On obfuscation and isolation

Covid visited the Bone home last week.  Mrs. Bone tested positive on Tuesday morning and, Alabama being a community property state, she was legally required to share the virus with me.

I have no idea what variant we are on now -- omicron, epsilon, kappa kappa lambda -- but it felt like we pledged to a bad sorority.  And no, not the one that takes in the unpopular girls who couldn't get into any of the others.  And why did I go with sorority there rather than fraternity?

Anyhow, in our all-inclusive Greek-letter organization, we wear masks, compare the shades of our throatal mucous, and sleep eighteen hours a day.

I slept much of Wednesday and Thursday.  Felt a lot better Friday.  Then was afflicted with a migraine Saturday morning.  So a couple more hours of sleep.

Fortunately, the kids have been able to avoid it.  Though there's no telling what they may bring home next week from the Petri dish we call an elementary school.

This ordeal has brought to mind the uncertainty of the early days of Covid.  I suppose all times are uncertain but those seemed especially so.

Oh, we were so young and green to the ways of novel viruses and mortiferous pandemics.  It truly was a simpler time, before Moderna, N95, and Dr. Fauci entered the daily vernacular.

I was still working at the 911 Center at the time.  In hindsight, I think that was a good thing.  Getting to maintain some sense of normalcy by going into work every night.  And let me tell you, traffic was a delight.  Best part of the pandemic, by far.

Mrs. Bone and I got vaccinated, then boosted.  It seemed like a no-brainer.  People were dying.  Dad was in the hospital for a week.  My best friend's father died without a funeral.

It was tougher when it came to the kids.  It always is.  You live with the decisions you make for yourself.  It's a whole other world when it comes to making decisions that will affect someone else's life.  Decisions they are unable to make for themselves.

Luke was four and had asthma.  Harper was two.

Fortunately by then, the pandemic had been fully politicized.  Experts seemed to sprout up by the minute so, naturally, 100% complete and accurate information spread like kudzu.

I had thoughts of writing a book.  The title would be "Parenting in the Time of Covid."  I quickly realized the title would likely be, by far, the best part, and just like that, the book idea was off the table.

I think about how my grandparents or great-grandparents might have handled a thing such as Covid.  Probably would have just done whatever the doctor said, if they even went to the doctor.  Or perhaps a good old-fashioned blood-letting.

And I wonder about the things my children will face.  How will they know what to believe, what is real, what is truth?

For while there is a mind-boggling amount of information literally at my fingertips every second of every day, I can only imagine there is exponentially more misinformation.  You can find someone somewhere to agree with any bit of ludicrousness you might come up with.  A website or YouTube channel dedicated to any of a thousand conspiracy theories you might fancy.

Luke recently asked me why people fought wars and I reckon I had no good answer to give.  But I did think of this song.

Maybe it's not all about always knowing or finding the answers.  Maybe part of the answer is to never stop questioning.

Of course, what do I know?  I'm just a bumpkin who believes he lives on a round planet and that this whole climate change thing might not be a hoax after all.

Revisiting Theo

Vinyl was on its last legs when I began my long, mostly obscure radio career in 1990.  You would come in fifteen minutes before shift and "pull" your first hour of music.  This involved flipping through shelves of LPs and 45's which lined three walls of the studio.  

Working with two turntables, you'd have to select and backcue the next song while the current one was playing.  Everything was live.  Dead air was a sin.  So it was imperative to be prepared.

Record companies began sending us compact discs.  Some along with the vinyl album, and then eventually only CDs.  When the FM studio was built, there were two CD players and only one turntable.  Theo ultimately disconnected the turntable (possibly because I was going rogue and getting off format by playing too much old Charley Pride off vinyl late at night).

A few years later, everything began to be computerized and the art of the backcue was never fully appreciated again.

In the years since leaving radio, I've had a recurring dream about not being able to find the song I wanted to play next, panicking and having dead air. Commercials would be missing, or the ones in the racks would be outdated.  More recently, the situations within these dreams had become progressively worse.

At first, some of the discs were not in their usual location, but I was able to find them in another spot, a large filing cabinet in another room.  In subsequent dreams, more and more seemed to be missing, and I was no longer able to find them at all.  It was like someone (Theo?) was hiding them from me.

It got to where there were only a few songs available to play and I had never heard of any of them.

And then...

Two nights after I had written about Theo, I had another in this series of dreams.  Perhaps the finale.  

Again, I am at the station.  Except this time, there is no music.  Not a single song.  At least none that I can find.  There are fifteen minutes of dead air.  (Other than someone going off on a curse-filled tirade during the call-in request show, this is a DJ's worst nightmare.)  I just want to lie down in the floor and sob.

Then Theo appears.

He shows me a box full of carts and says the music has been transferred over to these tapes.  They are sort of like 8-tracks.  All the music is there.  Indexed.  Easily accessible.  

There is relief.  At long last, some resolution to this frustrating, anxiety-ridden series of dreams!

When I awoke and recalled the dream, I smiled.  Two nights after I had written about Theo, he had appeared.  But why?

Had Theo come to make peace?  Maybe he just wanted to let me know he was finally at peace.  Or perhaps I was holding onto something -- some conflict, some disharmony, something that just didn't sit right - and telling Theo's story had allowed me to let that go.

Or maybe it was just another dream, dreamt by an idiot, signifying not much of anything.

Either way, I thought it worthy of sharing.

Next, I think I shall write about my unresolved issues with Kristen Wiig.  See if she shows up!

Day is done

Backyard fireflies flicker in dusk light
Sliver of a silver August moon
Through Saharan dust haze
Soft breeze moves birch tree leaves
Traveler, put your cares away
It's end of day

Dog day cicadas sing summer's tune
Shades of blazing sunset hues
Slowly surely melt away
Bury all of your futile regrets
Deep beneath cold Earth clay
At end of day

Darkness anon will settle in
Greet you like a trusted friend
May the sky astound always
Take ye no thought for the morrow
No good comes from trouble borrowed
It's end of day

Tally what's been won and lost
And when you've figured up the cost
Throw the bill away
Nocturne bliss is all around
The grass is cool on stolen ground
At end of day

Ponder on how small we are
Marvel how the nearest star
Is still four lightyears away
What might have beens will never do
Put them to bed, clear the queue
It's end of day

Dad-lympics

As the games of the thirty-third Olympiad wind down in the City of Lights, I am reminded of a quote by the German poet Ludwig Jacobowski: "Do not cry because they are past.  Smile, because they once were."

And while hardly anyone seems to follow this advice during times of sadness -- funerals, endings of Hallmark Christmas movies, etc. -- I still appreciate the sentiment.

But.

Can't we do even better?

Two years will pass before we are treated to another Olympics, the 2026 Winter Games in Italy.  Yea, four Earth orbits will commence before we get another Summer Games.

Instead of simply smiling because they happened and resigning ourselves to a fate of odd years with no Olympiad, how about this?

An Olympics for regular people.  Competition for those who aren't all that athletic, or as I like to refer to us, the other 98%.

Unfortunately since I know remarkably little about women, and child labor laws being what they are, my games will be restricted to men.  Specifically, dads.  Because after moms, the military, philanthropists, firefighters, doctors, nurses, teachers, Captain Sullenberger, Rocky Balboa, and a host of others, aren't dads the real heroes?

Therefore, for your careful consideration, I propose the Dad-lympics (or Games of the Olympi-dad, I haven't decided).  They would be held every odd year to help fill the seismic void in our lives -- particularly, mine -- as we wait for another real Olympics.

Without further adieu (other than the 500-word intro you just powered through) I present my original, soon-to-be-copyrighted ideas of events for the Dad-lympics.

Toddler High Toss ~ We begin with an all-time dad favorite.  Children will be tossed into the air and (ideally) caught.  Scoring will be a complex formula based both on the maximum height reached by the child along with the highest blood pressure measurement recorded by each anxious mother.

Single-Trip Grocery Carry ~ Winner will be the Dad who can carry the most bags of groceries in from the car in one trip while avoiding children repeatedly asking, “Can I carry that?”  Dads will also have to manage to unlock the front door because even though she knew you were going to the grocery store, your wife is mysteriously unable or unwilling to come to the door.  Dads will not be required to put the groceries away, however, because, even if we tried, it wouldn't be right.  (And all the dads said "amen.")

120-Volt Perpetual Power Saver ~ Dads will be tasked with walking around a three-story house, checking that all lights and appliances are turned off and that all windows and doors are closed and locked, whilst making sure the thermostat is set to no lower than 75 if it's summer, no higher than 66 if it's winter.  Simultaneously, a couple of toddlers will be roaming through the house reopening doors, turning lights back on, and readjusting the thermostat. Constantly. This game actually never ends.  Until you die.

Well, that... took a dark turn.  Let's continue.

Home Scavenger Hunt ~ Each Dad is given a list of ten common household items and tasked with locating them all.  In the likely event all items aren’t found, the contestant who finds the highest number, or even just one, wins.  Here's the catch: You can only text your wife eleven times.

Beach Gear Gauntlet ~ It’s a race against the clock as Dads carry a large cooler, beach umbrella, and beach chairs down two flights of stairs, across a busy street (who can afford to stay ON the beach???), over a long, slightly uphill boardwalk, and across 150 yards of soft, scorching sand.  At the end of the boardwalk, your child will require you to take their shoes, the bottle of water you just paid $3.50 for, and the large body board you told them they could only bring if they carried it; because their "legs are tired" and "it's hot."  The event ends once you have successfully set up the umbrella with your child constantly asking, "What are you doing?", "Can I help?", "Why can't we put it closer to the ocean?", and "Why don't we have a giant tent like those people over there?"

Dad Joke-a-thon ~ This one will be subjective.  Judges will base their scores on a variety of factors including loudest audience groans and most pronounced eye rolls by your wife.

Attentive Listening ~ Kidding!  What's next, Tandem Talking About Our Feelings?

Kid Trivia ~ Contestants will (attempt to) answer a series of questions about their child.  When is their birthday?  What is their social security number?  Etc.  They are also given photos of their child’s five closest friends and have to guess, er, give their names.  In the final round, dads will be asked to name those same friends' parents.  Just kidding.  No one can remember their child’s parents’ names.  It’s unknowable. 

Sprint Napping ~ Simple.  Who can fall asleep fastest in their favorite chair?  This one is bound to come down to thousandths of a second and be over quickly.  So don't blink or you’ll miss it.  Or, you might just win it.  Am I right?

Dad-nastic Dish Stacking ~ Dads will compete to see who can stack the most dishes onto a dish drainer.  Judging will be based both on the total number of dishes as well as the height and width of the stack.  Points will be deducted for each dish your wife is able to remove without making the others fall.

Non-Artistic Assembly ~ No style points here.  This one is about getting the job done.  And probably will involve some cursing.  Each Dad will assemble identical IKEA couches and coffee tables without using instructions.  Quickest to finish a relatively reasonable replica of the picture on the box wins.  Bonus points given for fewest parts left over.  This all must be done while holding a beer in one hand.  No instructions will be provided.  Not that we would ever read them if they were.

There you have it!  Ten what I believe to be tolerable, if not above average, events to kick off the games of the first-ever Olympi-dad.  I figure we'll start by getting YouTube out here to livestream it.

But first, I need a nap.

Hey, not all heroes wear capes.  Or even manage to stay awake all day.

Theo

I don't remember Theo before the accident.  They say he was completely different.  Bright.  Pleasant.  Talented. He had graduated college and played drums in a local band.

Late one night someone had run a stop sign out on 317 and t-boned him.  They weren't sure he would make it.  There were several surgeries, some brain damage, but Theo pulled through.

He was never right after that.  It left him with a significant speech impediment and at least some minor mental issues.  The family tried to get him on disability, but he must have had one ass of a doctor.  He refused to sign off on it, saying, "If he can hold a broom, he can find a job."

Theo had a job.  He was news director and host of the mid-day show on the small AM radio station I began working for my senior year of high school.  Fortunately, Theo's father was the station owner/sales manager, so he was able to keep his job.

When I came to know him, Theo was irritable, a bit of a smart-aleck, and generally unhappy.  We got along well enough, as I worked for an hour in the morning before school and on weekends so I wasn't around him much.

Then there was the speech problem.  About the worst issue you could wish for working in radio.  Sometimes it made him sound like he was mentally challenged.  Other times it was like speaking to a child.

Sometime after the accident -- I don't recall how long -- his wife divorced him.  I'm sure this only made him grow a little more bitter.

The owner of the station applied for and was granted an FM frequency and I wound up transitioning to full-time and worked there for several years.  About a year after I left, he sold the stations.  The new owner eventually changed formats and within a year everyone I had worked with was let go, including Theo.

I saw him twice after that.   

My Dad was in a local band that played mostly country along with some 70's rock.  Theo was filling in on drums for them once and someone requested a gospel song, which they would occasionally do.  Theo refused to play and walked out. He didn't want to have anything to do with a God that had allowed him to wind up in the shape he was in.

I heard Theo got a job reading meters for the utility company.  I thought about the "hold a broom" line.  The last time I saw him was at his father's funeral.  He remembered me, shook my hand, and thanked me for coming.

A couple of years ago Dad called and told me Theo had passed away.  I scanned the obituary and guestbook comments.  They spoke of how talented he was, a killer drummer.  

One person mentioned that Theo auditioned for a band in Florida when he was sixteen.  He got the gig but ultimately left the band to stay in school.  

One of his teachers talked about his creativity and acting talent in high school plays.  And then, "He always wore a smile."

I wish I had known that Theo.  It's difficult for me not to feel like the system failed him somehow.  It's impossible for me not to feel sad for him, and I suppose for anyone to not wonder "What if?"

The obituary mentioned Theo's children.  I was able to look them up on Facebook.  Three good-looking young men.  I saw Theo's eyes.

There were also grandkids.  At least four of them.  I hoped Theo had found happiness in them in his later years.  I hoped he had become a little less bitter.  

And who knows, maybe he had even come to sing a couple of gospel songs.