place.

Fortunately, these signs seem to be slowly disappearing, which gives me hope that most people will get over their curious fixation with asses.

Beach Etiquette

Yesterday we were apparently in between bands in the hurricane/tropical storm that has been plaguing us for the last several days and nights, so instead of the predicted rain we actually had a mostly sunny if windy day. (Today, on the other hand, is extremely rough, wet, windy and wild.) We naturally set up shop on the beach, where before long we were joined by two obnoxious women who parked their beach wagon no more than 10 feet in front of us.

After plopping into their beach chairs, they proceeded to violate almost all of the accepted beach etiquette norms within the first five minutes – the most egregious, obviously, was the lack of proper social distancing; if they had turned their chairs to face us, it would have been as though we were in the same group.

So, with their distasteful music and grating voices still ringing in my ears, I thought I would share some of the basic rules of the beach that all civilized people would agree should be observed. I wrote much of this last year while we were here, but knowing right and wrong should be timeless.

The beach, like airports and movie theaters, seems to leave otherwise normal acting people nonplussed by basic social norms and politeness. In other words, they have no concept of proper etiquette.

And, yes, there is and should be etiquette on the beach. Just because people are wearing attire they would be mortified to be seen in at, say, the mall is no reason to act in an uncivilized manner. Experienced beach-goers will instantly recognize these faux pas:

  • Setting up your beach chairs too close to someone else. If it is Coney Island-crowded, I get that you may have limited options. But when there is plenty of open space, or sand in this case, don’t plop your ass down just a few feet away. I don’t want you to listen to my conversations and I certainly don’t want to listen to yours. Which brings us to…
  • Shut the %&$* up, please. Just because you are outside doesn’t mean you have to yell at your partner sitting an arm’s length away (although with the average age of the crowd in this part of the world, I grant you that deafness could be an issue). Try your indoor voice.
  • Similarly, the entire beach does not want to listen to your phone conversation. Did you even think that, since it’s a vacation, you might leave the phone in the room?
  • There are these wonderful gizmos they have invented that connect your ears to the music-playing device of your choice called earphones or earbuds. They allow you to enjoy your poor choice in music without subjecting the rest of us to it. 
  • Please don’t come and erect your tent right in front of me. 
  • Please don’t leave your poorly erected beach umbrella unattended if you are upwind of me.
  • Speaking of upwind, I have already applied my sunscreen and don’t need your spray-on sunscreen wafting into my eyes.

Sadly, we have experienced all of these issues, some more bothersome than others. However, it takes some doing to ruin a beach for me, so we have mostly ignored or laughed off the insensitivity of others.

But don’t push me; if you get too close I’ll throw my Cheetos behind your beach chair and a flock of screeching, ravenous seagulls will be all over you.

Some Calm Amidst The Storms

I have to admit, this vacation has not been, so far, the least stressful trip we’ve ever taken. The worry and precautions we have to take because of COVID are bad enough, but then we had to deal with days and nights of agonizing election coverage – hardly conducive to relaxation and recuperation. And now we have a tropical storm/hurricane bearing down on us, heading straight toward our peaceful little island.

So you could say there is a bit more tension and anxiety here with us, the very things we come down here to escape. The real world is not supposed to intervene here in paradise, posing problems and decisions and disturbances.

But no matter the added stress, our one constant calming influence is looking out over the (so far) peaceful Gulf waters and watching the pelicans dive bombing for fish and the dolphins going about their lives out there and spreading their joy to us.

I’ve seen a lot of dolphins through the years, mostly glimpses of their dorsal fins and backs breaking the water at a distance off North Carolina’s Atlantic beaches. But here, from our vantage point on the 14th floor with a panoramic view of the Gulf, we can often see dozens of them – and they are entertaining, spectacular and mesmerizing.

They occasionally wander close to shore in search of breakfast, lunch or supper – often just 10 feet or so from water’s edge (there are rarely waves of any significance here). Looking down from above, they are a beautiful sight to behold. And when the mood strikes them, they leap high out of the water, often in pairs, just like the old Sea World shows. (Google tells me that they do this for a variety of reasons, including communication, breathing, getting a better view of things like where birds are diving for fish, ridding themselves of parasites, and just for the hell of it because it’s fun.)

The view from my corner office of a couple of dolphins cruising in shallow water down the beach.

They’re equally impressive from beach level, particularly when they are swimming closer to shore than many of the humans swimming in the waters or the kayakers or the paddle boarders or boaters. We were sitting on the beach the other day when we spied some small fins a dozen or so feet out, prompting some nearby bathers to make a mad dash for shore. Turns out it wasn’t a small dolphin but a manta ray, perhaps two or three feet in diameter, and it was its wingtips breaking the water that we were seeing. Unlike the the stingray that caused me such pain earlier, mantas do not have a poisonous barb in their tail. He was just gliding along in the clear water, oblivious to the panic and enjoyment he was simultaneously providing.

So, while we await our latest anxiety-inducing storm clouds on the horizon, we try to maintain our serenity and tranquility by embracing the example of the creatures of the sea, who calmly care not a whit for our world but who make us care so much for theirs.

Watch Your Step

One of our great pleasures here in our little corner of Florida is watching the wildlife, of which there is plenty given that we are on an island bordered by the Gulf of Mexico, the Ten Thousand Islands that stretch pretty much unbroken all the way to Key West, and the Everglades, which stretch pretty much unbroken all the way to Miami.

The dolphins cavorting endlessly out in the vast Gulf that we see from up high on our lanai, as balconies are called down here, are our favorites. Lots of seabirds – pelicans, ospreys, gulls, frigate birds – are zooming around, plunging head first into the water in search of lunch.

On our bike trips around the island we get to see tiny burrowing owls sitting on perches kindly provided to them in their protected, roped-off sections of yards and public green spaces. Likewise, lumbering gopher turtles can be seen crawling in and out of their holes, also in protected spaces.

We love them all. Stingrays, not so much.

F and I were taking a dip in the Gulf and coming in to shore, where ice-cold beers awaited us. I stopped to provide a hand to F at water’s edge – literally in ankle-deep water two steps from shore – when I felt a sharp pain in the side of my heel, just below the ankle bone.

I couldn’t see anything in the surf, but my immediate thought was SHARK ATTACK! I quickly realized that it was too shallow for Jaws to manifest its horrible self. Perhaps a baby shark or a nasty fish? I looked down and saw blood but no teeth marks, no chunk of flesh ripped out of my foot. Just a small, neat puncture wound oozing blood.

Did I mention the excruciating pain?

After washing the wound out as best I could, I hobbled up to my chair and examined it further. No barb was imbedded, but I couldn’t think of anything that could have punctured me except for a small stingray. And since my foot was now throbbing in pain, I guessed that poison had been injected.

Grabbing F’s phone, I Googled stingray sting reactions and, well, it ain’t good news. The sharp, excruciating pain? Check. Bleeding? Check. Wound becomes swollen and discolored? Check. Allergic reactions such as nausea, vomiting, fever, chills, muscle cramps, paralysis, seizures and potential death? Fortunately not, although all those symptoms sound like the side effects of some of those drugs they’re always hawking on TV and telling you to ask your doctor about.

So here I am, a few hours later, still alive, contemplating the ingestion of some liquid pain killer even though the pain has finally diminished, pondering the vagaries of life and wildlife and all the ways humans and animals interact. And thinking that for all this pain, I didn’t even get to write about how I survived a shark attack.

Greetings From The Sunshine State

As has been our custom in recent autumns, we are spending a month in Florida recuperating from the stresses of, in F’s case, tax season (for those not familiar with the ways of CPAs, tax season doesn’t really end until Oct. 15), and in my case, F during tax season (just kidding dear!).

Therefore in the coming weeks, assuming I actually do some writing and don’t spend all my waking hours drinking beer on the beach, swimming, riding bikes, cooking seafood, and drinking cocktails while watching sunsets, this blog may occasionally take on the form of a travelogue.

In truth the idea for this blog originated in a series of emails I wrote during some trips we took over the past couple of years as a way of keeping family and friends up to date. Thus, its origins are about the fun we have traveling. So for you readers who are disappointed in not getting the usual brilliant satire and hilarious insights into life and the human condition and could care less about our vacation, all I can say is that you need to check the fine print in the blog’s money back guarantee.

So, a few notes about Florida.

Yes, it’s as decidedly weird and absurd as its reputation, although I have to admit that given the number of times I have read a news item in recent years about some crazy person or some bizarre happening, North Carolina is giving it a run for its money. I think of Florida as having a split personality; one is the glitzy, sandy, high-rising, palm tree swaying, luxury lounging rich relative, while the other is the, well, let’s just leave it as the poor cousin baking in the sun. Driving the length of this great long state, you realize that there are a lot more orange groves, cattle ranches and horse farms than there are beaches, which is saying something. 

And, of course, there are more strip malls per capita than in any other place in the world filled with shops selling stuff I have no idea what it is and offering services I’m not sure I want to know what they are.

I say all this not to denigrate Florida, because I did plenty of that when I was an actual full-time resident of the state, but to celebrate it. Because the mountains of North Carolina, where we live most of the time, have plenty of things visitors could denigrate, plus it’s not very warm right now and – this is the critical point – it doesn’t have a beach.

I have been accused before of not liking where I live, which is not true; I simply don’t like winters that last nearly half the year. And having spent a considerable amount of my childhood around (mostly tropical) water, I’m like a junky who needs a regular fix of the warm waters of the ocean. You could say my heart is in the mountains but my soul is at the beach.

Which brings us to our present surroundings, high above a beach overlooking the Gulf of Mexico. Looking at the beachgoers after driving through the length of Florida, where wearing masks during this pandemic is decidedly optional, I can’t help but wonder why bathing suits aren’t optional too. I mean, who doesn’t long for the glorious freedom from that clingy feeling of wet material grabbing at all your bits and pieces so that you are constantly rearranging things and plucking it away from soggy personal parts?

I might consider putting liberty to the test and seeing just how much freedom is allowed here on the southern tip of America. But I’ll definitely need another beer first.



How Did I Become So Sensitive?

I always assumed that we toughened up as we got older, that our experiences throughout life, our ups and downs, would inure us to many of the deprivations and depravities of the world.

 Boy, was I wrong.

I find that the older I get, the more sensitive I’ve become to certain things. Oh, my skin is somewhat thicker than it used to be and I find myself not caring as much what people think of me or what they say about me, but then I’m not climbing an employment ladder anymore so I don’t have to worry about what co-workers think or what a boss wants me to do (I’ve lived with my current one long enough now that I intuitively know what’s expected of me).

But physical sensitivities are another matter. Take food, for instance. I used to have an iron stomach and could eat anything, any time, and in any amount with nary an ill effect – including unwanted pounds. Now, however, I have to consider the dire consequences before eating certain foods. Anything fried, for example, means long hours later with heartburn and sitting … well, you get the picture, and a pretty one it’s not. And, of course, all I have to do is think about a slice of pizza and I will gain weight. 

I also used to put a lot more hot sauce on the food I ate; the hotter the better. Now, not so much. I still like hot sauce, but I have to tone it down, much to my disappointment. This is not so much a stomach issue, though; I suspect it has more to do with the unfortunate discovery about a year ago that I was allergic to many types of lip balm, which is a story for another day.

My eyes, which have been shielded by lenses since the fifth grade, are also much more sensitive than they used to be, often burning and tearing up when outside, although I suppose that is to be expected given all the crap that has been pumped into the air through the years. But as a kid I could swim for hours in salty seas and chlorinated pools with my eyes wide open; now, goggles or masks are the order of the day.

And unlike others in my family growing up I did not suffer as a child from allergies, or hay fever as it was called back then. I thought this was simply the luck of the draw and that I would be immune to the effects of pollen and particulates and what have you for the rest of my life. So imagine my surprise a few years ago when I found myself suffering sinus headaches in the spring, sneezing throughout the summer, and having it feel like all those leaves falling in the fall we’re going straight up my nose.

Years ago when these symptoms started appearing I asked my doctor what was up and he casually mentioned that yes, you can develop allergies as you grow older. What?! Who knew? Isn’t this something they should warn you about  when you’re younger so you can fully appreciate the joy of breathing air filled with the smell of new-mown grass and jumping into those piles of leaves?

But perhaps the most acute sensitivity I find myself having these days is that I am increasingly sensitive to stupidity. This, naturally, can be attributed to the fact that stupidity seems to be running rampant a lot more than it used to, although looking back at some of my misspent youth I have to admit that a fair amount of stupidity existed back then as well.

I used to be a lot more tolerant of stupidity – unlike my wife, who never has suffered fools gladly – partly I think because at times during my journalistic career my job entailed talking to politicians, bureaucrats and others who required restraint when judging their mental acuity or competence. Nowadays it seems that stupidity and incompetence come much more naturally in people, although if you’ve spent much of your formative years glued to a tiny screen scrolling through funny pictures of cats and texting your BFF about the latest memes, whatever the hell they are, then you at least have an excuse, as lame as it might be.

I find myself irritated by stupidity because I think much of it is needless. Students could pay more attention in class, or schools could offer more pragmatic and practical curricula. People could pay more attention to what’s going on around them, or spend more time on self-improvement, or learn how to focus on sharing the road when driving a car, but that takes effort and is not as easy as scrolling through Facebook.

And too many businesses neglect to adequately train their employees in their basic functions, so they are at a loss to answer even a simple question and have to ask a supervisor why there still isn’t any toilet paper on the shelves.

Yes, it’s a cold, hard world out there and none of us are getting any younger. For myself, I’m just trying to adapt to the changes in how my body reacts to stuff as I get older, and I guess I’ll just have to work on trying to be more tolerant of the idiotic things people do that irritate me. 

On the other hand, that would require me to become more sensitive, so screw that.

Thinking About Nothing (It’s Harder Than You Think)

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, then let it out slowly. 

Ahhh. Time to relax. 

I’m trying, once again, to meditate. I’ve tried it before, even meditating in a session with a meditation teacher. I’m pretty bad at it, probably because I don’t work hard enough at it and don’t stick with it (see previous post about dieting and you might notice a trend).

But I’m trying again, because I’m aware of all the benefits of meditation. How it lowers blood pressure and promotes better health in general. How it improves your ability to concentrate. How it improves your self-esteem and self-awareness. How it lowers stress and increases your imagination and creativity. How it reduces negative emotions and fosters tolerance and patience.

Plus, I’ve noticed that for all that I’m generally a laidback person, I can get awfully tense at times.

Hence, here I am, sitting cross-legged on the floor, hands on my knees, back straight, seeking complete mindfulness but mindful mostly of my breathing.

Concentrate on your breathing, beginners are told. In, out. In, out. Focus. Try not to let your mind wander, but if it does, gently rein it back in and think about nothing. Except your breathing. In, out. In, out.

I wonder if I’m breathing too deeply. What is it that happens when you do that too much? Hyperventilating? Well, I don’t want that, so I’ll slow down here. Smaller breaths. Breathe normally. In, out. Visualize the air coming in, bringing positive energy. Visualize it going out, expelling all that negative energy.

My nose itches. Damn that negativity; it must be tickling my nose hairs on the way out. Should I scratch the itch? No, that would give in to the negativity I’m trying to expel. Wait, wait … it’s just negativity’s way of distracting me from my positive meditating. It’s making me think about itching and hyperventilating when I should be thinking about … nothing.

Ahhh, there we go. Center our thoughts, focus on … boy, this floor is hard. I don’t have much padding on my backside as it is, so this is definitely uncomfortable. And let’s not even think about how my knees feel, all folded up like this. What am I, a kindergartener at story time? My body is too old to sit like this. 

No, no, no. Ignore those thoughts. No pain, no gain, right? Wait, that’s weightlifting. I’m pretty sure meditating is not supposed to include pain. Now, yoga. I’ve done a bit of yoga in my time, and that can definitely involve pain. I remember that time I thought I’d wrenched my back …. no, no, no. Mind is wandering again. Back to square one. In, out. In, out. Just breathe.

Hmmm. What’s that smell? Smells vaguely like stink worm. Or maybe – horrors! – the dreaded stink bugs are back! No, it can’t be! We eradicated them, waged a months-long war with the little bastards. It doesn’t bear thinking about….

Oh, yeah. No thinking. Especially about bugs, which even now might be crawling …. whoa, there. Enough. This is not relaxing. Think calming, peaceful thoughts. Think sandy beaches, swaying palm trees …. no, no, don’t. Think no thoughts. I mean, don’t think. 

Dang, my butt hurts. I wonder if it’s permissible to lie down while meditating. I don’t recall seeing any pictures of all those Buddhist monks in Tibet or Nepal or wherever lying down, so probably not. Plus, there’s the danger of segueing smoothly from meditating to sleeping if I was flat on my back rather than contorted into this painful position. Maybe that’s why they sit like this, so there’s no chance of dozing off. So, okay, no lying down.

And no paying attention to all those noises. Like those birds outside the window; do they ever shut up? And who the hell are all these people driving up and down our road? Where are they going this time of day? Why is there someone always mowing their grass in my neighborhood? And … no, stop it. Just stop. You’re thinking too much. (Ha! Not too many people can be accused of that these days.)

Speaking of noises, I wonder if I should try a mantra. You know, chant an om or two to help focus my non-thoughts on the task at hand, which isn’t a task, I know, but you catch my drift. But then, I dunno; I can’t carry a tune so what is my humming or droning going to sound like? Maybe I should just keep my mouth shut.

You know, while my mind is wandering and before I rein it back in, I think I’m beginning to suspect that this meditation could be a load of New Age mystical hooey. I could relax much easier by sampling from a whole cornucopia of pharmaceuticals that other people seem to be scarfing down to handle the stress and strain of modern life. Why, there is our medicinal bottle of tequila cooling it’s jets right now in the freezer just waiting to be doled out as a relaxing cold shot. One of those would certainly do the trick.

But that would be the easy way out, and there isn’t much sense of accomplishment in downing a shot. Meditation is harder, not to mention healthier. It takes practice. It takes concentration. Clearly I need help in learning how to … um, oh yeah, concentrate a bit better. So suck it up and do this the right way. Meditate, damn it.

Then you can have the shot.

How about we just concentrate on breathing like we are supposed to? In, out. In, out. Relax. You can do this. Quit talking to yourself and let your mind go. Enjoy the sensations of nothingness. Tune out the world and all its problems. All is peaceful. Life is good. I’m living in the moment, connected to the universe. 

I open my eyes. I unkink my body. I take a deep breath and let out a deep sigh. 

Dang. I feel pretty good.

Slim Down And Drink Up

I have to admit that right now the missus and I are struggling with what seems like our never-ending on-again, off-again diet.  

I do not consider myself to be grossly overweight, but neither do I have the svelte, sculpted athletic body that I dreamed I had in my youth. Thus, periodic dieting is needed to hold the bulges in and the pounds down.

The good news is that I’ve pinpointed the issue that makes it so hard for us to lose weight: We like to eat and drink.

It’s not that we eat that much “bad” food (although I could never turn down a slice of pizza); we in fact cook most of our meals from scratch and avoid processed food and try to eat as much high-quality, fresh, healthy food as we can.

We’ve been doing okay on our latest diet for a while now what with all the fresh veggies we’ve eaten in abundance all summer, even though I realize that not all vegetables are necessarily diet food (I’m looking at you, three ears of corn on the cob with melted butter seeping in between the kernels, not to mention F’s famous corn-meal fried okra) but now summer has slipped away and it’s getting uncomfortably close to comfort food time. 

You know what comfort food is, also known as pack-on-the-pounds vittles to prepare the body for the rigors of winter, when at least you get to wear lots of layers of clothing to try and disguise the fact that you spent the fall larding on some extra pounds because you haven’t had any chicken ‘n dumplings or pot pie or baked mac and cheese since the last vestiges of cold weather in the spring.

And let’s face it: It’s hard to diet in the fall. You’ve got all kinds of holidays where you are supposed to eat candy and goodies and mounds of turkey and fixings and sweets and treats and on and on. It would be downright un-American not to eat and eat and eat for weeks on end.

And then there’s winter. Winter is a gloomier time than summer, which means it is easier to be depressed or feel sorry for yourself, which means yes, I think I will have a cocktail or two and who cares that it is a Monday night. (Not that a Monday evening margarita or three on the deck in the summer is not enticing, too, but that’s a rationalization for another day.)

So of course it all comes down to willpower, a quality that is, alas, sadly lacking in the Smith household. 

Plus F has a stressful job that requires her to work long hours, so she naturally wants to unwind when she gets home and I, thoughtful and faithful husband that I am, insist on not letting her drink a couple of cocktails by herself. I know, I know, gracious selflessness is thy middle name.

I used to think that alcoholic beverages could not be a cause of weight gain, but then we tried counting calories as a diet plan. This is when Google is not your friend, since it rudely informs you that a shot of the good stuff packs about 100 or so calories, not counting any mixer. 

My solution to that bit of unsettling news was to cut back on the mixer.

We’ve tried all the diet fads and plans through the years and you know what? They all work pretty well if you follow them. And that’s the problem; some of them are pretty hard to follow. For instance, I liked the idea of eating bacon every day – until I didn’t, which says something about a diet that makes you turn your back on bacon.

(As an aside and apropos of nothing, I once was at an all-inclusive resort where they have those all-you-can-eat buffets and I watched one gentleman load up his entire plate with bacon at breakfast one morning. I mean, he must have had 20 or 25 pieces of bacon piled on there. I thought at the time that the poor soul must be from some backwoods bacon-deprived country, but now I realize he was probably just trying to accelerate his diet plan so he could move on to another one where he could eat a slice of bread.)

So these days, what with our lack of willpower and desire not to collapse the nutritional pyramid by having to avoid whole food groups, we usually diet by just trying to cut back on everything and count calories. It’s harder in some ways what with all that math, but it allows us to eat whatever we want as long as we only eat our prescribed allotment of calories. Or drink them, as the case may be.

As I said, we’ve lost a few pounds and now the going is getting tougher. I know, that is when the tough are supposed to get going. But life is tough enough, I think, and too short to boot, and you have to pick your pleasures when you can and find your fun where you can and just try to do it all with a bit of moderation.

So, bon appétit. And, of course, cheers!

Far Out, Man

I came of age in the ‘60s and ‘70s and, while I wasn’t exactly a hippy, I certainly embraced the concept of the whole hippy movement.

When I was in college the hippy era had pretty much peaked, but its legacy lingered. There was a great diversity in the student population, but those at the polar opposite of us latter-day hippies were the frat boys and sorority girls. They tended to be, I presumed at the time – and I admit I may be freely engaging in stereotyping here – people from a more privileged and entitled background than the rest of us, and they certainly had wilder parties. We thought they were a little too preppy, a little too pretentious. We laughed at them for their attitudes, their toga parties, their way of dressing, their quaint rules and secret initiations and snobby inclusiveness. 

Little did we know that they would grow up and slide right in to take over the businesses and corporations and politics that rule us all with their quaint rules and secret initiations and snobby inclusiveness.

The hippy movement has been the subject of much ridicule over the years, with the popular notion now depicting hippies as zonked out, drugged up naive flower children acting like a bunch of nitwits which, since we were in our teens and early twenties, we of course were. 

But that doesn’t diminish what we espoused. 

We were, obviously, against war. Facing the very real prospect of being sent to the other side of the world into some bloody meat grinder for no good reason sharpens one’s attitudes about the nobility of killing people in their own country. 

We were for racial equality and against bigotry and profiling and mistreating people because of their skin color or ethnicity. We were for sexual equality and believed wholeheartedly in women’s rights.

We were against the establishment, which we viewed as too authoritarian and too far removed from serving the real needs of the people. We were proud environmentalists, fighting to save the air and the rivers and oceans from pollution that was killing and sickening humans and animals and plants, trying to convince people that acid in the rain and toxins in our air and mercury in fish and asbestos in our houses were not the natural order of things.

We were against big corporations which put profit ahead of people.

We were for going back to nature and growing our own food. We were for music that had meaning and that spoke to our souls.

We were for non-conformity and expressing ourselves as unique and reveling in our differences. If sometimes the only ways we could do this was by having long hair and wearing ridiculous clothes, then so be it.

We were against a society we found too constricting, preferring a free society that let people make choices for themselves. We were into trying new things, new ideas, new ways to make life better. We were for giving and sharing, not taking and hoarding.

We were for tolerance and equality. We were for peace and love and living and let live. We were for having fun and laughing and refusing to let anyone take away our childish delight in the wonderful world around us.

Yeah, pretty radical stuff, I know.

Looking back all these years later, I don’t know why we would laugh at that naïveté and those heartfelt protests and the pie-in-the-sky hopes and dreams. Looking at where we are now in the world, at what we have allowed ourselves to become, it just makes me want to cry.

All Alone In The Middle Of The Night

I roll over and look at the clock. It glows cheerily in the dark: 3:04.

I roll back over and look out past the sleeping form of my wife to the twinkling stars in the night sky out our bedroom window, which of course are little more than twinkling blobs since I am not wearing the glasses I have had to wear since I was in the fifth grade. I close my eyes to go back to sleep.

Except I need to pee. I sigh, get up and go to the bathroom. Back in bed, I pull up the covers and close my eyes once more. I wait for sleep or, if I were poetically inclined, which I sometimes am in the middle of the night, to fall into the arms of Morpheus. I lie there comfortably, ready to drift off.

What was that noise? Was it inside or out? Animal or mechanical? Neither, I decide as I sit up in bed. Just the wind.

I lie back down. Geez, what is wrong with my pillow? It used to be really comfortable. I punch it into submission. There. Better.

I feel a bit cool what with that breeze that I think was making that noise and wonder if I should reach down and get the rest of the covers that, now that I think about it, are roasting my feet. It seems like a lot of trouble to reach all the way down there. Then I’d probably be too hot, like my feet. I’ll pass. For now.

I roll over. F is sound asleep. Good for her. At least one of us is. Snoring softly. I wish I was. Maybe I should wake her so I can tell her I’m having trouble sleeping … no, no,no. That would be wrong. Just like me being awake while she snoozes is wrong. No, no. Don’t think that way. That’s just jealousy.

I take a peek at the clock. 3:22. Okay, time to go back to sleep. Concentrate. Wait, what? Concentrate on sleep? That’s kind of a contradiction, isn’t it? Or not, my mind is a bit fuzzy right now. I need sleep.

Maybe if I read for a bit. Don’t even need to turn the light on and risk waking F what with my e-book right there. But then I’d have to sit up, rearrange this damnable pillow that is already uncomfortable again. And that means I will be committed to being awake for awhile, as opposed to the chance I could be asleep in a moment.

Yeah. A fat chance. I stick my feet, still smoldering from the bed spread piled up at the foot of the bed, out of the covers. I could kick the spread to the floor. But then they would be lost forever if I decided I needed them later in the night. Morning. Whatever. What time is it anyway? No, don’t look, it will just lead to despair. 

3:52. Damn. I was right. Very despairing. I’m going to wake up in the morning all tired and grouchy, not my usual perky bright-eyed and busy-tailed self. Unless I go to sleep right now. Take a deep breath and relax … what is that smell?

Is that a skunk? Is it right outside our screen door to the deck? Is it eating F’s tomatoes in the pots out there? Do I care? I don’t like them – the tomatoes; I have no particular dislike of skunks, other than their smell. And it would serve her right, snoring away over there rather than on guard to protect her precious tomatoes, the nasty little things. No, no. That’s frustration talking. I need some sleep, is all. That was a skunk I smell, but he’s off in the woods somewhere and the scent is faint. Thank goodness.

Okay. Let’s get serious now. Relax. Whew. Why is my body feeling so creaky and uncomfortable? This bed that is usually so comfy feels lumpy and hard and is killing my back. The pillow ain’t exactly a bed of roses, either. I’ll just have a quick glance … AHHH! 4:14! No, no, no. This is unacceptable. It’ll be time to get up before I ever get to sleep. But then I’ll at least maybe get some breakfast, because I’m starving. And thirsty, too. No, then I’ll have to pee again.

Come to think of it, I could pee again. Okay, I’ll go do that, but then it’s definitely off to dreamland.

I’m ready. C’mon, sleep. I’m dozing off. I’m thinking about how sleepy I am, how I could just nod right off. I’m not thinking about insomnia, I’m thinking calm and peaceful thoughts about … what am I doing tomorrow? Do I need to run errands in town? What am I supposed to be cooking for dinner tomorrow night? What night is that? What night is tonight, I mean this morning? Why am I asking all these questions? And who am I talking to?

If F was awake I could talk to her … no, no, no. Let her sleep. 

I look out the window again. Is there faint light starting to appear in the sky? Ah, #@&$, the damn early birds will soon be starting up with the chirping and twittering, right outside the window no doubt, and then I’ll never get back to sleep. This is the worst night ever. And why are my feet so damn cold? Oh, yeah. They’re out of the covers.

Not moving, not moving, not moving. Other than to scratch my leg. And that place there on my back. Sleep, sleep, sleep … that’s what I want. Wonder what I’m going to write about next for my blog? How about how I used to put my head on the pillow at night and wake up the next morning without interruption or having to go to the bathroom 14 times or being bothered by random thoughts. Sure, I didn’t always wake up refreshed since there were those times in my youth that I was a regular night owl and stayed up to 1 or 2 o’clock in the morning. Then we had children, and we went months without a decent night’s sleep, getting up at all hours to feed them, hold them, rock them back to sleep and it totally and apparently permanently ruined my sleep cycle.

It’s their fault, the miserable little … no, no. They are wonderful children who are now all grown up and not living in our house disturbing our sleep. Maybe I should give them a call to see if they’re awake at, oh let’s see, 4:25, and reminisce about the good old days when they were wee tots. 

Who cares what time it is? I’ll just lie here for a bit longer and then go ahead and get up. Get an early start on the day. Up and at ’em; I can’t wait. Funny, I used to love sleeping in, but now I find it hard to just lie there in the mornings. There used to be nothing better than snuggling under the covers, no school or work or problems ahead that day, happy and content….

What time is it now? 7:15?! What? How? I must have dozed off. But this can’t be. It’s time to get up. F will be jumping out of bed any moment now. But I just got back to sleep. I don’t wanna get up. I just wanna lie here in peace, with no worries, no plans, no problems … just for a few more minutes.

Whew. Sometimes this sleeping really wears me out.