Margaritaville Musings and Tropical Tunage for the Summer

Summer officially starts for me today.  While I rather prefer the Memorial Day-to-Labor Day spread for this season, I must adhere to the dates set forth in my school district’s calendar, since I make my meager living in the field of education. At least I have a few weeks “off” to enjoy the stretch of longer days and more direct blasts from the sun’s rays.

Some may argue that summer is a state of mind, much like age (you’re only as old as you think you are), happiness (you decide whether you are happy or not), home (is where the heart is), and health (if I eat 6 doughnuts for breakfast, I can work them off during the day; besides, they’re mostly air and I am drinking milk).

I can concur.

For my purposes herein, however, let’s just go with 9 weeks. Starting today, June 10^th, 2019.

What are my purposes, you ask?

I am going to provide you a link to a tune from the King of Somewhere Hot himself, Jimmy Buffett, and include a brief, personal reflection upon that tune. What better way to bask in the wonder of summer than to feast your ears on a Buffett gem and feast your eyes on a commentary by me?

Throughout the next 9 weeks.

Maybe.

I’m here to serve.

Tropical Tune 1 is, of course, his most famous and most lucrative. Talk about a state of mind. This tune has taken on a life all its own, the likes of which very few, if any, songs have ever enjoyed. It’s Jimmy Buffet’s brand. It has spawned books, stores, restaurants, casinos, food and drink, an online radio station, resorts, footwear, resident communities, and more. The song is a summertime anthem that debuted in 1977 on the Changes in Latitudes, Changes in Attitudes album. You probably know the words by heart. Funny thing is, its lyrics don’t claim any type of summer celebration or party guidelines, like you would expect a summer staple to do. Instead, the words claim that the singer’s hangover-induced run of bad luck (flip flop blowout, pop top injury, lost shaker of salt) is possibly a woman’s fault, or nobody’s fault, but more likely his own damn fault. Not what you’d expect to be driving a beach bash of epic proportions. Yet, it resonated then and it resonates still today. It’s simple, and memorable, and clever, and fun. People seem to want to go there – Margaritaville, that is. And Jimmy Buffett has been transporting them there for over 40 years.

Penned by Buffett himself, the majority in about 5 minutes reportedly, here’s "Margaritaville." Cheers!

Image courtesy of https://www.margaritaville.com/about-jimmy

Summer Love Rekindled (and Repaired)

To facilitate the time-honored summer tradition of cheesy or trashy or mushy romance reading, I’ve prepared a love story of my own. In fact, it’s an autobiographical tale of sultry summer love. 

A synopsis for you: After a few failed attempts at a successful relationship, our starry-eyed, rugged outdoorsman – based on me, obviously – is reunited with a beautiful figure from his past.

The action is steamy, even sweaty, as the rendezvous moves from the garage to the back yard on a hot Carolina summer day. Our hunk is overjoyed with the unsurpassed performance of the object of his affection. With tears in his eyes (from the glare of the sun) and a lump in his throat (from the dust and grass allergens), he quietly whispers (so no one actually hears him),“I love you…lawnmower.”

No, that’s not some inexplicable or secret term of endearment for his wife. Instead, it’s an uncreative name for his lawnmower.

Those of you who are familiar with my work may not be surprised by the subject of this story, knowing I have had a curious mow-mance with my old Craftsman push mower for some time. Plus, it sounds pretty awesome for me to say, “familiar with my work.”

Anyway, his dark green Craftsman 6.0 push mower with a Briggs and Stratton engine mulched grass like no other mower he had ever used, was not self-propelled, had no bag attachment, lost its back little flap thingy that, as far as he could tell, really served no purpose, and was approaching 20 years old. And it was perfect for him. They had been through a lot together. There were the confusing days of mowing dirt and the occasional mesquite shoots in West Texas. They’d also had their share of root-toppings here in South Carolina. The incident that one summer when the backyard had gone untouched for over a month and had grown into an Amazon rain forest was scary, but they tackled it like unfettered explorers claiming a new world for their homeland. Then there was the rock episode. He thought he had lost her for a moment back then. Although he put her through abuse at times – a rain shower, mowing over pine cones, leaving her in the old thin-walled green shed during the 3 or 4 frigid Carolina winter days, neglecting her oil and gas treatment, she knew he loved her.

 

Last year, though, his darling lawnmower died a noble death – sputtering and coughing to the biter end. After numerous unsuccessful attempts to revive her with adjustments, filter changes, mouth-to-muffler resuscitation (wait…no, that didn’t happen – honest), and sprays of carb & choke cleaner, his mower was pronounced dead. He was heartbroken. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to mow again. But, his wife quickly nixed his proposal for buying goats. Somehow he knew that the grass would continue to grow, that the sun would rise, and that he would have to keep breathing, that he must move on.

So, this summer he put himself back out there. It was scary because he hadn’t been in the market in quite some time. What if a mower required him to do a tiramisu and he didn’t know what that was (you’re welcome, Sleepless in Seattle fans)? He refused to go the online route and check out the hot singles on LawnscapersOnly.com. That’s just sad, people. Instead, he allowed himself to be set up by friends and family. While he was ultimately able to produce grass clippings on his various outings with these viable candidates and keep his lawn somewhat respectable, this method just simply produced no long-term relationships. One mower had a really nice set of blades – yes, two of them. But, even though it claimed to mulch grass, it really just got clogged up and took too long to perform the task. That’s something you really don’t want in a mower, or a lover, come to think of it. Another was one of those fancy zero-turn riding mowers, and while it was easy to handle and enjoyable to ride, it proved more mower than necessary and was actually a little too heavy, tearing up his yard at every zero turn. Again – not ideal on any front.

Our fine specimen of a mowing man - complete with ripped abs, square jaw line, and perfectly tussled hair - tried out his father’s own push mower, which probably explains why dear ol’ Dad dropped by, picked up his son’s lifeless Craftsman that was gathering dust in the corner of the garage and took it to a small engine guy he knew. Well, the fellow works on small engines, he’s not necessarily small. Still, with little hope and a heavy heart, this Don Juan Deere settled on taking advantage of his father’s benevolence and continued using his mower. Days went by and he was coming to terms with the idea that he’d never find another like his precious old green mower.

Then, he went away for a couple of weeks.

Not out of despair. He went on a family vacation to visit his in-laws in Texas. It was a great trip.

He only thought of his mower once, when he used his brother-in-law’s slightly newer Craftsman push mower with a Briggs and Stratton engine. No bag, but self-propelled. It gave him fond memories of stirring up dust and scaring away horned frogs with his sleek new mowing princess. Alas, the memories were fleeting and he knew he would eventually return home to an empty shed.

Upon his return, however, he received unbelievable news from his father. Elated, he plopped on his work boots (in a very sexy, manly manner) and sprinted…or rather jaunted…or probably slogged his way to the garage (it’s difficult to run in those things); tore open the garage door…or, more accurately, slowly heaved it up (it’s heavy and no longer automatic), being sure to expose his glistening, bulging pecs and shoulders during the process; and had to blink his eyes. Yes it was dusty in there, but he was still happy to see his baby back where she belonged! There she was in all her worn out, mistreated glory. He might have hugged her, although there is no proof of that. There was a new sticker on her shell. It said, “Serviced by Randy’s.” It’s as though she’d gone out and sowed her oats, been resurrected, gotten a tattoo, and had now returned. The prodigal mower had come home.

He looked at her. She looked at him. They knew what was about to happen. Absence makes the heart grow fonder and he couldn’t keep his hands off of her. Randy had reawakened her, and although another man had ignited the spark of mowing desire in her, the reacquainted duo’s yearning to mow was more than either of them could bear. He rolled her gently out onto the back lawn and with an expert stroke, cranked her right up on the first try. She’d never had trouble getting her engine going, and this time was no different. She purred. Not exactly the purr of the young tigress she was years ago, but more like the experienced queen lioness, long in the tooth and seductively skillful in her field. It was as though they had never missed a beat. Like riding a bike. A match made in landscaping heaven. Grass was mowed, mulched, and expelled that afternoon. Needless to say, she left him with a smile – a pollen-and-gnat-laden smile – but a smile nonetheless.

After consummating their reunion, they cooled off. He with a Gatorade and she with a…well, she just cooled off eventually. He rolled her back into the garage, gave her a little pat, and told her he was glad to have her back. She sighed and smiled. At least, that is what he thought he saw. The heat index was 104. That may have had something to do with it. In any case, he walked away, knowing that soon he’d return, that they’d be unable to remain apart for long.

After all, the forecast calls for more rain and his grass is bound to grow.

The State of Constant, Total Amazement is Deep in the Heart of Texas...and Hawai'i

Captain's Log: Stardate 2018 August 6 11:46 PM CST

On this, the waning hours of our annual summer Texas trip - 1 part family reunion, 1 part pilgrimage, I sit by a pool turned into blackwater by a moonless night and I have an all-to-familiar, innate urge to capture this moment, to create something that will permit me to share this exact time, however poorly it may be. So, I write.

The slack key melodies from my Pandora Hawai'i station accompany the two small citronella pales that are pulling double duty as semi-effective tiki torches and less-than-semi-effective mosquito repellents, as I reflect and imagine. The pale yellow glow from the candles illuminates their corresponding areas to just about a 4-foot perimeter. From there the incomplete shadowy nighttime darkness takes over. I imagine there are tiki torches that cast a glow on pathways between island bungalows, simultaneously flickering in an ocean breeze as my own two "torches" dance in a warm and slight West Texas wind. The crackling rhythmic sounds of the jets from the sprinkler heads that dot the fairway just a few yards away have come and gone. Not quite a suitable replica of a tropical waterfall or Hawai'ian surf, but calming in its own way. And now the air is strangely silent, atypical for this Carolinian's ears. Back home, my thoughts would be struggling to gain a stronghold amidst the southern summer melodious trills and drones of the tree frogs, creek toads, and crickets.

I look skyward and notice that June Hershey's lyrics from the classic Texas tribute are again confirmed. "The stars at night are big and bright" indeed. Go ahead and clap four times - it's okay...probably required by some Texas statute, actually. There is Jupiter in all its glory, dominating the heavens with an egotistical shine that you absolutely must notice. There is also Mars with its marvelously red hue, giving Jupiter notice that another game is definitely in town for stargazers right now. A shooting star zips across the face of the vast Milky Way, which ribbons across a night sky littered with gleaming, brilliant lights. Clap-clap-clap-clap.

As the sounds of aloha surround me, I allow myself to imagine that my South Pacific double is gazing skyward as well and contemplating the same twinkling palette as I at this very moment, maybe even listening to George Strait or Lyle Lovett or Bob Wills, as though we are connecting across some cosmic pathway of brotherhood. My geographic brain tells me that this is probably inaccurate, at least in part. The sky in the islands of Hawai'i, just a few latitude lines south of here, probably look a little different. Heck, the sun may still be out there. Still, it is a nice thought. I envision Israel Kamakawiwo'ole (known as Iz to his bruddahs, of which I am sure I am one) is smiling down at me, strumming his uke, and wearing a Stetson straw cowboy hat tonight in my honor. Well, okay - maybe a palm leaf cowboy hat. But he is smiling...because it's returned to me tonight. I also imagine Willie Nelson, in a lei and aloha shirt, is plucking Trigger (his famously worn guitar) and smiling down on my counterpart. Wait...Willie isn't dead. So, I guess that visualization doesn't really work. Willie might be able to conjure a fitting version of this vision from the back of his tour bus, but I digress.

What is the "it" of which I speak, you ask?

No, it is not some alcohol-induced stammering or drivel flowing from the fingertips of some poor soul who has finally been pushed over the insanity precipice by a life of freakish busy-ness. At least, I don't think that's it. Bar tabs and/or medical records may prove otherwise one day.

No, the "it" is a credo of mine that I stole from a movie. Short version - to live in a state of constant, total amazement.

Now, that's not hard to do tonight. But, tomorrow, when I'm packing for our drive home, aka playing Tetris with my minivan and the luggage, bags, boxes, golf clubs, and various odds and ends, many of which strangely did not occupy space in our vehicle on the way out here, finding that state of constant, total amazement will not be a simple task. Neither will it be easy on our numbing drive down I20...for 17 hours. Sometimes, it's a struggle to live by a credo of such effort and rarity.

The battle against the status quo, normalcy, metaphoric sleep is real for the few. Life often likes to don us with blinders. They become comfortable and safe. We tend to anchor ourselves in the harbors of ritual, shelter, and the ordinary. Coincidentally, or maybe not, this particular credo of which I aspire to pursue was uttered on a boat at sea in the movie. Hmm...

So, for tonight, I've recaptured that state - a mindset of sorts - that delivers me. The world is good and magical and awesome, and I'm here to take part in or at least observe it. It is moments like this that I can recall when I'm on that interstate stretch between Abilene and Dallas or Atlanta and Augusta, where life no longer exists, and is subsequently sucked out of any one traveling through that area. I can recall it innumerable times when I seem buried under life's expectations or stuck on one of life's sandbars. I know that the amazing is still out there, be it in the natural world, the human existence, or the unexplained. And I am thankful that I am reminded tonight, and at other opportune moments, to pursue this state - constantly and totally.

Mahalo, y'all.

Kooky Over Heller's Book

My gypsy soul has yet again been awakened, set ablaze by a kindred spirit, calling me to break free of my quiet, veiled desperation, and to live extraordinarily. Rare is the book that so stirs the soul in such a way as this. For me, Peter Heller’s book Kook has powerfully and eloquently done just that.  

image courtesy of: http://www.peterheller.net

The narration is hilariously human and the writing is superb. The English teacher in me soon got past the (stylistically intentional) sentence fragments, and floated along on the beautifully refreshing current of language that courses throughout the book – flowing when appropriate, concise when necessary, and raw when applicable.

I was swallowed immediately by the story’s premise.

Situations and relationships convince the author to grow from “kook,” a surfers’ term for pathetic beginner - a level of proficiency many never surpass, to expert in less than a year’s span. The renowned adventure travel writer’s trek takes him from Denver to California and then southward down Mexico’s ever-changing shoreline. Friends old and new, become mentors, guiding Heller along his odyssey, introducing him to swells up and down the coast, and imparting their own brands of wisdom about surfing and life.

While some of his encounters seem beyond belief (roughhousing with a juvenile sea lion, witnessing a boulder of a man create his own wave and surf it…backwards…and on his head), Heller is real. He gets rolled, wipes out, and gloriously glides his way through an unforgettable adventure of love, self-realization, and surfing. Like me, he is both cognizant and ignorant of his own faults, awkwardly paddling through screw-ups and recoveries, to the very last page. Yet, somehow, like a tragic hero who is unaware of his tragic role, he succeeds. He wins. It’s certainly no blowout victory, but it leaves the reader with a prideful, knowing smile, and an ignited passion for knowledge, adventure, and love. And with a desire to read more of his works.

Thank you, Peter Heller, for giving me - a 49 year-old, briny-blooded kook and aspiring writer, who has a knack to wander at times - hope, a renewed spirit, and a beautiful read. And thanks to my brother, Keith, a fellow kook, who is much closer to surfing his way out of kookdom than I, for recommending and letting me borrow his copy.

Check it out here!

A Speedy Discovery

Hello to all (2 or 3) of my loyal readers. I started penning this post from an unusual location – inching eastbound down I-20 towards South Carolina, in the passenger seat of my minivan. It’s unusual because I’m usually piloting this ship, relinquishing my duties only in dire situations, like extreme exhaustion (when I braked for elephants crossing the interstate way out in West Texas at 4 A.M.), or when eating something that requires more than 2 hands (biscuits and sausage gravy with a side of hash browns – I need at least one foot for that while traveling). Why I’m over here in the navigator’s chair is the topic of this post – and it isn’t to try my hand at reading a GPS, Facebook, Texas Monthly, novel of the month, Instagram, and napping at the same time. I’m not saying my copilot does this…well, yes I am. It’s quite impressive, actually.

My wife is very talented and is more than satisfied with her right-chair position on trips. In addition, she can step in and drive for hours without missing a beat. I, on the other hand, am quite uncomfortable doing the riding and not the driving.

I’m like a starting pitcher who, although often going the distance, can only pitch as a starter. When removed from the game, I hit the showers. Can’t ride the bench. Not a team player. My wife, on the other hand, is a top-notch reliever, who can be a starter if necessary, and could play any position, for that matter. She just loves being a part of the team and wants to use her God-given talents to help out the ball club in any way.

So why, you might ask, am I riding (and writing) instead of driving?

Why indeed. Let me expound…

Fathers should lead by word and deed. This I believe. This is a central tenet of fatherhood to me. So, when I was recently awarded a speeding ticket, my tiny world imploded for a bit. I’m still recovering and it isn’t easy.

Let me explain:

I don’t break laws, at least not blatantly. While I may challenge rules that I oppose, I don’t engage in open, obvious rebellion to the statutes created to retain order and peace in our society.  Laws, for the most part, are good and necessary (except for the inane behavior modification junk that’s coming down the pipes now). Law enforcement, for the most part, is good and necessary. Law enforcers, for the most part, are good and necessary. Most judges are good and necessary. Most lawyers are…well, anyway (and I'm not referring to my sister-in-law, college roommate, and several other dear friends - you guys are wonderful).

photo: www.biography.com

I’m one of the good guys. My record is squeaky clean, and not by luck, either. It takes discipline and focus. Sure, I’ve been driving down the highway and had police vehicles zoom up behind me, lights flashing. But they always quickly speed around me to go catch the criminal somewhere up ahead. I’m Roy Rogers in a white hat, driving the trusty wagon (minivan) across the dusty trail to do good for those in distress, be it a ride home or a service call or a milkshake pick-up. I imagine the troopers nod their heads as they zip by me, silently thanking me for my service and law-abiding ways. I make their jobs easier. We’re on the same side. 

This is how I seem, or seemed, to myself, and to my children – at least in my mind. Now, that perception is tarnished. My record is blemished. There was a breakdown in that understood camaraderie between the law and me. My white hat has gotten dirty.

I’ve tried to reason through this tumultuous event – I was simply keeping up with traffic (I was); I was trying to maneuver around convoys of patience-testing trucks/busses/RVs/grandmothers that required a little extra speed (also true); I was trying to make up for the lost time due to the maddening, yet peculiarly invisible, road work that brought traffic to a crawl and occurred every 30 miles (or thereabouts). Bottom line – I exceeded the speed limit while driving on Interstate 20 through Acadia Parish, Louisiana…and got caught.

When the lights of the sheriff deputy’s SUV grabbed my attention, I initially expected to see the vehicle disappear from my rearview mirror and rev right past me in a matter of seconds – like always. When that didn’t happen, when he remained behind me – ME! – I quickly passed through numerous stages of emotion – fear, shock, disbelief, anxiety, anger – and then became numb. We both pulled over and stopped. He pulled farther to the right and at an angle. I began to do the same and realized that maybe I shouldn’t move the car at all at this point. I also realized that I didn’t know what to do. The crime scene was not my comfort zone by any stretch.

He instructed me to step out of the car. His tone seemed a little forceful. He took control of the situation with a commanding presence. What was going on? People who resist an officer are either much bolder than I or just plain crazy. His voice, his presence, was a tractor beam from which I couldn’t escape. “Yes sir” “No sir” “I understand, sir” Yes sir” “I’ll certainly do that, sir” “Thank you”. I actually thanked him for my ticket. I’m not thankful for my ticket! Had it been simply a warning, I could understand the gratitude. But, no – I thanked the officer for writing and handing me a speeding ticket. Geez – this guy was good.

Photo: en.wikipedia.org

I asked no questions. Never pleaded my case. Never even made small talk to, you know, soften him up so he’d go easy on me. Nope. Short, sweet, polite replies. That was it. Then, it was over. Was this what an NFL quarterback sack was like? Only if, after the play, the QB were to offer to help up the linebacker, pat him on the butt and thank him for playing his position so well, I guess.

I climbed back into the saddle, dusted off my hat, looked at my sidekick and muttered, “He gave me a ticket.” I could feel my kids’ stares. I envisioned their mouths agape in wordless disbelief. I knew what the thousands of movie screens across the country felt at the exact moment Han Solo was skewered by his son in the latest Star Wars blockbuster. “What!?! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!” The epitome of shock and heartbreak and disappointment all rolled into a ball - a small carbon paper ball with the words “Traffic Violation” printed across the top.

You could cut the sense of betrayal that hung in our vehicle with a tazer.

I suspected my kids felt I had betrayed their image of me as a law-abiding hero. I detected a sense of betrayal of our bank account and insurance premiums from my wife. And I felt betrayed by the good guys. I wanted to say, “Wait! I haven’t joined the dark side. I despise the dark side!”

If the deputy had just taken a few moments to get to know me, things would have worked out differently. We could have enjoyed a couple of beverages in my backyard while some burgers sizzled on my grill, talked about politics, being underpaid servants. Our kids could have played together and our wives could have laughed at us as we tried to extinguish the flames leaping from the charred meat. He would have recognized me for what I truly am – Roy Rogers, one of the white hat guys. Certainly not ticket-worthy.

Alas, he didn’t have time for that. Not even a quick question probing the reasons for my hurry. No – he had a job to do and his job was not done. There were others on that stretch of road in his county who were breaking the laws he was sworn to enforce (many of whom had passed me – just saying). I must say that the deputy was courteous, extremely professional, straightforward and a credit to his badge and profession. Later, I tried to be mad at him. After all, why did he choose me to stop and not the dozen or more cars that were traveling the same rate as I was (probably my out-of-state tags helped him make that call). But, I couldn’t sustain that anger. Our society has recently and too often vilified those who are simply enforcing the laws that someone else has established. Many times that “someone else” is the one vilifying the enforcer. In any case, ultimately I could only direct my anger in one direction – at myself.

Now, it took me a while to get to that point. I was so stunned by the events that had unfolded, I had to pull off at an exit a short distance down the road and let my wife take the helm. I pulled myself out of the game. Time for the relief pitcher. It was like I had just given up a grand slam home run and I couldn’t locate my pitches any more. I was hitting the mascot, the right fielder, the announcer way up in the press box, a couple of stadium lights. I’d lost all confidence in myself.

Thankfully, my wife nobly took over and calmly regained control of our trip. Empathetically claiming that we had all learned a good lesson, she proceeded down the interstate at the posted limits, while cars, trucks, RVs, grannies, mopeds, tractors, and hitchhikers flew by us in the left-hand lane. I wasn’t about to complain.

It gave me time to ponder what had just transpired. I concluded a few things. First, I admitted that I had become a speeder. Only on interstates. In town and on smaller highways, I was very particular in obeying the posted limits. For some reason, my careful observance of speed limits would fly out the window when I hit the open road. I would typically drive with the flow of traffic, but did not appreciate getting passed. So, I would drive on the high end of the flow. I attribute this, at least in part, to the pace my life has achieved. No longer do I have the luxury of enjoying the journey. We’re too darned busy. I have to get from point A to point B in as short a time as feasible. In my head, that gave me permission to turn interstates into Autobahns. This is sad. I want to enjoy the journey, but have become more concerned with making good time. A costly habit, I now see.

Next, the emotion that had taken over my system was embarrassment. It was like the time I, the model student, had gotten popped on the backside by my paddleball paddle-wielding teacher for being out of line on the way to lunch. I had been chosen to ride on the parade float with the Teacher of the Year, for heaven’s sake. How could I have been physically reprimanded at school?! It didn’t hurt, mind you. It wasn’t intended to hurt, I’m sure. But the embarrassment buried me for the remainder of the week. I couldn’t sleep or eat for a while. I was not a bad egg, some truant who notched his pencil with every trip to the principal’s office and proudly displayed it like a trophy. I was a good guy. Didn’t my teacher know me?

I was embarrassed that my kids had witnessed my fall from grace. I could hear them – “Okay. That does it for Dad. Nice run, but you blew it. Thankfully, we got to see the real you before it was too damaging to our psyche. Alright, Mom. Whattya got for us? Can we trust you to lead us through the remainder of our formative years, before turning us loose in this cruel and indifferent world? At least you haven’t lied to us, right?”

I had failed as a father.

I was embarrassed that, possibly, I had so recklessly decreased our tiny bank account and increased our exorbitant insurance premiums. Being the family’s accountant, I often made a big deal about our spending and saving hqbits, and about the outrageous fees and costs of our bills. A speeding ticket did not help matters at all. “Drive only as fast as you can afford,” my mother would always say, and I repeated often, proud of my clean record. I felt shame about this while in the presence of my wife – the joint owner of our accounts. At least when she bought a purse (Another one? Really?) or a pair of shoes (but you already have 5 pair of black shoes), she got some joy from her expenditures. There is no joy in Mudville – mighty Casey, the family accountant, just got a speeding ticket.

I had failed as a husband (and accountant).

Later that evening, I finally apologized to my family, explained that I was incredibly embarrassed, that it was NOT OK to break the law, and that I was not that type of person. I was grasping for some semblance of respectability. Was my fall complete? Had my honesty saved anything remaining of my position in our family?

“It’s okay, Dad. You just made a mistake,” my precious daughter assured me.

“Yeah, Dad. Why didn’t he pull over the other guys?” That’s my boy, taking up for his old man.

But what about my copilot? My navigator. My partner. My wife. She’s the wise one of the bunch, and the best of us all.

“Hey. You didn’t disappoint us.” She looked upon me with compassion, knowing what I felt better than I knew it. Geez, she’s good.

Their words gave me a spark of hope. My pitching career wasn’t over after all. I’m not perfect, and now they know that. In all honesty, I’m sure they knew that already.

So the next day, I eventually climbed back behind the wheel, stung but not destroyed. My perception of my image had taken a nasty hit, but I now had a truer sense of myself, maybe. Anyway, I was driving again, less comfortable than before, but more aware of my actions. I postponed the completion of this post to a later time off the road, and got back to the business at hand - leading the wagon on down the trail to our destination, tipping my soiled hat to the travelers we encountered on the left or right.

Postscript: Truth be told, I was eager to take the reins from my wife, who performed solidly in my absence. I couldn’t quite give up my habit of traveling with the flow, though I kept it within a respectable 5-8 mph above the limit range. Besides, I got tired of the cyclists blowing our mirrors off as they passed. Baby steps…