A Different Father's Day

So here we are. Wow, it's been nearly a month since I've put fingers to keys, so to speak.

I've felt the need to put my thoughts on this screen many a time within the past thirty or so days. Much has transpired. But for some reason or another, I haven't. I was tired, weak excuse. I was distracted by Candy Crush Saga, probable excuse. I was in trouble for over-imbibing, there ya go.

In any case, a lot has happened. My mind has been a whirlwind of emotion and continues to be so. Damn, life just can't let up, can it? It just can't give in for a day. And now, we are just three days away from Father's Day. Father's Day, the 2nd rate holiday as far as family holidays go. Even Hallmark seems to have looked at Father's Day and said, "Oops, oh shit, sperm came from somewhere... we'd better make a card."

Not that I'll get one of those cards. I don't really care at this point. My kids don't know the love they're missing out on. Their loss. What I do miss is shopping for a card for my dad. This is the first Father's Day I'll not be able to call him. Or text him. Or just listen to those awkward pauses on the phone.

But I'll always remember one thing. That one last time. That one last image of him standing there standing in front of his house and waving goodbye as I backed away to drive home last Thanksgiving. The last time I saw him. I remember his smiling.

I try to remember that it took me about thirty years to start to appreciate my dad's knowledge. I was young and stupid as opposed to now, when I'm older, a bit wiser but still stupid. And, I try my best to apply this bit of knowledge to my own kids and hope that they can appreciate that knowledge sooner than later. The difference is, I never discounted my dad's love. I always knew that my dad loved me. And, I always loved my dad. He wasn't a saint. He had a temper. He had his moments of irrationality.
None of us are perfect. But, he loved me unconditionally, and I knew it.

So, this Sunday, it will be like any other Sunday. I'll not receive a phone call from my children. They have a 'new' dad. A dad who gives them things. They'll give a nice card to him, smile, and go about their day, forgetting about the love of a parent that never goes away, despite death, divorce or circumstance. Maybe go out to lunch, whatever.

And, I'll not make a phone call for the first time in years. But I'll think about it. Many times. Then, I'll see my dad waving goodbye in front of the house, smiling.

Lemons and Roses

Weird how it works.

Life gives you lemons, you make lemonade.
Life gives you roses. You smell the roses.

The roses die and they smell like shit and you have to pick up the petals.

That's real life. Roses.

Life is beautiful. It turns ugly, dies on ya, pieces of it die, fall off, stink, you pick those pieces up, throw 'em away, remember that smell which is bittersweet, and move on.

Fuck those lemons. They just grow moldy and rot. That's not life. That's death. You forget those parts.

Life is a Rose. If you don't like roses, life is a Petunia, or a dandelion. Whatever your choice might be.

For me, I'd love to look at life as being a rose. I look at my wonderful wife, my soulshine, my yin to my yang as my rose. As a matter of being, her surname, Roesner, means Rose. She is my Rose.

Yet......

Leave it to me...  yes, there is a yet... despite my soulmate being a Rose, the most beautiful flower, the most sought after bud.... don't let me go there,.... she is my epitome of perfection.

But, that's just me. And that's all I really care about. She's the woman that has shown mw unconditional love when no one else would. I still stand in unbelief somedays.

Consider this... my own children, now 22 and 19 years old refuse to accept me as I am. My ex-family excommuicated me when I became an embarassment to the family, even after over 20 years.

I will say this.. my ex-wife, who I have pursued previously, has mellowed and we have come to find a common ground. I wish her well. I really do. We started off well, we just ended bad. We maded good kids. They just don't know it. They also don't know they have a dad that loves them.

Enough of the emotional shit.

I don't like to tear up.

Roses.

Kids are Rose petals. They fall off and smell like shit. You want to sweep them off the porch or the floor of the sunroom and forget them. But you can't forget how they made you feel when they first opened their buds and you smelled that aroma of spring.

My kids want nothing to do with me but the smell of a rose bloom reminds me of them. So does any blooming flower. Hell, if that makes me any less of a man, I'll take it.

I miss my kids, I'm disappointed in my kids. I love my kids.

But sometimes it's not easy loving those who don't love you.

Words.

Words.

It had been an alright day. Given the circumstances. Day four of 'vacation' spent at my mom and dad's home. Well, now my mom's home now that my dad has unexpectedly gone away. Day four of foraging through my dad's clothing, his career, his hobbies, his seventy-three years of life. It was Valentine's Day. I cooked a good meal for Pam and my mom. Hey, it's what a guy does.

And, within that foraging, I find memories of my own. I'm forty-nine years old now. That's a lot of memories.

In addition, my wife, Pam, and I are helping my mom prepare to move into an assisted-living facility. It's going to be good for her. They have bingo and an ice cream bar. For me, personally, it's a lot to absorb. I'm rewinding memories of my life with both parents in multiple homes, visualizing my mom in an assisted-living facility and donating my deceased dad's clothing to Goodwill after going through each and every item of his clothing. By the way, let's not forget that stability isn't my best friend and I tend to keep my emotions and feelings bottled up like a shaken bottle of Dom Perrignon.

Words.

My mom said, "I'm not going to wear my C-Pap mask tonight. I'm congested. It hurts my nose."

I said, "Yes you are. If I have to wear one, so do you. They're all uncomfortable. I didn't come here to wake up one morning to find you didn't wake up because you were uncomfortable."

My mom's response..... "So, it's all about you....."

Words.

And suddenly, the week has no real meaning. I'm just here to babysit dogs.
I'm racked with guilt, yet again, as I have been for years.

Really? It's all about me? Because I want you to wake up tomorrow morning? What have I said or dont to cause you to believe that I am so shallow and conceited that I think everything is about me?

And, as my mother, where did this come from so suddenly? I mean, this was completely out of left field.

I don't have a lot to work with. I mean, I've done many things, granted. I've been places, had a couple of kids, I guess. I have a wonderful wife now. But overall, in the grand scheme of things, I ain't all that. So, why the 'it's all about you' diss?

Nothing is about me.

Nothing.

Words.

Words are worth a thousand memories.

A Rare Excerpt From The Westboro Baptist Church

The following is an excerpt taken from a Westboro Baptist Church addendum to the Living Bible that they supposedly live by on a daily basis.

......... and it was said, "thou will do as thou is told.".... so, it was done that way. .... "when Monitaqa did not do as told, she was made to feel as if she was less than worthy than the other women, and forced to have her tongue pierced and forked and made to live amongst the other women of the flock who often laughed and sang at night as if possessed...."

.........and it was implied, "thou shalt revere a certain way of thinking based upon a certain way of thinking that a certain group of people have been thinking over a vast number of years that is also based upon a teaching that was supposedly handed down by me, your God and leader, the chosen one, way back in a time of sandals and togas....." .... "and man shall follow one man who will know everything. And this man will say all of the right things, know all of the right words and be worthy of respect because of his place in the community.".......

........ and it was implored, "thy God requires each of his followers to donate at least, AT LEAST. ten percent of his or her weekly salary (daily is preferred) to go towards 'the cause'. As a result of the Great Implosion, your Lord lost a great deal of his monetary universal investments and requires each of his remaining creations to contribute towards their survival. *The contribution of funds in no way guarantees the survival of natural disasters such as hurricanes, floods, volcanic eruptions, global warming, earthquake or sudden shifts in magnetic polarity.....

....... and Jesus, being who he thought he was, admired Fred Phelps, knowing that one day Fred would descend upon the earth to free mankind of its sins of humanity. So, Jesus, being humble, says that he claimed the seat in heaven next to God knowing fully well that Fred is the being that smacked his galactic paws together and created the Universe. Knowing that Fred, spelled backwards, Derf, is the Source of universal energy that powers each and every atom in this great and colossal creation. .....

......... and..... "Wednesday shalt be KFC night at the covered-dish 'Mommy's Night Out' in the Phelp's  Family Recreational Hall. Potato Bowls are appreciated. Tots are forgiven. .... "So let it be written, so let it be done."

Life can be Harsch. But Harsch Was Good.

I scoff at most of society's views of self awareness. It is amusing how even the smallest slight of tongue can offend. This is a generation of the entitiled, the politically-correct. Heaven forbid someone utter a word that might hurt another's feelings.

Let me relate to you how I overcame the entire 'hurt feelings' phenomenon. It is also how I learned how to overcome and accept criticism, grow as a human being, become a better artist and mutter 'fuck you' under my breath.

I was in college studying graphic arts. At the time, way back in 1983, there were very few schools that offered comprehensive graphic arts programs. I had to choose between going to the Rochester Institute of Technology in New York or staying in North Carolina and going to Randolph Technical College. Let's just say, RTC was close to home. Whether I made the right decision or not I'll never know. But, the decision I made made me into who I am.....

Wait. Perhaps I should think about this for a moment .

In any case, enter Henry Harsch, the lead instructor of the Graphics program. A frenetic man with a lazy eye, glowing talent, crazy beard and passion for constructive criticism.

Without going into detail about 'ol Harsch, I learned from him the value of not taking oneself too seriously. Each week we would be given assignments.... life drawings, perspective drawings, mock advertisements, whatever. And, each week, we would pin our assignments to a board in the classroom for both student critique and the ever-dreaded 'Harsh critique'. Peer critique is easy. No one wants to crack on a friend's work too bad. We're all friends. Besides, inevitably, somebody wants to get laid by someone else in the class.... but the Harsh Critique..... that was another story.

From the back of the room strode Henry. Head cocked to the side, eyeing the dynamics of the piece of art pinned to the wall.

"What the hell is this supposed to be?" "The perspective is off!" "This has been done a million times!" "No originality!" "Why did you even decide to come to this program? Did you know that we have auto body classes?"

And the worst? The absolute worst? What sticks with me the most, what made me into a stronger person, although this never happened to me, was seeing him walk to the board, grab someone's work, their long hours, and throw it to the floor, stomp on it with both feet, twist on it like he was Chubby Checker until it was a mangled piece of shredded wheat.

That type of criticism will either make you or break you. Seeing that type of criticism will either piss you off or make you appreciate that there is no perfection, not in anyone, neither the critic nor the receiver of the criticism. Yet, the lesson learned is that life's a hard bitch of a thing.

It's a lesson lost on most of today's society. Oddly enough, in one of my first 'real' jobs, I sold penny stocks for a fly-by-night firm. Do you know how many penny stocks that you have to sell to make a buck? Guess why I don't sell penny stocks and haven't since 1987? Yet, I learned humility selling penny stocks. How? Funny thing.... The manager of the office where I worked looked like a Lou Ferrigno wannabe who drove a pretty sweet 'Vette and sat in his office pruning his eyebrows and brushing his hair most of the day. Yet, every now and then, someone would hit it big in the bullpen and get a decent sale. This is where the humility came in because it happened to me a couple of times.

Woohoo! A sale! Cue the 'Rocky' theme and jump up on the desk in the middle of the bullpen. Pumping the fists as if youv'e just climbed the steps to the art museum in Philadelphia, youve just won the lottery, and won the admiration of your peers while looking like the biggest freaking fool on the planet.

So, in one fell swoop, I've given you humiliation, embarrassment, growth, appreciation, self-awareness and the not so blatant mention that it's good to explore life and avenues that might not fit you but may just interest you.

Life might shit on you from time to time but it's gonna rain eventually and when it does, just stand outside naked and start over. And never take a Harsch too seriously.