Thursday, September 26, 2024

That's what I've got for a eulogy

"Don't make me have to call your momma."

Words that I'm sure have been uttered to many a child partaking in some sort of youthful misbehavior.  Words that were no doubt used on me by more than one teacher.  But the one I specifically remember saying it was Mister B.

Mister B was our middle school phys ed teacher.  His daughter, Amy, was in my class.  He knew my parents.  And somehow he knew I would far rather face a swinging slab of oak than have my parents know I had done anything wrong.  

(That still holds true, by the way.  I can easily see Mom to this day giving me the days-long silent treatment and look of utter that-is-not-how-I-raised-you disappointment.  Though surely she wouldn't still pinch the living daylights out of me if I acted up in church.  Would she?  Nah.  I mean, I'm pretty sure.  And I don't even think Dad wears a belt anymore.)

Anyhow, back to Mister B.  There were good things about having the parent of one of your friends as a teacher.  Like the time I sneakily tripped Cedric King while we were playing football in PE.  

The school bully, he was fifteen in seventh grade and built like a middleweight boxer.  We'd only play tackle when Mister B wasn't watching. (Sometimes I think he knew but was just letting us be boys.) Everyone had always been afraid to tackle Cedric.  

Not me.  I was too dumb to know better.

After I tripped him, he got up and pushed me down in the dirt.  I was in no hurry to spring back up. Mister B quickly darted over and intervened.  He sent Cedric to the principal's office, almost surely saving me from what would have been both an embarrassing and fully expected licking.  

Mister B's wife, I shall refer to her as Mrs. B, was the high school home ec teacher.  And they had a pool table at their house.  This provided for some of the best get-togethers of my youth (and one epic co-ed sleepover my senior year).  

Usually, eight or ten of us would hang out at their house.  Mrs. B would serve all manner of snacks and baked goods while we watched movies, shot pool, or played cards and board games.  Most nights, Mister B would join in.  

He was pretty handy with a cue (I was beyond awful back then).   I remember him always giving us tips to help us improve.  Grip, angles, English, bridges.  

It seemed like such a small thing to do.

As years sped by, I'd still occasionally see Mister B.  Anytime I managed to make it back to my hometown 10K, I would see him and Mrs. B walking the two-mile race.  Side by side.  Every year.

Mr. B also found me on the radio.  He would occasionally call and request a song.  He rarely introduced himself, but I recognized that forever enthusiastic, familiar singsong voice.  He was one of those people who always made you feel they were excited to see or hear from you.  

At the last station I worked, Mr. B never failed to call in and put Mrs. B's and the kids' birthdays on our birthday calendar.  As well as his and Mrs. B's anniversary.  Every year. 

It seemed like such a small thing to do.

I got out of radio in 2015 and they held the hometown 10K run for the last time in 2016.  I probably only saw Mister B a time or two after that.

Waiting in line at the visitation Saturday night, I was able to look at some of the pictures of Mr. B and articles mentioning him that were on display there, telling part of his story.  Things I had never known.

Turns out he was quite dapper in his younger days, and had been inducted into his home county's sports hall of fame.  He had coached his kids' youth sports teams.

There was a certificate acknowledging his election as a deacon at church.  I went back to look up the qualifications of a deacon before writing this.  One stood out: The husband of one wife.

As I read through the small funeral program, it stated one of Mister B's favorite hobbies was writing love letters and poems for his wife of more than fifty years.

That stopped me.

I thought about my marriage.  I couldn't help but think maybe Mister B was giving me one last tip on how I could improve.

There is a song Mister B used to call and request.  This was three radio stations ago for me.  Another century.  I didn't think of it the evening of the visitation.  I didn't think of it on Sunday as I texted back and forth with Amy about memories, how much I loved her parents, and how blessed we were to have had such a good friend group in high school.

But I thought of it today, as I was trying to think of how to write something worthy of Mister B.

Long story slightly less long, the song's hook line says, "It's better to be gone but not forgotten, than to be forgotten but not gone."

Gone.  They say his mind was starting to go.  He was beginning to forget things.  Hospice was called in near the end.

Gone.  From this brief human existence.

But forgotten?

Well, Mister B, that's about as likely as middle-school me continuing to misbehave after one of your "Don't make me have to call your momma" admonitions.

Not happening.

Many people were fortunate enough to know Mister B far better than me.  But I wanted to write something personal; things I remember about him and what he meant to me.  I just wish I had told him some of this when I still could.

It would've been such a small thing to do.

Tuesday, September 17, 2024

I have peaked

It's official.  I have peaked.

The realization hit me this weekend like an attack of the gout -- suddenly.  And yes, it burned.

It came after a Sunday afternoon visit to a lovely pumpkin patch.  After a traipse through the corn maze.  After I had not-so-gracefully plummeted down their 200-foot-long aluminum slide.  And after I had tried to get up.

Whilst attempting to "verticalize my assets" at the bottom of the slide, I experienced an unintentional discharge of rather raucous flatulence.

As luck would have it, there were witnesses nearby who can confirm my story.  Several witnesses, all of whom appeared to be of the female persuasion.  One cackled.  Maybe two.

I looked around for someone to blame.  Bupkus.

Dear Heloise, how do I extract myself from this situation with the least possible embarrassment?

"That ship has sailed, and sank," I imagine her writing back.

On my second attempt, I managed to stand without contributing any further to the auditory or olfactory delights of the Rockwellesque farm.  I told my captive audience they were welcome for the free entertainment, exited stage right, and with an urgency seldom seen in human history looked for somewhere to hide.

But even that was not what brought me to my downhill slide revelation.  That didn't come until the drive home when Mrs. Bone put her hand on my arm, gently squeezed, and smiled, "I'm proud of you."

"For what?" I wondered aloud.

Her smile grew.  

"There was a time when something like what happened at the bottom of that slide would have sent you into a panic.  You wouldn't have been able to enjoy anything for the rest of the day. And that’s if you didn't just leave entirely."

Oh, so what you're saying is I used to have some pride?

Anyhow, that's when it hit me.  That's when I knew.  I have peaked in life.  

I don't know when.  

Maybe it was my 26-point outburst in church league basketball.  (Sorry, "pre-season" church league basketball.)  Perhaps it was finishing second place in the mud volleyball tournament when I was eighteen.  Or maybe it was winning the Presidential Fitness Run in middle school when the two guys in front of me stopped after three laps thinking the race was over.

But probably sports-related.  As you can see, there is a lot to pick from.

Whatever it was, one thing is for certain: Being unable to control bodily functions while simply attempting to stand was definitely not it.

There are no more hills to climb.  I've crested my own personal Everest, though it was probably more like halfway to base camp.  

If I might inspire for a moment...

You will never be younger than you are today.  You will never have more time remaining on this Earth than you do right now.  Lastly, and may I say this one is far too often overlooked, you will never, ever be more continent than you are at this very second.

So hold it in, kings!  Hold it in while you still can.  Hold it as long as humanly possible.  (Actually, now that I’m looking on webMD that could be quite harmful, so maybe don’t try that last one.)

Thank you for allowing me that dalliance.

I remember when Mrs. Bone was proud of me for more momentous feats and occasions.  Things like remembering where I put the scissors, putting a fresh bag in the receptacle after I take out the trash, and finishing one bottle of water before I open three more.  (Just kidding about that last one.  I'm still chasing that elusive three-minute mile of husbanding.)

Now?

She's proud of me for what?  For powering through an unseemly and very public fit of flatulence and coming out the other side.

That's right, people.  My name is Bone.  I've fallen and I CAN get up!

Eventually.

I just make no promises as to what you may see, hear, or smell in the meantime.

Tuesday, September 03, 2024

Decembers

I hope I've been easier
Since I've been on the pills
Thank you for still being here
Dim valleys and high hills

Nashville in summertime
Face down on Fourth Avenue
Who'd have known that all along
It was me who needed you

I don't believe a lover
Should have to be that strong
Through the worst you stayed and made
My Decembers not so long

I have known your tenderness
And I have seen you fight
You loved me on darkened days
When I could not see a light

I love the girl you were
And the mother you came to be
And I love all the flowers
That you've grown inside of me

I've heard said love is ageless
I hope they're not wrong
Thanks for staying and making
My Decembers not so long